tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30175069074568344682024-03-15T21:13:00.341-04:00Children's Writer's World: Confessions of an Introverted Author Published on the first of each monthRandihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.comBlogger255125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-13594245970903186282024-03-01T09:16:00.001-05:002024-03-01T09:16:58.504-05:00<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyRoZ6_J-th3LJsjtWpKpfkne5rfyf6pUZSdRAFEtIK6gGdwVf-qUVqUciS7RGNRKd4RRRZcrUFqgPE3UqcLJ2QGUiZGSv_rHxJPl0gK04k3RmXlZPOwon1QernL0_2eZkPqtjQx0ENcTvXnWIuPV5m8YDywDfH0bvGl_6VF5fD9BqlQWEjccvFrVeOiq/s551/Honesty%20-%20krakenimages.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Honesty, price you pay for honesty, dishonest publisher, Cactus Moon Publishing" border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="551" height="552" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIyRoZ6_J-th3LJsjtWpKpfkne5rfyf6pUZSdRAFEtIK6gGdwVf-qUVqUciS7RGNRKd4RRRZcrUFqgPE3UqcLJ2QGUiZGSv_rHxJPl0gK04k3RmXlZPOwon1QernL0_2eZkPqtjQx0ENcTvXnWIuPV5m8YDywDfH0bvGl_6VF5fD9BqlQWEjccvFrVeOiq/w640-h552/Honesty%20-%20krakenimages.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> Photo: Krakenimages.com </span></td></tr></tbody></table> <br /><span style="font-size: medium;">THE PRICE OF BEING HONEST</span><p></p><p>I am brutally honest. And with that comes a price.</p><p>Some people are offended when I speak my mind and stand up for what I believe. </p><p>Last year, a relative didn't like my honest remarks. They may have come across as harsh, but I was pointing out the facts. So, like the famous line in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXMNGokxbQA"><i>A Few Good Men</i>,</a> she couldn't handle the truth. In turn, I was not included in the annual family gathering that I had started more than twenty years ago. </p><p>Likewise, my publisher was revengeful because we had a disagreement about the terms in my contract. Long story short, she told me I was responsible for book returns. After perusing my contract, I found there wasn't a single clause that said I had to pay for returns. When I stood up to her false claims: </p><p>My book was removed from the publishing company's library. </p><p>My book is no longer in print on Amazon.</p><p>My book can't be found on <a href="https://search.worldcat.org/about?gclid=Cj0KCQiA2KitBhCIARIsAPPMEhJdw9X2oNn-YJcWmkseM2Lc84EQR8K9Bx6Npg-ZV1J10m2KB9ypemMaAiyCEALw_wcB">WorldCat</a> or by a google search using its ISBN number because the publisher doesn't own a copy. </p><p>It stings to be snubbed<b> </b>by family and punished by a publisher. However, there are ways to deal with these situations. </p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the case of being snubbed, I've found it's best not to persist in trying to reveal my true self to someone who has a negative impression of me. I can't </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit;">change the behavior of others. I can only change my mindset and my reaction. It's best to s</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit;">tay close to the people who perceive me to be a good person. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit;">They </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit;">are my kind of people.</span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit;">As with somebody who seeks revenge, my approach is to avoid confrontation and limit communication. People who seek revenge want to hurt others, make them fail, and make them feel miserable. </span>I h<span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e;">old my head high, have faith in myself, and move on. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e; font-family: inherit;">I could have given plenty more examples of people in my life who had not treated me well due to my honesty, but these two good examples serve to make the point. In </span>both instances, the best thing for me is to control the things in my life I can control whether it involves family or publishing. I can shield myself from the negative behavior by focusing on the good things in my life: my family, friends, pets, writing, classes, and travels. </p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e;">There will likely be more situations where I won't see eye to eye with people. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e;">Confrontations and disagreements will crop up. It's a given. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #1e1e1e;">However, </span>I will not tolerate ignorant people and I will not bow down to bullies. Hurt, disrespect, and unkindness may follow. But it's a price I am willing to pay. </p><p><br /></p><p><a href="https://www.refinedprose.com/how-to-deal-with-being-snubbed-positively/">https://www.refinedprose.com/how-to-deal-with-being-snubbed-positively/</a> </p><p><a href="https://nathaliemartinekphd.substack.com/p/revenge">https://nathaliemartinekphd.substack.com/p/revenge</a></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-37110293353469892802024-02-01T19:10:00.000-05:002024-02-02T10:44:02.137-05:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfrfY7XoKvl749_mhNRTH8ILNAC-kVcrnhdiNz8V6pwIsAJ8r0WOBdWLsQChwnW_SYAnyfsWNo4m2t_2KeVeG4OhwK0WwsJIlHN_xMJbMxSiYTwG14MMstv4wJvrNEKBi-QqVUKDjKgMuqRPXA4TsZUeUJYlMGfzcwnenO6J53PSI5d9TA2M9S8z9v5Gk/s537/Complainers%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="dealing with complaining people, solutions for dealing with complainers" border="0" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIfrfY7XoKvl749_mhNRTH8ILNAC-kVcrnhdiNz8V6pwIsAJ8r0WOBdWLsQChwnW_SYAnyfsWNo4m2t_2KeVeG4OhwK0WwsJIlHN_xMJbMxSiYTwG14MMstv4wJvrNEKBi-QqVUKDjKgMuqRPXA4TsZUeUJYlMGfzcwnenO6J53PSI5d9TA2M9S8z9v5Gk/w638-h640/Complainers%20(2).JPG" width="638" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo by Benzoix</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, STOP THE BITCHING </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> have about zero tolerance for complainers. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Though I care about my friends and want to be there for them when they need to vent, I need to protect myself from the negativity they project. Their <a href="https://www.inc.com/minda-zetlin/listening-to-complainers-is-bad-for-your-brain.html">complaining</a> wears me down. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Many years ago, I worked in a clinical laboratory with a gal who complained every day. I kid you not. Every day! About anything. I listened to her to be supportive, never realizing how I was absorbing the negative energy. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Even these days, some of my friends have a habit of complaining. Recently, a friend talked non-stop during a lunch date about family problems. Similarly, another friend went on and on about work-related issues as we hiked through a park. </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">In both cases, I didn't have a chance to speak up and offer advice. My gal pals just wanted to gab about the things that upset them. It was as if they were talking to a wall, because it didn't matter if I was there or not. Which was a bummer. I could have spent my time doing something productive. I certainly didn't feel being present made any difference. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Trevor Blake, a serial entrepreneur and author of <em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; scroll-behavior: smooth;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Three-Simple-Steps-Success-Business/dp/1936661713/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?tag=wwwinccom-20" rel="nofollow" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; border-bottom: 1px solid currentcolor; box-sizing: inherit; scroll-behavior: smooth; text-decoration-line: none; transition: all 150ms ease-out 0s;" target="_blank">Three Simple Steps: A Map to Success in Business and Life</a> </em><span style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; scroll-behavior: smooth;">says,</span><em style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; scroll-behavior: smooth;"> </em></span><span style="background-color: white;">"Typically, people who are complaining don't want a solution; they just want you to join in the indignity of the whole thing." </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Blake describes how neuroscientists have learned to measure brain activity when faced with various stimuli, including a long gripe session. He says, "The brain works more like a muscle than we thought. So, if you're pinned in a corner for too long listening to someone being negative, you're more likely to behave that way as well." </span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">This is so true! Especially when I think back to the lab co-worker from years gone by. She got me so riled up that I began acting negatively and found fault with everything and everybody. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">I have listened to complainers for many years, but it wasn't until the lunch date and park hike that I finally realized something has to be done. </span><span> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;"> Blake recommends the following: </span></p><p></p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Find a way to create some distance from the complainer. Limit the exposure to this kind of behavior if you can. If you're in a social setting or even a classroom, if you can excuse yourself to take a bathroom break or to get a drink.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Ask the complainer to fix the problem. Sometimes, you can't easily walk away, so try to get the person who's complaining to take responsibility for a solution. Ask they what are you going to do about it. Some may get huffy, but others may try to solve their problem.</span></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">If you're trapped listening to a complainer, block out the griping. Imagine you're protected by a shield. Or, imagine you're in a calm, happy environment (your favorite getaway or vacation destination)</span></li></ul><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #474747;">Blake's recommendations </span>could be applied in some cases, but I can't create distance if my friends and I have agreed to meet. I wouldn't ask them to fix the problem nor would I want to block out their gripping. They need a friend who will be there for them and listen. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm<span> trying to figure out how to best handle my grumbling girlfriends should they call or want to get together. Our last conversations drained me, pulled me down and made me feel icky. The </span><span>bitching just gets old and creates a lop-sided friendship. It's always about them, and nothing about me.</span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>So, after a lot of thought I made a decision. While it's important to support my friends, </span><span>I've chosen to put a brief hold on these relationships. Faire une petite pause.* Then i</span><span>n </span><span>the future when we get together, I'll work on rebalancing the friendships. I will strive for reciprocity. I will </span>redirect the conversations to more cheerful optimistic topics. </div><div><br /></div><div>E<span>asier said than done. </span></div><div><span><br /></span></div><div><span>My timidity may get in the way and this strategy will require finesse so I don't hurt anyone's feelings. </span> Regardless, I need to work on improving my relationships. I love my friends but I don't love the negativity. This plan may be a small step in the right direction. And when it's put into action, I am hopeful there will be much, much less complaining. </div><div><span style="color: #474747;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="color: #474747;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></div><div class="ModernArticleBody__cleanBodyText__sNffF article-body" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; -webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; background-color: white; box-sizing: inherit; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: 2; orphans: 2; scroll-behavior: smooth; text-align: start; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><div class="standardText" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; margin-bottom: 25px; scroll-behavior: smooth;"><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; line-height: 2; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; scroll-behavior: smooth;">*to take a little break</p></div><div class="standardText" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; color: #474747; margin-bottom: 25px; scroll-behavior: smooth;"><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; color: #474747; line-height: 2; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; scroll-behavior: smooth;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; color: #474747; line-height: 2; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; scroll-behavior: smooth;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; color: #474747; line-height: 2; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; scroll-behavior: smooth;"><br /></p><p style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; box-sizing: inherit; color: #474747; line-height: 2; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; scroll-behavior: smooth;"><br /></p></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-81715492468395119392023-12-31T18:46:00.001-05:002023-12-31T18:46:40.654-05:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlPctFz4hY6nDpDDDFhHyJaa1DGiwJrDVDBhiDtcr5kCTe3IsOig-ML44rZTo1L0v_LZ0-AcvUJyLoFhdcOLwJrVoE5knWbzzea14WSYp5AR2HM_Ole5m15w3DLYN4NYo5ylTkINmIdU-qd_UZjRorx5UMpkaGJhmg68tz5F0vCmwg8KpY1jfHuSdyw/s349/Lizzie%20Jan%202022%20(3).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="349" data-original-width="349" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOlPctFz4hY6nDpDDDFhHyJaa1DGiwJrDVDBhiDtcr5kCTe3IsOig-ML44rZTo1L0v_LZ0-AcvUJyLoFhdcOLwJrVoE5knWbzzea14WSYp5AR2HM_Ole5m15w3DLYN4NYo5ylTkINmIdU-qd_UZjRorx5UMpkaGJhmg68tz5F0vCmwg8KpY1jfHuSdyw/w640-h640/Lizzie%20Jan%202022%20(3).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />HOW DO YOU SPELL TROUBLE? <div>L-I-Z-Z-I-E <div><br /><div>I never intended to adopt a cat. <div><br /></div><div>I thought our daughter Abby would be happy with Splash the Beta fish. But as she grew older, Abby said she needed a pet she could hug. So, when she was ten, she and I visited the Humane Society. We fell in love with a tabby called Ollie. </div><div><br /></div><div>As time flew by, Abby went off to college and the house grew quiet. Being that my husband Jim worked, it was nice having a furry companion around. Ollie and I grew close, so you can imagine how heartbroken I felt when he was diagnosed with kidney disease. Within three months, I had to make the difficult decision to put him down. Ollie only lived to be eight. </div><div><br /></div><div>After months of mourning his loss, I felt ready to have another cat. At the Humane Society, I found Ozzie, a beautiful tabby with one green eye and one amber eye. Ozzie was well-behaved and gentle, but way too curious and one Thanksgiving, he snuck out. When we discovered he was missing, I totally freaked out. Ozzie was an indoor cat. He didn't know how to hunt for food, how to find shelter, or how to defend himself against predators. He would never survive outside.<p>Jim and I posted his picture on Face Book and on Next Door and taped flyers to lamp posts. We walked the neighborhood every day calling for him. Jim searched the woods behind our house. After 19 days I was beginning to lose hope. By now it was December and the temperatures were below freezing.</p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBhmlD1DWKG40sS3EzI7jblfky-3SN8jCJGRvdP7Sv70Fk6tbq4j1fzbItZ_KNJzj1-zsVZB--gV0_NEkmQ8IFBjJ4fepgUBhYoLFx8RdWOB8dzYAVE4G6fzK6iAZv7bMFF-OZecUZkNXNhGb2k8G6Zoig2kr6d3otgW0nCP9ii0bs1gJxOGA9JVUnw/s468/Lizzie%20Jan%202022%202%20(2).jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="351" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuBhmlD1DWKG40sS3EzI7jblfky-3SN8jCJGRvdP7Sv70Fk6tbq4j1fzbItZ_KNJzj1-zsVZB--gV0_NEkmQ8IFBjJ4fepgUBhYoLFx8RdWOB8dzYAVE4G6fzK6iAZv7bMFF-OZecUZkNXNhGb2k8G6Zoig2kr6d3otgW0nCP9ii0bs1gJxOGA9JVUnw/s320/Lizzie%20Jan%202022%202%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Can you believe this cutie causes so much trouble?</span></td></tr></tbody></table>Still, we hoped someone had found Ozzie and had dropped him off at the Humane Society, but when we visited, he wasn't in the room of lost pets. While we were at the adoption center, I decided to hold some kittens, thinking a new cat would cheer me up. But they were sickly and sad-looking and none could replace Ozzie. Then on the way back home, we drove past <a href="https://www.petsmart.com/pet-adoption/">Pet Smart</a> and decided to step in to look at the kittens. I had no intention of adopting that day, but one of them was named Abby—an obvious sign this was meant to be. And just like that, we had ourselves a new cat and I decided to call her Lizzie. <p></p><p>So, here we had a kitten and my husband and I knew nothing about caring for a young cat. We had adopted Ozzie as an adolescent. In no time, we learned that this kitten was a handful. She'd sneak into closets or the pantry and get accidently trapped inside, scratch furniture and audio speakers, bite our toes, leap three feet up to the top of the refrigerator door to swat my hand, and the list goes on. </p><p>The worst thing was, Lizzie didn't know anything about litter boxes (which surprised me because I though all cats no matter how young knew where to potty). She did her business wherever she wanted. A gal at Pet Smart advised me to place three litter boxes by Lizzie's favorite bathroom spots, and every few days gradually move them closer to the designated litter box area and then leave just one. (This worked:)</p><p>Now look at her face. Who can believe something so cute can be such a rascal? We call her Little Bit, You With The Face, and A-lizzabet. Sometimes, Sweetheart. The most-fitting name is Trouble. A year later she nibbles floral arrangements (silk and real flowers), tries to catch paper coming out of the printer, shreds window sheers, steals guitar picks, and uses my husband's favorite chair as a scratching post. </p><p>Lizzie's latest habits include banging on the bedroom door during the middle of the night or walking on my back as I sleep. The famous cat whisperer, <a href="https://www.jacksongalaxy.com/">Jackson Galaxy </a>would say, distract her to stop bad behavior. Yeh, right. I'm going to get out of bed at 4 a.m. and distract her. </p><p>Despite her mischievous behavior, Lizzie slowly helped me get over the loss of Ozzie. But I wondered, what if Ozzie wasn't lost? What if he found his way back home? Would Lizzie and Ozzie get along? We were about to find out. </p><p>Six weeks after adopting Lizzie, a neighbor who lived about one and a half miles away posted a picture on Facebook of a cat he had found. The photo was fuzzy, but the cat resembled Ozzie. Jim and I jumped into the car and raced to his house. The neighbor led us to the basement where he kept the foundling, and lo and behold, there was Ozzie, minus his collar, fur matted, so skinny you could see his back bones. He was literally starving and could barely hold his head up. I cradled my sweet boy. How had he survived? And equally amazing, how could it be that we were reunited? </p><p>The following day after meeting with veterinarian Dr. Vice, I found out Ozzie had no broken bones or cuts. As Dr. V. put it, Ozzie just went on a walkabout. Knowing Oz was unharmed was a relief. But in order for him to rest and gain weight, we kept him separated from Lizzie. Two weeks later he had regained his strength and we allowed the two of them to meet. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4K2a0DlcnJ5VOEQtavHWaDgZMIy6HLPuSw68uVCGp5I5Rlj-oobLUVDnDEL_QqM9KPogUqDFdBGaz0UtwTn98UtuXPE1R2RRm9Ib222FN8nVHFaIOe7doDONq6LnXfPn6ntULyC4srgNWie6J0zfcBL5vyvHAGt4IWgeSclFr8l2HdEn9sbDQADaGf449/s452/April%202022%20duo%20nap%20(4).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="451" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4K2a0DlcnJ5VOEQtavHWaDgZMIy6HLPuSw68uVCGp5I5Rlj-oobLUVDnDEL_QqM9KPogUqDFdBGaz0UtwTn98UtuXPE1R2RRm9Ib222FN8nVHFaIOe7doDONq6LnXfPn6ntULyC4srgNWie6J0zfcBL5vyvHAGt4IWgeSclFr8l2HdEn9sbDQADaGf449/s320/April%202022%20duo%20nap%20(4).jpg" width="319" /></a></div><p></p><p>At first, I wasn't sure if they'd get along. They seemed suspicious of one another. Ozzie and Lizzie tested each another and chased through the house. But their interactions were harmless—no crying or fur flying. Just pure joyous cat play. </p><p>As I watch the two wrestle, I can't believe we have two cats. TWO! And they are as different as night and day. One is calm (and happy to be home) and one is well, not calm. By now, you know which is which. Which makes it fun and interesting. We love 'em both. Even if one caused us worry and heartache. Even if one can be nothing but trouble. </p><p><br /><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 28pt;">Bonne année! </span></p><p> </p></div></div></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-87289425759909164552023-12-01T18:30:00.000-05:002023-12-02T08:22:55.172-05:00<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjooz8YVxv0n0oDPkJvIF4VqaLa3xBMqcbfWGl2CFH3e3yR6LY5Vv09GcoKrW0d3OPSbgO12Wo22wHGz0GF26VGaAyEVaw_0b6yiTG-z1hlbUTtW9hl0HvUpegweDFnUgwR-ifHZbLXbHZN2h36HLh78Dr5Y4sUlnjFbShvyFaRBmXrJ0luQS4CpwjN3Csv/s772/No%20respect.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="772" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjooz8YVxv0n0oDPkJvIF4VqaLa3xBMqcbfWGl2CFH3e3yR6LY5Vv09GcoKrW0d3OPSbgO12Wo22wHGz0GF26VGaAyEVaw_0b6yiTG-z1hlbUTtW9hl0HvUpegweDFnUgwR-ifHZbLXbHZN2h36HLh78Dr5Y4sUlnjFbShvyFaRBmXrJ0luQS4CpwjN3Csv/w640-h490/No%20respect.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo courtesy: Paula Engebretson</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><span style="font-size: medium;">SHOW SOME RESPECT </span></div><div><br />It bugs me when people don't reply, can't say no, can't admit they're not interested.</div><div><div><br /></div><div>This happens quite a bit when I query agents. I may not hear back after following the agent's guidelines, filling out a Query Manager form, and sending a professional query letter. No word = no thank you. In the past this wasn't the case. Agents actually got back in touch through snail-mail. But these days, agents claim they're overwhelmed with submissions and don't have the time to respond. </div><div><br /></div><div>What surprised me was other professionals have adopted this behavior, too. Six years ago, when I tried to promote my book, I found that newspaper journalists, librarians, and teachers didn't have the courtesy to get back in touch with me. None of them returned my phone calls, texted me or emailed me. I was left hanging with the hope they'd be interested in writing a newspaper review, or having me lead a storytime, or inviting me to school to meet young readers. Though my book was traditionally published, it didn't warrant their attention. This was eye-opening, sad, and disappointing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Unfortunately, this attitude is prevalent beyond the book world and into our daily lives. Last month, I contacted a handyman who was recommended on <a href="https://nextdoor.com/news_feed/">Next Door </a>. He stopped by our house to look at the projects and told me he'd send a quote. After waiting two weeks, I sent an email to remind him. He never responded. Okay, I get it. He really wasn't interested, but couldn't he have responded to my email? </div><div><br /></div><div>Now here's the thing. I'd like to warn other people about this fellow. This guy is not reliable and may not follow up. But I won't. He has my email and my cell phone number. And he knows where I live. I'm not careless or stupid. It takes very little to set someone off. So, I'll do nothing. Stew, yes. But quietly.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a shame some people feel that they don't need to respond, that no response speaks for itself. But come on man, that's so rude. And it boils down having no respect for others. People have gotten self-centered. They don't think about (or care about) another person's feelings. It doesn't occur to them to be nice, to get back in touch, to send a reply. </div><div> </div><div>While writing this post, I found an article that was helpful in dealing with people who don't have the courtesy to say no thanks. In <a href="https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/thanks-3-things-do-when-people-respond-your-email-connection-shah/">"No Thanks, 3 Things You Can Do When People Don't Respond to Your EMail</a>," I learned not to take it personally and to move on. </div><div><br /></div><div>This article made me feel I'm not alone. It gave me the go ahead to reach out to other people. People I can count on. In the future, I will reach out to my publisher to help me contact journalists, teachers, and librarians. And outside the writing world, I will reach out to more conscientious handymen. </div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes it's hard to avoid people who choose not to reply. The thing is, I don't have to let them get me down. True, their rudeness gets under my skin, but the power is in my hands. I don't have to deal with these kind of people. When someone shows me their true colors, I can move on. I have the choice to work with people who will treat me with the decency I deserve. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white; color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-38170088750991910742023-11-01T19:59:00.001-04:002023-11-03T15:28:43.661-04:00<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfw-IFKmy0K8QFARpFiQl5suvRfW8zcPiMD798FRqPSfjsQlmQ4uRoesWFQtN0jYB_IsAhiVDmtlREIEpea8eUGzqmRga47CJycpR1ao1340aexVytNnzk-fiz5uYtxE_3fqdntjV5PBr76dENqNYc_qYx-Kax3Bwox1liQwo08iOlfxY4EIVKqbIMt-MD/s1005/Understand%20-%20Anastasia.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="seek first to understand, walk a mile in someone else's shoes" border="0" data-original-height="706" data-original-width="1005" height="450" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfw-IFKmy0K8QFARpFiQl5suvRfW8zcPiMD798FRqPSfjsQlmQ4uRoesWFQtN0jYB_IsAhiVDmtlREIEpea8eUGzqmRga47CJycpR1ao1340aexVytNnzk-fiz5uYtxE_3fqdntjV5PBr76dENqNYc_qYx-Kax3Bwox1liQwo08iOlfxY4EIVKqbIMt-MD/w640-h450/Understand%20-%20Anastasia.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo by Anastasia Vityukova</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">SEEK TO UNDERSTAND</span><div><br /></div><div>Before I judge or make a comment, I try to walk a mile in someone else's shoes. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is something I learned many years ago after reading Dr. Stephen R. Covey's book, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Habits-Highly-Effective-People-Powerful/dp/0743269519">The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.</a></i> Stephen Covey encourages us to seek first to understand, then to be understood. In other words, listen to people's ideas and feelings. <p></p><p>But many folks are not good at this. They make rash decisions without looking at a situation from a different point of view. They may never consider what a person might be going through or why they act a certain way. There are reasons why people behave the way they do. </p><p>Here's a good example. </p><p>I was present at a neighborhood board association meeting where a neighbor asked if he could replace dead plants at one of the island entrances and be paid for the work. The president thought it was a good idea, but he had forgotten that the board of directors had a contract in place with a landscaping company that oversaw caring for the islands. Somehow, that had slipped his mind. </p><p>When I read a copy of the minutes a couple days later and I noticed the neighbor had been given the green light to start working on the island, I phoned the president to remind him of the landscaping contract. At that point, he realized he had made a mistake by offering the neighbor the job. He quickly sent an email to the board and neighbors to set the record straight and apologized for the misunderstanding. The neighbor would need to send a quote so his services could be considered for next year. </p><p>I am hoping the neighbor had no hard feelings. But our secretary had a fit and quit. The way I understand it was, she thought the president had gone back on his word. </p><p>I will not judge her for quitting. One of her relatives was facing a health issue. Being secretary may have been too stressful for her now. But it seemed to me that she never tried to understand why someone would say something and then take it back. </p><p>She may have thought the president was being disrespectful when in fact, he is one of the most warm-hearted people in our neighborhood. What she never considered was walking a mile in his shoes. It has become apparent to me and some neighbors that our president has trouble remembering things and keeping things straight. Because he hides it well (or perhaps he doesn't even know himself) she never assumed he had any problems. </p><p>In this world where the majority is focused on themselves, it's time to be more giving. To be more forgiving. People may be feeling physically bad at the moment or struggling with underlying health issues. They may be facing difficult times. So, think before speaking. Think before acting. Seek to understand. There are reasons why people behave the way they do. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-81002214549736199092023-09-23T09:44:00.002-04:002023-12-09T20:09:15.208-05:00<p><br /></p><p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGi9UOiNxByMfvLDGPgQLHVYQgTcbuLEEatlhZenO8tCQkqNxs5mLihNDySiTNgur4GgiHFE_i_a8uKHWfrfodLZfo_kD_53i4Dv2KyF5RntWoi3t1KBSSDZkZy-QQUcRmPKh9rJxvIfLew83ZqpSPFrDxHjM81ICx5GBCkgHIxjtA_Z9nyQelDOh5oKs/s738/Chateau%20Torreau%202.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="brunch at a chateau in France, rude host, dealing with inconsiderate people" border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="738" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGGi9UOiNxByMfvLDGPgQLHVYQgTcbuLEEatlhZenO8tCQkqNxs5mLihNDySiTNgur4GgiHFE_i_a8uKHWfrfodLZfo_kD_53i4Dv2KyF5RntWoi3t1KBSSDZkZy-QQUcRmPKh9rJxvIfLew83ZqpSPFrDxHjM81ICx5GBCkgHIxjtA_Z9nyQelDOh5oKs/w640-h458/Chateau%20Torreau%202.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This is what I imagine brunch must have looked like at the chateau<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />RUDE</span><p></p><p>I try everything in my power to avoid inconsiderate people. </p><p>But when inconsiderate people are family members, avoidance can be nearly impossible.</p><p>The word inconsiderate is defined as not caring about other people or their feelings and/or being selfish, disrespectful, and rude. Unfortunately and frankly, the word applied to a close relative and I heard it repeated often when our family attended a destination wedding in France. </p><p>Let me elaborate. My husband and I flew to southern France last month to attend a relative's wedding. Like the other wedding guests, we stayed at a hotel in Avignon. The groom and bride thoughtfully arranged for a bus to take guests from the hotel to the chateau out the country. However, no transportation had been provided for those wanting to come to the brunch, which was to be hosted by a sibling the day after the wedding. We were told "you are on your own." </p><p>Now I ask you, think about our costs: airplane tickets, a hotel room for three nights, meals, and clothes to attend the affair. The relative had a car, but she suggested that we make other arrangements: rent a car or shell out money for a taxi or an Uber to take us to the brunch—which we found out was impossible. Our hotel was so far from the chateau that a taxi wouldn't have had a return fare and we could not find an Uber driver who would take us. </p><p>My husband and I made the tough decision not to attend the brunch. We didn't complain about missing out. We would do more sight-seeing. But sadly, we felt like our presence didn't matter. Even my brother decided to forego the brunch because getting there was too difficult. </p><p>So, you might ask, now what? How do I move forward? This incident (and there have been so many other incidents even before this one) finally tipped the scale. I have reached a breaking point. I had wished that getting to the brunch could have been handled with more compassion and helpfulness. But given the outcome, a family relationship is now strained. </p><p>You might be wondering why I didn't have an honest conversation about my feelings, but frankly, I'd only get an argument. </p><p>Everybody makes mistakes and deserves to be forgiven. That may come with time. But for now, I will have to limit contact. Actions spoke louder than words. Bien sûr—for sure, the actions in France spoke volumes. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: white; color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-55070445543601358182023-08-28T08:19:00.002-04:002023-08-28T08:20:13.450-04:00<p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;">I'm on vacation with my family for several weeks. </p><p style="text-align: center;">Please stay tuned. I love my followers and I'm grateful for your support. </p><p style="text-align: center;">More confessions will continue next month. </p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLHEbsNPEbYgKLIvW6U7jE29hrG2TeNbZgTEm7ofVqsFY5CpQBEaqJsmxmms3myFO-BtBSvChhq_7XL9kwoZ2Epfoi3sHafGWqLR1jYLgVS2MxyMYwjupR4UlsyNi_yTJ1g1ETZOvIMEsoz5qma1Pgd8QJCA0d5V4Bh0-HfdXZRHjcts4vDBAED3Ultoz/s2500/suitcase%20amy-shamblen.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2500" data-original-width="2500" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLHEbsNPEbYgKLIvW6U7jE29hrG2TeNbZgTEm7ofVqsFY5CpQBEaqJsmxmms3myFO-BtBSvChhq_7XL9kwoZ2Epfoi3sHafGWqLR1jYLgVS2MxyMYwjupR4UlsyNi_yTJ1g1ETZOvIMEsoz5qma1Pgd8QJCA0d5V4Bh0-HfdXZRHjcts4vDBAED3Ultoz/w640-h640/suitcase%20amy-shamblen.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo: Amy Shamblem</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: freestyle script;"><span style="font-size: 37.3333px;">Au revoir et à bientôt</span></span><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">! </span></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;"><br /></span></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-85615226641121262542023-08-01T07:48:00.000-04:002023-08-01T07:48:29.601-04:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztjzLrvn8Vsnx80V5yZVrGDUUugAnhWn2y2Aqr9JZ0NzTG4DoYtKO5RDi6BBAoz50H8saA-IValu9VI_GjSY7iEUNuHPPl4zo2la2CtTdv2YKloCyzmAOl2aMoVVaE0Z6-hBp1r3D4rxR_SAE8riJDhOghSb_iiKw3wKRqnS7UKQPBqaBMuPB-IVl0Ba8/s942/French%20by%20languagenext.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="learning French, French is difficult to learn, online French Youtube video classes" border="0" data-original-height="470" data-original-width="942" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztjzLrvn8Vsnx80V5yZVrGDUUugAnhWn2y2Aqr9JZ0NzTG4DoYtKO5RDi6BBAoz50H8saA-IValu9VI_GjSY7iEUNuHPPl4zo2la2CtTdv2YKloCyzmAOl2aMoVVaE0Z6-hBp1r3D4rxR_SAE8riJDhOghSb_iiKw3wKRqnS7UKQPBqaBMuPB-IVl0Ba8/w640-h320/French%20by%20languagenext.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo: Languagenext.com </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div>J'ADORE LA LANGUE</div><div><br /><p>After taking French classes for ten years, I'm still not fluent. </p><p>That bums me out. Why is this taking so long? I love studying French, but it's a bitch to learn. </p><p>My journey of learning French began when I was in high school. After two years, I knew the basic nouns, adjectives, and verbs and how to construct a sentence in the present and past tense. I loved it! But I had to give up French in order to fill my schedule with classes that were necessary for my career path. </p><p>I had always wanted to get back to learning French. So, some forty years later when my husband and I planned a trip to France, I realized the need and the desire to study French again. Language classes were offered at the Carnegie Literary and Learning Center, just a twenty-minute drive from my house. Before the class began, I bought the grammar book and dove into the first two chapters. But it was overwhelming. What little I had retained from high school didn't help. What had I gotten myself into? Learning French was going to impossible. However, my husband encouraged me to try the first class. And you know what? It was fun! </p><p>My teacher was born in France and she taught the language well, but at times she would put people on the spot and embarrass them. Despite these tense uncomfortable moments, I stuck with the class. Then after three years, Madame Monique moved away from Lexington and we had a new teacher, who had a completely different teaching style. Mademoiselle Erica is more informal and the class is more relaxed. In the course of seven years, we've studied more verb tenses (imperfect, conditional, and subjunctive) and we are learning much more vocabulary.</p><p>After ten years of class, I can understand spoken French pretty well, as long as it's not slang or spoken too fast. For the most part, I can read and understand the written word. But speaking the language is another story. French is hard. There are so many rules and exceptions. Sometimes you pronounce the last consonant at the end of a word and other times you don't. The nasal sounds are tricky—I'm still trying to master them. A lot of words are pronounced the same way so you have to understand the context of the sentence. For instance, worm and glass (ver and verre) are both pronounced 'vair' which rhymes with fair.</p><p>Recently, I've been listening to two online sources that are help me speak and understand French better: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@FrenchmorningswithElisa">French Mornings with Elisa</a> and <a href="https://www.youtube.com/@Commeunefrancaise" target="_blank">Comme une Française</a> Both Elisa and Geraldine present interesting topics that teach the nuances of the language and show how to speak more like a local. C'est fantastique!</p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">It's nice to have alternative ways to learn the language. These options help me pick up French a bit faster. That said, learning the language is still going to take time. It's me who has to change my perspective and not freak out about learning it rapidement and tout de suite. For me, it's natural to rush things and to feel accomplished. Bien sûr, I need to chill and have fun. I need to study a little French each day and embrace the joy that comes with learning the language I love. </span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #28414f; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #28414f; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #28414f; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #28414f; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #28414f; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #28414f; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p style="background-color: white; color: #28414f; line-height: 23px; margin: 0px 0px 15px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-37388644643848226982023-07-01T08:52:00.000-04:002023-07-01T08:52:31.417-04:00<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCEomW1XKZQuMAcma5GuZG7D6KCIUjTgFVA2OXwz2yLwlYgycO7Sr9Ci434MszFk6ORrq4cslw3NFpOLTblXScVZhAddnsvwion0uN3yhfvwGDh0pJcGb-g33cSCLOFtaDdnrqJ55YK8YksCxTLG1uANhT22qmcpSHq-zcI_7GoRZFeoaZKdvqjQpVQ/s527/Indifference%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Apathy and neighbors" border="0" data-original-height="527" data-original-width="527" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRCEomW1XKZQuMAcma5GuZG7D6KCIUjTgFVA2OXwz2yLwlYgycO7Sr9Ci434MszFk6ORrq4cslw3NFpOLTblXScVZhAddnsvwion0uN3yhfvwGDh0pJcGb-g33cSCLOFtaDdnrqJ55YK8YksCxTLG1uANhT22qmcpSHq-zcI_7GoRZFeoaZKdvqjQpVQ/w640-h640/Indifference%20(2).JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Image by Judith Peck</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">NOBODY CARES</span><br /><p></p><p><i><br /></i></p><p><i>Nothing is harder than the softness of indifference</i>. Juan Montalvo, Ecuadorian author</p><p><br /></p><p>I'm beginning to accept the fact that many of my neighbors don't give a shit. </p><p>Here's the reason why: I am the secretary on the board of our neighborhood association. So, when the president of our neighborhood and I sent out reminders to neighbors about our monthly meeting, only four people showed up. </p><p>On top of that, elections are coming up and no one wants to serve as officers. There are only three of us on the board: the president, who is also the treasurer, the vice-president, and me. We have been serving longer than the one-term we had agreed to fulfill. But so few are interested in getting involved and filling our shoes. </p><p>If it weren't for the members of board, membership dues wouldn't be collected, which help pay the electric, the water and the maintenance bills for the beautiful entrance islands of our neighborhood. Without funds, the colorful entrances that bloom from spring to fall would suffer and go downhill. Not only that, the islands would be bare during the holidays because nobody would step up to decorate them. </p><p>I guess our neighborhood mirrors what the world has become. This me, me, me world where many only think of themselves. </p><p>You might be wondering what the board has done to engage neighbors and I will tell you we've done quite a bit. We've posted newsletters on Facebook, organized the yearly neighborhood yard sale, created attractive yard signs that neighbors can display when they pay their dues, improved landscaping, and decorated the islands to make them festive for the holidays. </p><p>Yet each year, fewer and fewer pay dues to support the neighborhood association. Most neighbors are perfectly fine with the few who pay the annual fee to keep the neighborhood looking good. Last year about 100 neighbors out of a total of 400 paid their membership dues. This year, eighty joined. Twenty percent. I'm not surprised, yet I'm disappointed. If more people paid their dues and joined the neighborhood association, we could do more landscaping, have better holiday decorations, and even organize social events. But only a handful care. Apathy runs rampart. And I haven't a clue for the cure.</p><p> </p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">C'est dommage </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-39405940054253935552023-06-01T19:58:00.000-04:002023-06-02T10:28:29.756-04:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9G_XOcefB0o/YMEAb73MwNI/AAAAAAAAIqo/acY_RjqK8twHEs8VeypnX7RfPiZ-qlX4ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Ozzie%2Bon%2Bbed%2BFeb%2B8%252C%2B2021%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9G_XOcefB0o/YMEAb73MwNI/AAAAAAAAIqo/acY_RjqK8twHEs8VeypnX7RfPiZ-qlX4ACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h640/Ozzie%2Bon%2Bbed%2BFeb%2B8%252C%2B2021%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">A LITTLE CAT VACATION </span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div><div>I feel guilty taking Ozzie to the kennel. </div><div><br /></div><div>When my husband and I go away on vacations, we want to leave him with people we trust. There are several options. We could keep him at home and have a neighbor check in on him during the day and evening, but Ozzie is social and I'd think he'd be lonely. Not only that, he could break something or hurt himself. </div><div><p>A pet sitter lives in our neighborhood. Though this option would be convenient, I don't know her well enough to have her watch over Ozzie. And who knows how Ozzie would feel with a stranger in the house. So, we always leave him at the kennel.</p><p>We like <a href="http://www.keshlynkennel.com/index.html">Keshlyn Kennel</a> because: </p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li>The cat rooms (or townhouses) are spacious and have windows to let in sunshine. </li><li>The townhouses have a covered litter box, a cat condo, and toys. </li><li>The kennel is less than five minutes away from our house.</li><li>The staff is friendly and willing to do everything I ask such as play with him, brush his coat, and feed him dry <i>and </i>wet cat food. </li></ul><p></p><p>Still, I worry about Ozzie while we're away. Is he bored? Is he nervous? Does he miss us? Is he sad? Do the barking dogs bother him? (I could go on and on with the questions.) </p><p>I rest a little easier knowing Ozzie is familiar with the kennel. He was less than a year old when we first kenneled him and by now, he knows the routine. In fact, the employees tell me Ozzie heads straight for the cat condo and settles right in. </p><p>On the day of our flight, I bring out the pet carrier. Ozzie spies it and trots away dragging his belly low to the ground, trying to make himself look small, hoping I won't see him. Sometimes, he'll hide under a bed. Poor baby, he knows what's coming. He knows he's going to leave home. I catch him and nudge him inside the carrier. No crying or squirming, he calms down immediately. </p><p>Once he's settled, I grab his tote bag that contains heaping helpings of kibbles and lots of cans of wet cat food (in a variety of flavors, of course). The bags also has his toys, his brush, and a blanket. He will have all the comforts of home.</p><p>I think about Ozzie all of the time while we're away, never knowing how he truly feels. But the owners of the kennel tell he does just fine. So, Ozzie might actually enjoy this little get away, this home away from home, this a little cat vacation. He may not be miserable at all. He could be having the time of his life. He might even be hoping to stay a bit longer. It's me who has to get over bringing him to the kennel. I'm the one who has to stop worrying. It won't be easy, but I have to get over feeling guilty about leaving my sweet pet behind. </p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-2851228125052061402023-05-01T17:26:00.000-04:002023-05-01T17:26:23.798-04:00<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_R1w2R8VtgcYvcwrFdtoHrFbV2REJQW2_YmeIdkCLj9fi7Mg4d6uTJFt2f_ti9MOHLLU19f7d4AWp0uHxvFf5-vTY8NTqVZb6cvThYw24nihJ7cZXIknRvQdNcXqGeaW_5MYnCQ6lDb1-m--guzF2z4voL4lJBi4639ew7WyJVFmwA1Koc_doSxfQvw/s4516/Loss%20-%20ian-taylor-.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="loss of friendship, mourning" border="0" data-original-height="3208" data-original-width="4516" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_R1w2R8VtgcYvcwrFdtoHrFbV2REJQW2_YmeIdkCLj9fi7Mg4d6uTJFt2f_ti9MOHLLU19f7d4AWp0uHxvFf5-vTY8NTqVZb6cvThYw24nihJ7cZXIknRvQdNcXqGeaW_5MYnCQ6lDb1-m--guzF2z4voL4lJBi4639ew7WyJVFmwA1Koc_doSxfQvw/w640-h454/Loss%20-%20ian-taylor-.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo: Ian Taylor</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">LOSS</span></p><p></p><p><br />I didn't know how to express my sympathy for an estranged friend. </p><p>Debbie and I had worked together in the clinical chemistry lab at the University of Kentucky. We had been good friends for fifteen years. But on the afternoon I invited her over for coffee and dessert to tell her I was pregnant, she was more shocked than happy for me. Maybe she felt a child was going to interfere with our friendship, that she'd have to compete. Maybe she was jealous. Who knows? She left my house with the saddest look on her face. And though she was civil to me at work, she became icy from that day forward. </p><p>Four years later, I retired from the lab but I still stayed in touch with the lab crew. We'd celebrate retirements, the holidays, and special occasions. One winter, a lab manager invited everyone to her farm for a little get together. I reached out to Debbie, trying to patch up our shaky friendship. I offered to drive us to Mary's party. But that day, the weather turned snowy and the thought of traveling 25 miles away on rural roads in southern Kentucky made me nervous. </p><p>I remember that day vividly, checking the weather constantly, anxiously trying to make the right decision whether to go or not. Driving out into the country in the snow was something I didn't feel comfortable doing. I called Debbie to tell her it wouldn't be safe or smart to drive given the road conditions. </p><p>But Debbie got angry at me for backing out. She felt obligated to go because she worked in the lab and didn't want to disappoint the manager. She felt it would reflect badly if she didn't attend. I felt sure Mary would understand. But Debbie didn't. She was furious at me. </p><p>My husband told me to move on. Let the relationship go. Ever since I had known Debbie, she had the habit of constantly being pessimistic. Her negativity would bring me down at work. In a way, it was really for the best. To be blunt, Debbie was toxic and I was better off without her.</p><p>Fast forward thirty years. I still stay in touch with my lab friends. That's how I found out about Debbie's illness. She had been diagnosed with ALS, a slow-lingering disease. We wanted to show our support for her and chipped in to help pay some of her hospital bills. But no one expected that she would pass away within eight weeks. She had only retired a month earlier. </p><p>I struggled with going to the visitation. My husband said it might help me with closure. Not that I really needed that. I had long accepted our broken relationship. </p><p>But it didn't take me long to make up my mind. I felt going to the funeral home was the right thing to do. To go say kind words to her family. To point out Debbie's positive attributes, to recall her talents. And I was able to do that for her mother and sister. They clung onto my words and clasped my hands, wanting to hear stories about Debbie, wanting to hear good things about her. </p><p>Afterward, I stepped into a separate room where she was laid out. Her silver hair was perfectly coiffed. She was dressed in a gorgeous white gown. The casket was strewn with red roses. But I felt nothing. No sadness. Just numb. It was hard to grieve for a person who felt you weren't good enough to be a friend. </p><p>Twenty years ago, I ran into Debbie at a shopping center. Meeting her out of the blue startled me and made me feel uncomfortable, but I invited her to call me so we could go out for coffee and catch up. She never did. And now she's gone forever. </p><p>I was told by a friend that I was brave to go to the visitation. Maybe so. Debbie and I had parted ways so long ago and we weren't close anymore. Our friendship was beyond repair. But that didn't matter. Paying respect and saying good bye felt like the right thing to do. </p><p> </p><p><span style="font-family: "Dancing Script"; font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">Rest in peace, D. </span></span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-4484761234066884672023-04-01T09:54:00.007-04:002023-04-07T11:15:07.598-04:00<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CWsgPny9N-Xo1-yc2Ku5MCAgUjcxohvVYsAMLS8MTgyvOHlqY4C2_mkQ2G1BMTl5Fk8EAyX4WAbSc6SJFeT-sfC0RwuuL0U0fCq-1tA6KXbnCset8H_5E9su6m4p1dWwoyjHvxmKZwoXj5BTVCjwwTz8QXByuRW42CSD7Vw0lW31Hf_AsEJePpzwGg/s673/Disappointment%20(2).JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="regrets, hindsight, insight" border="0" data-original-height="673" data-original-width="672" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5CWsgPny9N-Xo1-yc2Ku5MCAgUjcxohvVYsAMLS8MTgyvOHlqY4C2_mkQ2G1BMTl5Fk8EAyX4WAbSc6SJFeT-sfC0RwuuL0U0fCq-1tA6KXbnCset8H_5E9su6m4p1dWwoyjHvxmKZwoXj5BTVCjwwTz8QXByuRW42CSD7Vw0lW31Hf_AsEJePpzwGg/w640-h640/Disappointment%20(2).JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo: Gabrielle Henderson </span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">LETTING GO OF REGRET</span></p><p>I don't always make good decisions. And as a result, I end up having regret. </p><p>To illustrate, last month I entered one of my manuscripts in a pitch party. Minutes after submitting it, I knew I screwed up. The text could have been stronger and it did not reflect my best work. </p><p>I sulked over the manuscript for days because this submission opportunity only happens once a year. Talk about feeling down. And stupid. A chance to have a select group of picture book agents request my work—gone.</p><p>When I looked back at this misfortunate circumstance, it became apparent to me that a lingering migraine had altered my reasoning. Being foggy-brained is an effect of having a migraine. But since I was pain-free, I hadn't realized that making good decisions was impaired. If I had been thinking clearly, there would have been no way I would've submitted this version. My migraine brain deceived me into thinking the manuscript was in good shape. And I made a bad choice. </p><p>Now, it's water under the bridge (or the toothpaste is outta of the tube, as my husband would say) and now I know (most likely) that a silent migraine served me a heaping helping of regret. </p><p>Feeling miserable, I turned to the internet to find articles on remorse and regret. I found a helpful post written by Gila Gam titled <span style="color: #cc0000;"><a href="https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/reframing-regret-from-hindsight-insight-gila-gam/" style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; font-weight: var(--font-weight-bold);">Reframing Regret: from Hindsight to Insight</a> </span></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit;">Since I can't do this piece justice by rephrasing, I quote Gila: </span></p><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Beating yourself up about the things that went wrong, doesn’t help things go right. Don’t regret anything that has taught you valuable and worthwhile lessons. Replace regret with reflect. To reflect is to try and understand what your regrets are trying to tell you. It means looking for insights in order to draw lessons from the experience. The goal of reflection is to move away from regret to make better decisions and take action toward better future outcomes. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"Remember: life is meant for exploring and experimentation. You are likely to fail many times, but </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">“nothing ventured, nothing gained.” When you accept that risks must be taken and setbacks must be </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">experienced in order to achieve anything meaningful, then you recognize the futility of regret because </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">there’s a valuable lesson in everything you do. Your life’s lessons allow you to grow. The biggest risk is not to take any risks, and the greatest regret is an unfulfilled life, or a life not lived fully. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div></span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">"As you reflect upon your wins and losses, accept the whole package and seek the lessons to apply in the future. Take intentional action to keep doing the things that really matter to you. Be open to change and new opportunities along the self-actualization journey. And most importantly, once you reach success, don’t linger in the comfort zone for too long. Celebrate your accomplishments but beware of resting on your laurels. Move on to something new and continue to be relevant and have impact.</span></div></span></span><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #0b5394; font-family: inherit;"><span>"Life is made up of a series of changes, choices, and consequences. The choices you make today will make sense in retrospect with time and reflection. The road is windy and slippery. Embrace t</span><span>he wobble. Keep walking and trust you will figure out your own way. So, turn the insights into foresight."</span></span></p><p>Turn insights into foresight. That's perfect, isn't it? </p><p>For me, that would mean paying closer attention to the effects of a migraine: recognizing mental clarity can be lacking after an attack and then refraining from making important decisions until the headache symptoms have subsided. But even if I'm aware, there are other ways to f*ck-up a submission: typos in a manuscript, misunderstanding the submission guidelines, or misspelling an agent's name. So, to lessen regret, I try to turn the negative feelings into positive feelings by visualizing mistakes as stepping stones that will lead me closer to my goals. </p><p>This wonderful submission opportunity seemed to be the chance of a lifetime and it hurts that I messed up. But there's always next year. Until then, I will keep going. I will remember this situation for a long time, but without regret. It happened for many reasons: To learn and to improve. To understand my limitations. To revel in my tenacity. I will keep moving forward along those stepping stones. And if things backfire or don't go as smoothly as hoped, I will reflect. I forge on to make things better next time.</p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-81447703821392994282023-02-27T15:37:00.001-05:002023-02-27T15:37:27.250-05:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiythPUo9PudGAqVEctsa446MNbP4JG4x-QFgR_VDlnLi4miJrwI0xGkx-q_NUW2bKB-KSwrYK373LoUo8jHLVLE0LlrC0-9tWpVnIf_GYhaAa1QcyGbZanAlJ_nq07tI3643nyHPWNFOGZKgAE9hjMWnq4UvJdMQ_wTnfzu1y2TBqs6SasQjXdQhMq4w/s324/Liz%20and%20Putty%20Jan%202022%20(2).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="stray cats, loving cats, caring for cats" border="0" data-original-height="324" data-original-width="324" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiythPUo9PudGAqVEctsa446MNbP4JG4x-QFgR_VDlnLi4miJrwI0xGkx-q_NUW2bKB-KSwrYK373LoUo8jHLVLE0LlrC0-9tWpVnIf_GYhaAa1QcyGbZanAlJ_nq07tI3643nyHPWNFOGZKgAE9hjMWnq4UvJdMQ_wTnfzu1y2TBqs6SasQjXdQhMq4w/w640-h640/Liz%20and%20Putty%20Jan%202022%20(2).jpg" width="640" /></a></div> <p></p><span style="font-size: medium;">AN ABUNDANCE OF LOVE</span><div><br />I love a sweet stray named Putty.<p></p><p>He's at least ten-years-old. Putty first appeared on our deck in 2013, when we had Ollie, our first cat. Putty has outlived Ollie. </p><p>And he still comes around. Who knows why? Maybe he likes the kibbles I feed him. Or the warm yurt he can enjoy in cold weather. Could it be he feels the love at the Mrvos residence? </p><p>When I first met Putty, he was leery of me. He'd only approach the food dish after I had closed the door. But in time, he became more trusting. Now, he'll come when I call his name. He'll let me rub his coat, pat his head, and smooth his tail. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElVAF0uqZf9-2WyqoJPIzBdla7NUbyRYLISKLNO5fWrYThxEsfSpovvlgVhRO83AzzUgUxwcnvpSz4LzSBCf-ZHinaZMTvm-bq0hlz3N4HdqPerS6oS-BmfIl5t2cs-rVglSmHW_a2j6Qzkw7xQU4FEOVkEBE-0xI-bayhyYN8bbD51Kn3V8ziQu8Mg/s1052/Putty%20by%20door%20(4).jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="983" data-original-width="1052" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElVAF0uqZf9-2WyqoJPIzBdla7NUbyRYLISKLNO5fWrYThxEsfSpovvlgVhRO83AzzUgUxwcnvpSz4LzSBCf-ZHinaZMTvm-bq0hlz3N4HdqPerS6oS-BmfIl5t2cs-rVglSmHW_a2j6Qzkw7xQU4FEOVkEBE-0xI-bayhyYN8bbD51Kn3V8ziQu8Mg/s320/Putty%20by%20door%20(4).jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>It's surprising he's in rather good health. He navigates the steps to our deck with ease and he can leap up to the railing to lap water from the bird bath (which I keep exceptionally clean). Occasionally, he'll have a nick or a scrape that heals on its own. One time however, he had a bloody abscess that required urgent attention. Luckily for Putty, I was able to find a veterinarian who came to our house to treat him. <br /></p><p>My sweet stray shows few signs of slowing down. Just more gray hair in the black spots of his coat.</p><p>Sometimes, Putty will disappear for days and I'll worry if he had gotten into a fight, if a coyote had found him, or if he had been mistreated cruelly by someone. </p><p>A few years ago, an aggressive stray had roamed into our yard and the two of them got into a fight. Afterwards, Putty stayed away for nearly six months. With the intention of luring Putty back to our house, I trapped the tomcat, had him neutered, and returned him to our neighborhood further down the street. Putty must have sensed our place felt safer and he eventually came back to our house. </p><p>Most of the time, Putty stays close by, either on our deck where it's sunny or on the patio for the shade. But being a stray, he likes to roam and now that he's older, I fear he will never come back. </p><p>Because he disappears from time to time, I try not to take him for granted—no matter how often he parks himself on the deck, presses his face against the door, and begs for food. Just like my cats Lizzie and Ozzie, Putty will not go hungry. </p><p>There is something calming about Putty's presence. He brings me joy even though at times, Putty can be a rascal. He's been known to be a menace to neighbor's cats. He'll claim front porches or driveways as his own. I try to remind others, he's one of God's creatures, so be nice to him. He has lived his entire life outside facing other strays, dogs, possums, raccoons and coyotes, and all kinds of weather. He deserves to be treated well. He deserves kindness. My sweet stray Putty deserves an abundance of love. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-37772735468011667012023-02-01T09:02:00.001-05:002023-02-06T18:43:22.326-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R-c7XO_UraA/WxKmGPSgBdI/AAAAAAAAGHg/dd9MKTpg7FsyWHVaL40JcPvWkJGOqbOtgCLcBGAs/s1600/OBS13%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="house number, personal expression, neighborhoods, safety" border="0" data-original-height="822" data-original-width="823" height="636" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R-c7XO_UraA/WxKmGPSgBdI/AAAAAAAAGHg/dd9MKTpg7FsyWHVaL40JcPvWkJGOqbOtgCLcBGAs/w640-h636/OBS13%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="640" /></a><br />
<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><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><div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">FLAUNT YOUR STYLE </span></div><div><br /></div><div>I'm an observant person. It's in my nature to notice things, sometimes odd things. </div><div><br /></div><div>So, one summer day when I was outside for a walk, I began to scrutinize the house numbers in our neighborhood—I know, you're thinking weird. But here me out. I was surprised to find quite a variety. As you can expect, many were standard and fairly common, "nothing special" as my mother-in-law would have said. Though others reflected the homeowner's personality.</div><div><br /></div><div><div style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit; letter-spacing: normal;">Come along with me and let's have a look. Below are photos of houses in my neighborhood. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><br /></span><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">This house number is difficult to see. What does this number say about the house owner's style? </span></span></div><div style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;">Modest.</span></span></div><div style="color: black; font-style: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin: 0px; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="letter-spacing: normal;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KzuCS6h8N18/WxKlXBoon9I/AAAAAAAAGHU/Cnu01B6mYIUs4iK3ULcuZRZa9w7qGHMJgCLcBGAs/s1600/OBS16%2B%25283%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="734" data-original-width="733" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KzuCS6h8N18/WxKlXBoon9I/AAAAAAAAGHU/Cnu01B6mYIUs4iK3ULcuZRZa9w7qGHMJgCLcBGAs/w398-h400/OBS16%2B%25283%2529.jpg" title="" width="398" /></a></div><br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">And this one near the garage door instead of by the front door?</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R9p97HKkews/WxKw50USkXI/AAAAAAAAGIc/FAseVhFe_S8GF_JFWU--tmh3RNXCsYo9ACLcBGAs/s1600/OBS%2B3%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="437" data-original-width="438" height="398" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-R9p97HKkews/WxKw50USkXI/AAAAAAAAGIc/FAseVhFe_S8GF_JFWU--tmh3RNXCsYo9ACLcBGAs/s400/OBS%2B3%2B%25282%2529.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: ink free; font-size: large;"> </span>Unconventional.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's another:</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gtrLy0lVlhI/WxKnTMkWp1I/AAAAAAAAGH0/FKVEFbFWNWYdi1nbCkHy0OUWTkF6VyNaQCLcBGAs/s1600/OBS%2B1%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="1041" data-original-width="1040" height="400" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gtrLy0lVlhI/WxKnTMkWp1I/AAAAAAAAGH0/FKVEFbFWNWYdi1nbCkHy0OUWTkF6VyNaQCLcBGAs/s400/OBS%2B1%2B%25282%2529.jpg" title="" width="398" /></a></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">Bold.</div>
<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And this one:</span></div>
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<img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="796" data-original-width="796" height="400" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-OXhSZPR1ht8/WxKnoe4VaaI/AAAAAAAAGH8/rwWyJ1DCtRkEG4pw1gSG35vfOW-5UyE5wCLcBGAs/w400-h400/OBS17%2B%25282%2529.jpg" title="" width="400" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"> Welcoming.</div><div><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sGwcWJ8cXbw/WxKn6aFDj_I/AAAAAAAAGIE/bHe7x-ggZ24YcOo_8MdXC6ne2YQKdNcbwCLcBGAs/s1600/OBS14%2B%25282%2529.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="634" data-original-width="634" height="400" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sGwcWJ8cXbw/WxKn6aFDj_I/AAAAAAAAGIE/bHe7x-ggZ24YcOo_8MdXC6ne2YQKdNcbwCLcBGAs/s400/OBS14%2B%25282%2529.jpg" title="" width="400" /></a></div>
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Flashy.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And lastly: </span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EeeSJl8hwe8/W7-SlDS0qZI/AAAAAAAAG8o/8wxfL1UHbvUi2waxVFHrm0rgXFSccO00gCLcBGAs/s1600/OBS%2B9%2B%25283%2529.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="847" data-original-width="846" height="640" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EeeSJl8hwe8/W7-SlDS0qZI/AAAAAAAAG8o/8wxfL1UHbvUi2waxVFHrm0rgXFSccO00gCLcBGAs/s640/OBS%2B9%2B%25283%2529.jpg" width="636" /></a><br />
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Laid back. </div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #181818;">The variety </span>of house numbers </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">gives our neighborhood a welcoming, homey vibe. </span><span style="color: #181818; font-family: inherit;">But I get the feeling that I'm one of the few that even notices them. They are </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">probably one of the last details anyone would think about when buying or building a home. And yet, t</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">he International Association of Certified House Inspectors (InterNACHI) has guidelines, especially so that emergency responders can locate them.</span></div><div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Here's their suggestions: </span> </div></div></div><div><br /><ul style="background-color: box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 0px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Be sure numbers are visible (at least 5 or 6 inches tall) when approaching from either side of the house.</span></li></ul><ul style="background-color: box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 0px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box;">Remember script numbers or numbers that are spelled out can be difficult to discern. </li></ul><ul style="background-color: box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 0px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box;">Use numbers that contrast with the background. Brass or bronze numbers are difficult to see. </li></ul><ul style="background-color: box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 0px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Trim back shrubs or trees that hide numbers. </span></li></ul><ul style="background-color: box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 0px;"><li style="box-sizing: border-box;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Keep flags and decorations from covering up house numbers. </span></li></ul>
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<div class="MsoNormal">Many neighbors could give a sh*t about following the recommendations. I'm not judging them. It's their choice. Some people however, understand the importance of having house numbers that can be easily found. And some of these neighbors had gotten a little fancy. I've noticed folks had balanced readability and creativity. They had combined safety with flair. They found a way to thoughtfully flaunt their style.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div> <br /><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></div><div><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: freestyle script;"><span style="font-size: 37.3333px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: freestyle script;"><span style="font-size: 37.3333px;"><br /></span></span>
<br /></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-5358236247292487612023-01-01T09:14:00.005-05:002023-01-03T10:04:08.612-05:00<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9eHrxJlk-lsH9ZFqzKM3RzQQNBMZX7E6rvdVKo-yXGYVFozH-0n4zZv2ej2BFhyRL3jRPccNB9aplTyjHyMIL6knbNGV_O_UtLsW1UEPMWQnTtuJtM2_exD2JW62did5FUxjyhRqOVj2mb5J8QSKXKc61fXYBqrKKzrjK3KVKvoVejUsJgxbzb08-g/s3451/hls-44-IfENuRbmqSY-unsplash%20All%20you%20had%20to.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Mon Coeur était brisé, heartache, no reconciliation, no communication" border="0" data-original-height="3451" data-original-width="3450" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE9eHrxJlk-lsH9ZFqzKM3RzQQNBMZX7E6rvdVKo-yXGYVFozH-0n4zZv2ej2BFhyRL3jRPccNB9aplTyjHyMIL6knbNGV_O_UtLsW1UEPMWQnTtuJtM2_exD2JW62did5FUxjyhRqOVj2mb5J8QSKXKc61fXYBqrKKzrjK3KVKvoVejUsJgxbzb08-g/w640-h640/hls-44-IfENuRbmqSY-unsplash%20All%20you%20had%20to.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> photo by HLS-44</span></div><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">Vulnerability left me open to anguish and sorrow. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: large;">MON COEUR ÉTAIT BRISÉ </span> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">All you had to do was tell me</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">why you kept me in the dark</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">and strung me along, </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">while you </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">played the field</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">and sowed your wild oats. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Betrayal hid inside a drawer</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">where her words filled pages </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">not meant for my eyes. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">You assumed ignorance would shield the truth. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I, too </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">could keep secrets. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">II</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">All you had to do was tell me</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">why our bond failed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">With a weak past </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">and a troubled present, </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">our future was doomed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">It's said that blood is thicker than water. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But it thinned out, </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">seeped out, </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">puddled. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I alone couldn't stop the bleeding. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">The door to reconciliation closed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">And nothing but arrogance was to blame.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">III</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">All you had to do was tell me</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">why you had to sever ties.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Was it me?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Was it you?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Was it him?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Ours was </span><span>an otherworldly love— </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">one that should have never ended. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But with shitty timing on </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Christmas day </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">you slipped away </span>without any explanation,</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">unaware </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">of the devastation you left in your wake. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Mon coeur était brisé. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Now, decades fly by and still I ask </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">why,</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">when all, any one of you had to do, was tell me... </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">and that would have been enough. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div></div></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Tags: <a href="https://childrenswritersworld.blogspot.com/">Heartbreak</a></div><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-53860052703047510112022-12-01T19:10:00.000-05:002022-12-08T08:48:43.973-05:00<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Wi2eLxzAJOB472DompbDfyf7GnR7g7fuot-4Xb2EjXbjueHNupudyFz1D4GN1tGP5n7gWzdzwqjtqY59mICHfzQ5yepOJq0atPQ_TEqY_qxgTFaUZw5rqdvXVBGQE8R22xrrSRt2tt-1_XEpju5_0QwbGbNeiIv4K3GQYTJg-TczMZ73-J_ouGWR9A/s769/Xmas%20cookies.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Mrvos Christmas cookies, baking holiday cookies in October, eggs" border="0" data-original-height="769" data-original-width="743" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5Wi2eLxzAJOB472DompbDfyf7GnR7g7fuot-4Xb2EjXbjueHNupudyFz1D4GN1tGP5n7gWzdzwqjtqY59mICHfzQ5yepOJq0atPQ_TEqY_qxgTFaUZw5rqdvXVBGQE8R22xrrSRt2tt-1_XEpju5_0QwbGbNeiIv4K3GQYTJg-TczMZ73-J_ouGWR9A/w618-h640/Xmas%20cookies.JPG" width="618" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo: Simply Recipes</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">A LITTLE HOLIDAY COOKIE DRAMA </span></p><p>I bake holiday cookies in October. Way before Halloween. </p><p>People look at me as if I'm crazy, but honestly, this way I'm not rushed during the holiday season. Getting a head start and doing one batch a week makes baking more fun for me. </p><p>I make five holiday favorites, beginning with the easiest recipe, the chocolate crinkles. Then, I move on to the more time-consuming recipes. By mid-November, the Christmas baking is finished. </p><p>I rarely have trouble making the holiday treats, but this year, I decided to add a new recipe: Grandma's butter cookies. I was shocked to see a pound of butter is used (that's four sticks!) so I halved the recipe. Referring to my late mother-in-law's recipe, I noticed that the baking time was missing. It only read to bake until brown. Okay, most cookies take about 8 - 12 minutes to bake, so I put them in 10 minutes. And afterward? Pale, blah-looking cookies.</p><p>I kept them in the oven for 5 more minutes. That ought to do it. </p><p>Nope.</p><p>I baked them an additional five minutes. </p><p>But they never turned brown, even after 20 minutes in the oven. I was getting frustrated. </p><p>My husband Jim asked, "What's wrong?"</p><p>"I can't figure out why these butter cookies didn't get brown."</p><p>"Did you follow the recipe?" </p><p>"Of course," I said indignantly. </p><p>And then I remembered...</p><p>I had separated the yolks from the eggs and added them to the batter. But I had forgotten to brush the cookies with the egg whites before baking. </p><p>This was like the time I set out three eggs to come to room temperature to make a pound cake, and then forgot to add the eggs to the batter. In my defense, I was distracted by two hungry cats and I didn't realize something had gone wrong until after the oven timer went off. Needless to say, the finished product looked like toffee. </p><p>I thought about the sad pound cake while staring at the failed butter cookies. Jim told me he'd work on them. He found a basting brush and covered the already-baked batch with egg whites and put them back into the oven. The batch browned nicely, giving Jim another cooking story to lovingly tease me about. </p><p>Trying to forget about the butter cookies, I turned my attention to more familiar recipes like peanut butter blossoms, bird's nest cookies, nut horns, and sugar cookies. Since I had been making these for many years, I had no fear that they'd turn out well. But of course, Jim taste-tested them, just to be sure.<br /></p><p></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79__SFsfqMY96U1SzFsapGnyj1jnJ9VTw_TEWnBvqaDJh9J7mfvRJCuDd_b9fWZcF0BS1FYoNl3uZNSWyD1Xw94JcbOjSIRufNnKF2Pl01XeasP35oBUzIlyKl8NhuUwaExCaQNEyXtzlfC8mM9gNJx3E8PExmNXyEcZqSxGnoQ6kVggXUFGFJcc74A/s634/Christmas%20cookie%20tin%20(2).JPG" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="505" data-original-width="634" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj79__SFsfqMY96U1SzFsapGnyj1jnJ9VTw_TEWnBvqaDJh9J7mfvRJCuDd_b9fWZcF0BS1FYoNl3uZNSWyD1Xw94JcbOjSIRufNnKF2Pl01XeasP35oBUzIlyKl8NhuUwaExCaQNEyXtzlfC8mM9gNJx3E8PExmNXyEcZqSxGnoQ6kVggXUFGFJcc74A/s320/Christmas%20cookie%20tin%20(2).JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: Cookie Connection</span></td></tr></tbody></table>After baking each batch, I freeze them for the holidays. When Christmas rolls around, they will be ready to be placed in tins for our family and neighbors. With six different kinds, there will be plenty of variety for everyone. <p></p><p>Sometimes, I get defensive when people ask why I begin baking so early. They just don't get it. It's what I do. For me, October is the perfect time to start holiday baking. Having baked two months in advance allows me more time to enjoy the holidays...</p><p>and I bet you were thinking...more time to go shopping for gifts. </p><p>Actually, that's not the case. As you might guess, by August, half of my shopping is done! </p><p> </p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">To my faithful readers, thank you for reading my blog. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">Wishing you a sweet holiday season. Joyeux Noël! </span></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-69906878366333963282022-11-01T17:36:00.000-04:002022-11-01T18:27:29.327-04:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hade_tTk5a3eWn8-9pSlPz1i8HxNVyS-jASICYb4WoTppyg3rWZqtHiWzSWHqT-auU4cXgIlvvXiE3uAKJUeSYRPxBOWyGGdcblTsyXLNlN5kQ7gyFTD2IRPgTDJe3wLKm02HT_AysXUuvb4JBaOv19VpoghddTCCXt1uO3oWJkCDA-r_skkRQc2Wg/s1052/Putty%20by%20door%20(4).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="a writer takes care of an injured stray cat" border="0" data-original-height="983" data-original-width="1052" height="598" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1hade_tTk5a3eWn8-9pSlPz1i8HxNVyS-jASICYb4WoTppyg3rWZqtHiWzSWHqT-auU4cXgIlvvXiE3uAKJUeSYRPxBOWyGGdcblTsyXLNlN5kQ7gyFTD2IRPgTDJe3wLKm02HT_AysXUuvb4JBaOv19VpoghddTCCXt1uO3oWJkCDA-r_skkRQc2Wg/w640-h598/Putty%20by%20door%20(4).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">BANISHING FEAR WITH LOVE</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div>Putty was injured and I didn't know how to help him. <p></p><p>Nine years ago, this gravelly-voiced, black and white stray showed up on our deck begging for food. My husband and I have been feeding him ever since. </p><p>Over the years, I've noticed minor cuts on Putty, nothing serious. But one day not long ago, I noticed Putty was limping. At first, I thought he had broken his leg. There wasn't an apparent wound, yet he could only walk on three paws. Putty squinted. His wounded leg quivered. He showed little interest in food. I could sense his pain. Being Sunday, I had to wait a day to call my vet. But when Monday rolled around, the veterinarian was unable to make a house call until Friday. I didn't think Putty could wait that long. </p><p>I called my neighbor Sherry who also feeds Putty. She gave me the name of her vet because he makes house calls. But when I phoned him, I got an answering machine. Dr. MacDonald wouldn't be back in town until Wednesday. I left him a message about Putty's condition. My poor kitty appeared to be suffering, he was barely eating, and he would have to wait two more days for help. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKGYcrC_bRj_6Rmb4ektx0m8oiIcJEv1fXo9EINBG1E48sZDb4rr4io1LbArODYbv1Hf-gNfVgaLMOvJKWKL8Sa8a5_UH6PUUYWf1mRtVDAD_eBS8jzVg3thSpThU_lpbyC5cyFHmnNrGchEkK7wZjNUIGnAhLW5fX42NLY6Ik6DZo_abCvtPPPOwNQ/s508/Putty%20after%20foot%20healing%209-30-22.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="508" data-original-width="382" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnKGYcrC_bRj_6Rmb4ektx0m8oiIcJEv1fXo9EINBG1E48sZDb4rr4io1LbArODYbv1Hf-gNfVgaLMOvJKWKL8Sa8a5_UH6PUUYWf1mRtVDAD_eBS8jzVg3thSpThU_lpbyC5cyFHmnNrGchEkK7wZjNUIGnAhLW5fX42NLY6Ik6DZo_abCvtPPPOwNQ/s320/Putty%20after%20foot%20healing%209-30-22.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><p></p><p>On Wednesday, I noticed a smear of blood on Putty's hip. As he limped on our patio, I finally saw the cause of his injury. There was bloody abscess about the size of a half dollar on his hock. I was sick with worry. This did not look good. Luckily, Dr. M. returned my call. He could come out to our house, under one condition: I'd have to trap Putty. </p><p>This was easier said than done. </p><p></p><p>"Can you pick him up?" asked Dr. M. <br /></p><p>"Uh, no." And in my head, I'm thinking: Are you kidding? This is a semi-wild cat who didn't always trust me. </p><p>But the vet needed Putty in an enclosed area so he wouldn't run off. I told him I'd try to trap him. I loved Putty and was determined to get him the medical attention he needed. </p><p>My husband and I backed our cars out the garage. I moved bins and tubs around on shelves and blocked places where a cat could hide. When every area of the garage looked safe, I pulled out a can of tuna. Putty was in the backyard. I wondered if I could tempt him with the tuna and get him to hobble over to the driveway and into the garage. I worried how to keep him contained in the garage once he was inside. Luckily, he did manage to follow me. I got him as far away from the garage door as possible so he wouldn't make a run for it and motioned to my husband now, quick, close the door.</p><p>And we had him safe inside. Dr. M. arrived in five minutes. Finally, Putty was going to get some attention. But when I opened basement door to the garage, Putty was nowhere in sight. Sh*t! I walked the perimeter of the garage. No Putty. I was so embarrassed. Where was that cat? Had he squeezed out of the corner by the garage door through an impossibly narrow opening? I looked again on the verge of panic. But there he was, trying to hide against the back wall of a shelf. After coaxing him down, he moved to another corner of the garage, where the vet could work his magic. </p><p>I was concerned Putty would not be a cooperative patient. But Dr. M. wrapped Putty in a blanket and then in a calm voice, he told me I'd be his assistant. My job would be to hold Putty while he prepared the injections. I slipped on garden gloves to protect my hands, but Putty hissed at me. The vet said the gloves were probably scaring him, so I had to help bare-handed. </p><p>Putty's razor-sharp claws had scratched me more than once and now that he was scared, he was likely to bite. I was terrified. Mortified. I really, really did not want to do this. And there wasn't much time. Who knew how long Putty would stay put? I was a nervous wreck. But I had to pull myself together. So rather than stressing, I focused on how much I loved Putty and centered my attention on helping the vet. </p><p>Dr. M. showed me how to grab onto the scuff and wiggle it to distract him as he inserted the needle. Believe you me, I wiggled the hell out of the scruff. After the antibiotic and the pain shots were given, he removed the blanket. Putty was free to go. With that, I opened the garage door and he limped away. </p><p>Before Dr. M. left, he handed me an oral antibiotic that I would need to give Putty twice a day. Good luck, I'm thinking. If Putty was traumatized, he may never come back. I could have scared him off for good. My sweet little stray. </p><p>But that night, Putty returned and he wolfed down all of his food with the antibiotic in it. I was so relieved to see him come back the next day and get more antibiotic into his system.</p><p>Surprisingly, within a day after the injections and a day's worth of oral antibiotics, Putty looked better. His eyes were brighter. He could put weight on all of his paws. </p><p>Putty still has a long way to go, but he'll get the care he needs and all of the food he craves. Looking back, I was surprised how frightened I had been. I was scared of being hurt and afraid of letting Putty down. But through this experience, I found determination can conquer fear. And anything is possible with love.</p><p> <span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-8216713774375187642022-10-01T08:19:00.001-04:002022-10-01T08:19:22.489-04:00<p> </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumTs0mNs1eVNoOEEKirqEeq8Dvkuiktr0lop5i5m85cNGJTt1T2QvNaXw9RhSKQ6lIP_7ZCNiFDLLL5dV1lHQ57RmUM52POdXlELhg9g-IT6viCACyiP1dJ9CgakCgj_dpYIrrE64Cr5OhGx6ESsiga94Lm0qiQJ944X1kgR9xLtSEi4NQBh7I6bZdQ/s2988/Frustrated%20-simran-sood%20.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="enabling, dependence, guilt, family problems" border="0" data-original-height="2988" data-original-width="2987" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiumTs0mNs1eVNoOEEKirqEeq8Dvkuiktr0lop5i5m85cNGJTt1T2QvNaXw9RhSKQ6lIP_7ZCNiFDLLL5dV1lHQ57RmUM52POdXlELhg9g-IT6viCACyiP1dJ9CgakCgj_dpYIrrE64Cr5OhGx6ESsiga94Lm0qiQJ944X1kgR9xLtSEi4NQBh7I6bZdQ/w640-h640/Frustrated%20-simran-sood%20.jpg" title="Photo: Simran Sood" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo: Simran Sood</span></td></tr></tbody></table><p><span style="font-size: medium;">ENABLING, DEPENDENCE, AND GUILT </span></p><p>I let others burden me with guilt. </p><p>It happens because I allow it to happen. </p><p>Back in my twenties, I was stronger. I dated a guy who threatened to stop seeing me if we didn't become intimate (I was a virgin and we had only been dating for a few months). I wasn't even sure he loved me, at least he never told me. Then he had to nerve to say, and I'm not making this up, there was no guarantee that afterward he'd still date me. Really? That was going to convince me? I told him to get lost. Screw him (pun intended). I wasn't going to let him lay a guilt trip on me. </p><p>But I've softened over the years. Become a pushover. It's really not becoming. It's not strong and it's not who I want to be. </p><p>Having no backbone, I allow people to lay guilt trips on me, like the person I'll call Tim. Tim volunteers to run errands for elderly members of our family. One time, Tim notified me that he had a scheduling conflict. Not wanting to disappoint Tim but wanting to be supportive, I filled in for him and drove 160 miles to help. A few months later, he needed my assistance again. I hesitated to reply. </p><p>This time, it bothered me. Why hadn't other options been explored? Couldn't he have asked someone who lived closer to help out? I needed advice. One girlfriend basically told me to suck it up. Wow, that surprised me—I thought she would rally behind me. But another friend told me (and let me preference by saying she's super honest and blunt) I was being used. </p><p>I finally realized that Tim had enabled elderly folks to become dependent on him. </p><p>An enabler is not necessarily a negative label. According to <a href="https://www.healthline.com/health/enabler">Healthline.com </a>, th<span style="color: #231f20;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">e term “enabler” generally describes someone whose behavior allows a loved one to continue unacceptable patterns of behavior. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #231f20;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Healthline.com says, "M</span></span><span style="color: #231f20;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">any people who enable others don’t do so intentionally. They may not even realize what they’re doing. M</span></span><span style="color: #231f20; font-family: inherit;">ost people who enable loved ones don’t intend to cause harm. In fact, enabling generally begins with the desire to help." </span></p><p><span style="color: #231f20; font-family: inherit;">But how did helping get so out of hand? </span><span style="color: #231f20;"> </span><span style="color: #231f20;"> </span></p><p><span style="color: #231f20; font-family: inherit;">I don't have an answer for that. But I needed an answer for this troubling situation. Fortunately, the article gave me some direction. I learned </span><span style="color: #231f20; font-family: inherit;">it's okay to support the enabler, but not in ways that back the dependence. </span></p><p>So, the big question is, what's going to happen if Tim has another conflict? </p><p>In the past, I've said yes to appease and to avoid arguments. I let myself be imposed on because I wanted to be a team player and didn't want to cause hurt feelings. But if Tim won't consider other options, the best thing I can do for myself is to set boundaries or say no if need be. </p><p>I'm sure my behavior will be looked upon as heartless and selfish. But I have to stop worrying about how others will perceive me. I want to focus on becoming stronger. It will take practice to remain firm. But if I want to be happy, I have to put an end to being burdened with guilt. </p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-38633787302058938222022-09-01T09:12:00.001-04:002022-09-01T09:12:25.125-04:00<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWq4Q3y1hAroBwftg9iQPQtnq6j2t8b3F5sFlExLtIEqNHx-p85HZ1x0MryeXWOiSXkFlJ_WSEak4Tfu98E3G8jA34-SLLL0QfBnvtCrJaM4XXMY5FSanqvxSr0yMSQJM7ElEBWZtkNRvSy6GGmSKbLBleBfYBqCGI0O0nrOZHwQvgzo8ulC-rG78rw/s406/Van%20Gogh%20Immersive%202022%20(3).jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="406" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWq4Q3y1hAroBwftg9iQPQtnq6j2t8b3F5sFlExLtIEqNHx-p85HZ1x0MryeXWOiSXkFlJ_WSEak4Tfu98E3G8jA34-SLLL0QfBnvtCrJaM4XXMY5FSanqvxSr0yMSQJM7ElEBWZtkNRvSy6GGmSKbLBleBfYBqCGI0O0nrOZHwQvgzo8ulC-rG78rw/w640-h480/Van%20Gogh%20Immersive%202022%20(3).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">WAIT, WAIT, DON'T TELL ME<br /></span></p><p>I'm not a fan of surprises. </p><p></p><p>But recently I attended two events with my husband where I let myself be open to surprise. I didn't read any reviews or research the shows to find out what to expect. All I knew was at the van Gogh venue we'd be seeing Vincent's art, and at a historic home in Lexington, we'd be watching a play written by Chekov. </p><p><b>The Van Gogh Immersive </b></p><p>I'm a big fan of van Gogh. I've read about him extensively, and I've gone to many museums to see his famous works. My husband and I even had the opportunity to go to the van Gogh museum in Amsterdam (one of THE best art museums I've ever visited). But here, in Cincinnati, there was uncertainty and excitement—we didn't know what paintings would be displayed and how they would be presented. </p><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwZCJ67FM0uTeZ0r-6YOUs7j3qA4L5c0BGC7J4FgGqeHKc_Y1PZ4Oyq9TxXUBSOP7o2RouCejmwtKZ2aOjQns1etmTVTAFzkpCTNdBU-Ny_zbC4-_2Qp7epCsL7EZI0qNz658G5_6yBz2lkuQ4eX26VLciOg1ubxRhR8f2PzvLVpbrSJfohyeRyWRpw/s2463/Van%20Gogh%20Immersive%202%202022%20(3).jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1848" data-original-width="2463" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvwZCJ67FM0uTeZ0r-6YOUs7j3qA4L5c0BGC7J4FgGqeHKc_Y1PZ4Oyq9TxXUBSOP7o2RouCejmwtKZ2aOjQns1etmTVTAFzkpCTNdBU-Ny_zbC4-_2Qp7epCsL7EZI0qNz658G5_6yBz2lkuQ4eX26VLciOg1ubxRhR8f2PzvLVpbrSJfohyeRyWRpw/w400-h300/Van%20Gogh%20Immersive%202%202022%20(3).jpg" width="400" /></a>At the entrance, we found a bust of van Gogh suspended in midair and on it, paintings were projected onto the face. A little further down the hall, we discovered a wall covered with 3-dimensional golden sunflowers, where people posed to have their pictures taken. Of course, we obliged.</p><p>Onward into the next hall, we viewed his most famous works: canvases of sunflowers and self-portraits. Besides each one, little cards gave details about the paintings. </p><p>We shuffled into the adjourning room where the <i>The Bedroom</i> had been recreated. No doubt, Vincent's spirit welcomed me to sit and rest my feet. After we posed for pictures, we went into a stairwell where the steps and walls were painted in deep blue with yellow-glowing stars. It was as if we were floating in the skies of the painting <i>The Starry Night.</i> </p><p>And then, we opened a curtain and stepped into a large room where scenes of his paintings were projected on all four walls. But it didn't feel like we were inside a room. It felt as if we were outside in a field at dusk with people sitting on lawn chairs and benches. We dropped to the floor on a blanket and watched the images flow from the left wall to the front wall and around to right side and then to the back of us. We were awash in the art of Van Gogh. And as the music played and Vincent's quotes were read, I felt his highs and lows, a full range of emotions of a man who suffered for his art. </p><p><b>Uncle Vanya</b></p><p>Like the Van Gogh Immersive, I had no clue what to expect from this play. </p><p>On a hot summer night my husband and I were greeted just outside the parking lot and escorted to the garden of a historic house in downtown Lexington. Twenty chairs had been arranged alongside a flower bed. We were invited to take a seat. And then, the action began and we were part of the set! </p><p>Two cast members were seated at a table while another actor slept on a blanket on the grass. Casual conversations began and slowly the plot was revealed. As other actors entered the garden, the drama unfolded. With every line of dialogue, we were getting to know these characters, their relationships, their troubles. After the last line of the act was recited, an usher led us into the house and upstairs through a darkened passage. </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgHODLtf12KPqrl-MhOXMWr4ZradIL9qj-ZavLE4szMAqrQ7SFQLWSTFTbrvWIT6mbrHdDNncH8rZRnA9Sxw1q67aBCHv2mclAxDVgaxlnk98haNqi38mt0IEhQZvrVdknHbPepJx1d2mH2xbEI4F90FZz_mN_dbLyA-QGUiB8Z-9wliqi1LT2m8HK3w/s616/Uncle%20vanya%202.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="326" data-original-width="616" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgHODLtf12KPqrl-MhOXMWr4ZradIL9qj-ZavLE4szMAqrQ7SFQLWSTFTbrvWIT6mbrHdDNncH8rZRnA9Sxw1q67aBCHv2mclAxDVgaxlnk98haNqi38mt0IEhQZvrVdknHbPepJx1d2mH2xbEI4F90FZz_mN_dbLyA-QGUiB8Z-9wliqi1LT2m8HK3w/w400-h211/Uncle%20vanya%202.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>Upon reaching a bedroom, we heard thunder rumbling as we were seated against a back wall. A storm was brewing (figuratively and literally). Actors burst into the room venting and sobbing. The tension had increased and each character grew more miserable—many of them having fallen in love with someone who didn't love them. <div><br /></div><div>When the act concluded, we were ushered back to the garden for the intermission and refreshments. Afterward, we were escorted to a dining room. We sat against a back wall watching as the tension came to a climax. So much emotion and unease. So much gloom and doom. Just when we hoped things would get better, a character waved a gun, and we were abruptly led to a parlor for the last act. I wanted the play to end on a happy note without a murder. At least one of my wishes came true. There was no violence. But as the final lines were recited, we found that the characters had changed. Their lives would be harder and probably sadder, and yet somehow a gleam of hope prevailed. </div><div><br /></div><div>Upon reflecting on the play, I found that though the audience was a feature of each scene, we didn't participate. We were merely dropped into the middle of a Russian manor. But we did have a role—to observe the actors up close. And being part of the set, I got to know the wants, loves, goals, missteps, and misfortunes of each character. <div><p>What one gains in an immersive art or theatre production is personal. There really isn't a middle of the road feeling. You either like it or not. For me, the experiences will likely stay with me for a long time because I allowed myself to welcome something new, something original, something daring. By being surprised and not knowing anything in advance, I experienced the art and the drama more deeply. I became aware of the energy and creativity needed to pull off these shows, and I left feeling humbled by talent. </p><p> <span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p> </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p> </p><br /><br /></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-24185999018236226222022-08-01T08:11:00.001-04:002022-08-18T16:19:21.928-04:00<p></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkMhWXFVPWEHtjN9mH8GnoktYCgapK02qIuR6VHJfZxrqjBG1_aQ2ZRLr9_dszqi7LCbFyWr-eRJrdllZacAPnka8PrR38zsWTWjQYRpYMgid9VmkvYD6duofacvU-NNWDs_ETRwM3GFiJkRtf83lPVRs1p0H_yEMIVQBaKzW8CQ-qRq2JRpqtLLYWg/s452/April%202022%20duo%20nap%20(4).jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="loving two cats, losing a cat" border="0" data-original-height="452" data-original-width="451" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkMhWXFVPWEHtjN9mH8GnoktYCgapK02qIuR6VHJfZxrqjBG1_aQ2ZRLr9_dszqi7LCbFyWr-eRJrdllZacAPnka8PrR38zsWTWjQYRpYMgid9VmkvYD6duofacvU-NNWDs_ETRwM3GFiJkRtf83lPVRs1p0H_yEMIVQBaKzW8CQ-qRq2JRpqtLLYWg/w638-h640/April%202022%20duo%20nap%20(4).jpg" width="638" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It may not look like it, but they really do like each other.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">THE KING AND THE QUEEN RULE THE CASTLE</span></div><br />I never imagined I'd be taking care of two cats. <p></p><p>That wasn't the plan. Though I believed Ozzie, our adopted tabby, would want a brother or a sister, my husband Jim convinced me that Oz would never want to share his domain with another cat. We were a one-cat family and Ozzie was king of the castle. </p><p>And then Ozzie abandoned the castle. The basement door was accidently left open and just like that, he disappeared. </p><p>From the day he was adopted, Ozzie had always been an indoor cat. He didn't possess the skills to survive outside. I was devastated and heartbroken. I imagined the worse—it was November and the temperatures were plunging. How would he stay warm? How would he find food? How would he make his way back home? </p><p>After ten days, I was beginning to lose hope that he'd return. Nevertheless, my husband and I drove to the Humane Society hoping someone had found Ozzie and dropped him off. But Ozzie was not in the room for lost pets. </p><p>On the way home, we stopped by PetSmart. I wanted to see if a kitty would brighten my mood. And then I spotted a black and white five-month-old kitten named Abby. I couldn't resist. She had the same name as our daughter. We adopted her on the spot and changed her name to Lizzie (double z's in honor of Ozzie).</p><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3NHKZgsCSIoWtPOvEOBxrSvURelKfX77VVHoc2Kqo3a6kSBd_OZirXuO3a7jKWCBUVnJoJ20v7rbNvxgXugZBcIIML0VayV9tI8D9ozrQNmSV3wALBFqwKfRUMDaH8ol9cIPpihGfeUar1-tIacsNIQY40c_g3MgWfLsGd0BM8ghFciUpSvxj1fJuw/s468/Lizzie%20Jan%202022%202%20(2).jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="351" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw3NHKZgsCSIoWtPOvEOBxrSvURelKfX77VVHoc2Kqo3a6kSBd_OZirXuO3a7jKWCBUVnJoJ20v7rbNvxgXugZBcIIML0VayV9tI8D9ozrQNmSV3wALBFqwKfRUMDaH8ol9cIPpihGfeUar1-tIacsNIQY40c_g3MgWfLsGd0BM8ghFciUpSvxj1fJuw/s320/Lizzie%20Jan%202022%202%20(2).jpg" width="240" /></a></div>It was an impetuous move. I didn't know if I could love Lizzie as much as Ozzie. <p></p><p></p><p></p>Seven weeks later at the end of January, I got a call from a neighbor who saw a picture on Facebook of a cat she thought looked like Ozzie. When I took a look, I wasn't sure if it was our pet. The picture was fuzzy. Still, it was worth looking into. My husband located the address of the person who had posted the picture. To our amazement, the address was only a half a mile away. We dropped everything and raced to the townhouse. We were ushered to the basement and there was Ozzie, all skin and bones, too weak to meow, to limp to hold his head up. <p></p><p>When we brought him home, our plan was to take him to the vet to have him checked out, feed him so he could put on weight, let him rest, and keep his curious sister away. Which she obliged. She must have sensed he was in bad shape. </p><p>In two weeks, he gradually got stronger and Lizzie was over with being patient. She had to check out her new playmate. Which for Ozzie, was something he hadn't anticipated. He had overcome the ordeal of living outside in the freezing snow and ice, trying to forage to find food, and now he had to contend with an energetic kitten. Let me tell you he wasn't in the mood to be pounced on by Lizzie. This was new to him. He had never played before and having no claws, he had no way to defend himself.</p><p>Gradually, and upon Lizzie's insistence, he got the hang of rough-housing with her. As he put on more weight, he grew bigger than Liz and he could wrestle with her, pin her down and nip at her paws. From the sound of her squeals, you'd think she was in pain and she's had enough, but she always came back for more. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnL7-f9IzsLkiIqWytQSFpIwDUjTp4vIvB-BlIfOGHT4xZi9mWw6ohx-evnn8ic3nLpEBFJRMd-PZ0j9Kx8kXYUXUpWV11MwPAQQkCfU4SceL3kT2hiCyvbIQp0FF4X7GMnL6fw8pKTi430P91VkXcZzKK7raEvw352iRXh_qw6GAielXv2w23KuSJcg/s523/Ozzie%20Lizzie%20kiss.jpg" style="clear: right; display: inline; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="522" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnL7-f9IzsLkiIqWytQSFpIwDUjTp4vIvB-BlIfOGHT4xZi9mWw6ohx-evnn8ic3nLpEBFJRMd-PZ0j9Kx8kXYUXUpWV11MwPAQQkCfU4SceL3kT2hiCyvbIQp0FF4X7GMnL6fw8pKTi430P91VkXcZzKK7raEvw352iRXh_qw6GAielXv2w23KuSJcg/s320/Ozzie%20Lizzie%20kiss.jpg" width="319" /></a></p><p>On top of Lizzie's playfulness, Ozzie has to put up with her piggish eating habits. If I'm not present to guard Ozzie's food, she would gobble her kibbles and then shove him out of the way to eat from his bowl. Being a gentleman, he would simply sit and watch her chow down. </p><p>During the day, Lizzie climbs into my lap as I write and Ozzie hangs out behind my computer. At night, Lizzie gets more wound up and nips at my toes and calves. Ozzie snoozes or watches his wild sister. They may wrestle a bit, and Ozzie may even instigate it. And when they settle down, I give them both chin and belly rubs. I gaze at one and then the other, at one who survived the unimaginable and at one who had been called Abby. Who would have thought there'd be two cats in the Mrvos household? Life in the castle changed. The king lives peacefully (for the most part) with the queen. </p><p></p><p>Things come and go and come back. Things grow and grow and what's left is love, an abundance of love.</p><p> <span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p><br />Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-64806041094754099492022-07-01T17:04:00.000-04:002022-07-02T17:06:32.513-04:00<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigaqw4X1NMxJ-A7L_sWYZlmY6K2DSZ3IcsqcF4__bE1-abywT7rhrFN0M-oUC7SJfN8YzwuQz1-xWOETBQwehKmHwY7tkuyXwV7cMPysiFgWGvsIDxDqk4N6mR0T4Tz-6aIx0DFLJumRckE9b9-dKGSY6f2lifBrNM0pkOuX-PFixkgy_iNscqkh_YQ/s592/Thank%20you%203.JPG"><img alt="showing gratitude" border="0" data-original-height="531" data-original-width="592" height="574" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhigaqw4X1NMxJ-A7L_sWYZlmY6K2DSZ3IcsqcF4__bE1-abywT7rhrFN0M-oUC7SJfN8YzwuQz1-xWOETBQwehKmHwY7tkuyXwV7cMPysiFgWGvsIDxDqk4N6mR0T4Tz-6aIx0DFLJumRckE9b9-dKGSY6f2lifBrNM0pkOuX-PFixkgy_iNscqkh_YQ/w640-h574/Thank%20you%203.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;">WHAT UP WITH DAT?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I get pissed off when people can't say thank you. </span></p><p>For instance: Several years ago, my husband and I received a graduation announcement from the son of a couple we used to see on social occasions. We had lost touch with them. But twenty years later come one May, we received the announcement that their son was graduating. We sent a check and a card. But the graduate never bothered to send a thank you note.</p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">More recently, we received a graduation notice from the son of a couple we had known three decades ago. Three decades ago! We only stay in touch with Christmas cards and they live hundreds of miles away. WTF? Or as Kenan Thompson of SNL would say: What up with dat? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Maybe they sincerely thought we'd like to know about his achievement. But honestly, it felt more like they were asking for a gift. And i</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">f we were to send a check, what are the chances we'd receive a thank you note? I'm pretty sure the graduate would never acknowledge the gift. Now, I could be wrong. He may be a very nice kid who plans to tell friends and relatives he's grateful they thought about him at this momentous occasion. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">But my gut feeling (and cynicism and experience) tells me otherwise. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ingratitude happens on many occasions. Take weddings: My husband and I</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> drove nine hours to Washington, D.C. to celebrate a cousin's wedding. We sent them an expensive gift and never heard a peep from them. Take birthdays: We s</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">ent generous restaurant gift cards </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">to our nephews. Neither one of them wrote a thank you note.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">I'm not sure why ingratitude is so prevalent. Have parents forgotten to teach their kids to say thank you? Or do kids feel they don't need to say thank you?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">According <a href="https://www.theologyofwork.org/the-high-calling/daily-reflection/cost-ingratitude">Theology of Work,</a> "ingratitude wrongs the one who should have received thanks. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">But there is another penalty that is paid when we are ungrateful. We lose the opportunity to delight in the blessings of our lives. We deny ourselves the joy that comes to us when we give others the joy that comes from our thanks. Ingratitude deprives the one who should offer thanks of a deeper, richer, fuller experience of life's goodness. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, ingratitude hurts the one who should receive thanks and the one who should give it. Not surprisingly, therefore, it also fails to nourish the relationship between the two parties. Whereas, a word of thanks can build intimacy and trust; thanks neglected creates distance and guardedness."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">When I was young, my mom insisted that we write thank you notes for the gifts that we received. My husband and I taught our daughter to do the same thing. This may not be the practice these days. Attitudes have changed. And then again...</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">My husband thanks me for the meals I cook each night. Wr</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">iters thank me when I waive the editorial fee. Friends and grocery clerks thank me when I surprise them with flowers or a gift card. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, when I think of those who are less grateful, I remember others who are appreciative. They may say thank you by writing a short note, giving me a call, or sending an email. They get it. Showing gratitude is not hard. It's a beautiful gesture and it's the right thing to do. </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-58920312309226744992022-06-01T07:48:00.001-04:002022-06-18T08:36:41.710-04:00<p></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5BYX8VAFyQEGYPggOQxL3Zulb8YIF7t-imnLUQEyT2wxjR8L8Krtv1BbCjT-8KcIg9OFgdgpyTuqGlMjROk5QhTzn2SApcv057KcILU6BLpmCN0km41DG-20QOgnrzmrAnocgGWJ9bHh5wiT68t8CLQA_va058zMbcnFncSIuCAZ7oIOHefeIQGbUg/s1094/Musical%20notes%20Pixbay.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="spirituality, music, synchronicity" border="0" data-original-height="695" data-original-width="1094" height="406" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU5BYX8VAFyQEGYPggOQxL3Zulb8YIF7t-imnLUQEyT2wxjR8L8Krtv1BbCjT-8KcIg9OFgdgpyTuqGlMjROk5QhTzn2SApcv057KcILU6BLpmCN0km41DG-20QOgnrzmrAnocgGWJ9bHh5wiT68t8CLQA_va058zMbcnFncSIuCAZ7oIOHefeIQGbUg/w640-h406/Musical%20notes%20Pixbay.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> Photo: Fine Mayer from Pixabay </span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;"> <br /></span><div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">I'VE GOT THE MUSIC IN ME*</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Whenever I hear certain songs that play repeatedly or strike a chord with me, I believe spiritual synchronicities are at work </span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: color: #202124;">delivering a message, providing guidance, or giving reassurance that I'm on the right path. </span> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The best way for me to explain is through some examples.</span></div><div><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Before the pandemic, I used to listen to music as I worked out in the gym. I never made a playlist. I'd listen to whatever played on Spotify. Whenever I rode the bike or lifted weights, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dx3HA-F8iVE" rel="nofollow"><i>I'm Turning Japanese</i></a> by The Vapors would play ninety percent of the time. It was crazy. Mysterious. And predictable. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Back in 1980, it was the favorite song of a former boyfriend. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">So why did I hear this song—forty years after we dated—fifteen years after his death? Perhaps his spirit had always been trying to send me a message. Now this song easily reached me through Spotify. Hearing the song played repeatedly made me feel like it was his way of emphasizing how sorry he was about our messy breakup and for my heartache. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;">Another song caught my attention recently. My husband and I enjoy the show T</span>he Charismatic Voice. Producer and vocal coach Elizabeth Zharoff discussed the song <i style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dM7-Dimkt_0">Kashmir</a> </i><span style="font-family: inherit;">sung by Robert Plant. While watching, </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">we learned about the c<span><span style="color: #030303;">ompositional structure of the song, the boldness and carelessness of Plant's style, the timing of the vibrato, the decision to slide or stick a note, and the giving of generosity (of his voice) when he approached the microphone. </span></span></span></p><p><span><span style="background-color: color: #030303; font-family: inherit; space: pre-wrap;">A day after watching The Charismatic Voice, I went to physical therapy. As I warmed up, <i>Kashmir </i>played.<i> </i> This coincidence registered with me. But why did I hear this song again? Was there a message? I took a closer look at the lyrics and found that the song is not merely about a place, but about a journey. After having received a rejection on one of my beloved manuscripts, I found that the lyrics served to remind me that writing is a journey, so be patient and enjoy the steps along the way.</span></span></p><p><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">While on the subject of the writing...my husband and I attended an Elton John concert last month. When Elton sang </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">I'm Still Standing, </i><span style="color: black; font-family: inherit;">it resonated with me more than ever that night. Hearing him sing the song gave me chills. But why this song and why now? The power of the song reassured me that I am still standing, still persevering despite rejection. </span></p><p><span style="background-color: color: #030303; font-family: inherit;"><span>I haven't been back in the gym since the pandemic or go to concerts often, so listening to music regularly doesn't happen often. However, while grocery shopping, going to PT, or watching a television show, I may have the opportunity to hear a song that can be meaningful. And if I hear that song frequently or if it touches me to the core, I attempt to </span></span><span style="background-color: color: #030303; font-family: inherit;">find the <a href="https://www.amandalinettemeder.com/blog/signs-from-spirit-a-meaningful-song-on-the-radio" rel="nofollow">spiritual connection</a> to the music, to </span><span style="background-color: color: #030303; font-family: inherit;">be more in touch with my life journey, to </span><span style="background-color: color: #030303; font-family: inherit;">'g</span><span style="background-color: color: #030303; font-family: inherit;">et' the message. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: space: pre-wrap;"><span>Amanda Meder of the Spiritual Living Blog says, "Songs can elicit in all of us intense positive emotions and stir up wonderful memories, so they can be a great way to get a message across. Songs can also cause you to rethink things, too. </span></span><span style="background-color: space: pre-wrap;"><span>They can shift your outlook, mood, and entire day—which is why they are a very typical ‘sign’ that is sent. They activate the soul. </span></span><span style="background-color: space: pre-wrap;"><span>If you hear the song synchronistically, this is a sign that you are becoming more in touch with your life path, keep going." </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #030303;"><span style="background-color: color: #030303; color: black;">That's what I aim to do, to be aware of the synchronicities and the spiritual power that they hold. S</span></span><span style="background-color: color: #202124;">ynchronistic experiences give comfort, guidance, and faith. </span><span style="color: #030303;">And if I pay attention, I may understand the perfect timing and the deeper meaning of songs. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">À la prochaine! </span></p><p><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #030303; font-family: inherit;">* <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SsNl9zaWJdQ" rel="nofollow">The Kiki Dee Band </a> </span></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="background-color: #f9f9f9; color: #030303; font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-91462405812063933952022-05-01T10:14:00.001-04:002022-05-01T10:14:47.617-04:00<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: 0.5in;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span><h2><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;">GETTING IN THE MOOD TO WRITE </span></h2>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><div class="MsoNormal"><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I love coffee. There's nothing like a hot
cup of French Roast to put me in the mood to write. <br />
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This caffeine craze began when I was six years old. Every time my family
visited my grandparents, I'd beg Bubbie for a cup. My grandmother always
gave in. She spooned three teaspoons of Folgers coffee into my mug of
milk. It wasn't like I needed to feel like a grown-up. It was the
aroma and taste that I craved. That coffee-milk concoction was the best
thing ever. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I began regularly drinking coffee with cream and sugar after I graduated
college. Now days, I drink black coffee and my favorite flavors are French
Roast, as well as Guatemalan or Columbian coffee. Holding a steamy cup
warms my hands and fingers and the taste gives me a little caffeine buzz.
After a few sips, I'm ready to edit my manuscripts, do some marketing, and
respond to clients and critique partners. I'll sip coffee throughout the
day, less than 2 cups, which is a fairly harmless custom compared to the habits
of some famed American authors. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I did a little research. According to Tom
Dardis, author of </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">The Thirsty Muse,</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Ernest Hemingway, William
Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Eugene O’Neill got in the mood to write with
alcohol. Dardis reveals that these writers inherited their
alcoholism from their parents. Dardis states that the first three burned themselves out
before they reached their creative potential. I'm not sure I agree with him in regards to Hemingway. </span></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Judy Reeves, author of <i>A Writer’s Book
of Days</i>, observes that several famous authors had healthier “getting into
the writing mood” methods. She notes that Alexandre Dumas (the
elder) ate an apple early each morning. Charles Dickens took long
walks every day. Modern day novelist Stephen King has a glass of
water or tea, takes a vitamin pill and listens to music. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So, it seems common that many authors rely on
some stimulus to prepare themselves to write. A cup of java usually does
the trick for me. But on the rare occasion coffee doesn't get my creative
juices flowing, I put my writing for a little bit and: </span></p>
<ul type="disc">
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">study French <o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">answer emails<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">work on client's manuscripts and query letters
<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">take a walk and mull over ideas<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">read inspirational quotes on writing<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">go to Pinterest to get visual writing ideas<o:p></o:p></span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">read Facebook posts until I figure I've got better
things to do with my time <o:p></o:p></span></li>
</ul>
<p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgIR-5t7FF_NisrJbdV98erl8_F_PAz-tvxTiLiL9aLQXT8deY8N0QDLBHv7FgbG_fkTRG7j253dAwyX5ekaoXdh0cVlB9xBoYUbXaHlAW0uQLZvb_A0wpy1TC_Uw02XWXHNnuwGhkTkQ7faqx4ay7fP-ArO-pIvuXkGbILP4eQlMWc8Jt0CLuR855A/s1132/Putty%20by%20door.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="1132" height="299" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgIR-5t7FF_NisrJbdV98erl8_F_PAz-tvxTiLiL9aLQXT8deY8N0QDLBHv7FgbG_fkTRG7j253dAwyX5ekaoXdh0cVlB9xBoYUbXaHlAW0uQLZvb_A0wpy1TC_Uw02XWXHNnuwGhkTkQ7faqx4ay7fP-ArO-pIvuXkGbILP4eQlMWc8Jt0CLuR855A/s320/Putty%20by%20door.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Putty Cat</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: inherit;">Taking a break works wonders. I am
refreshed and ready to write. <br /></span><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">While the water boils for a fresh cup of coffee, I take care of the cats;
otherwise, two of them will be hopping on the keyboard. First, I feed our
kitten Lizzie (to distract her from Ozzie's bowl because she's a bit of a food
hog), and then Ozzie, and lastly, Putt-Putt (our lovable stray) because he's
staring at me through the screen door,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">and then feed Ozzie and Lizzie again because they see Putty is eating, so
naturally, they want more food.<br />
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Whew! After making sure all three of them are well-fed, I pour myself a
cup of steaming hot coffee. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 12pt; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I turn on the computer and I'm relaxed, open
to the flow of ideas, and in the mood to write.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><br /></span></span></div></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 100%;"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 100%;">
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<span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: normal;">À la prochaine! </span></h2><div><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 28pt; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-41063231432479032782022-04-01T07:47:00.001-04:002022-04-01T07:47:11.747-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /><span style="font-size: medium;">MIGRAINE MISERY </span><div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><div>I've suffered from migraines for decades. <br />
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One of the worst things about these debilitating headaches is losing time to write. With a migraine, the precious day fades away without the opportunity to pen a single word. It's impossible to be creative with a pounding headache. </div><div><br /></div><div>A migraine feels like the tip of a knife stabbing the temple of my head. With this amount of pain, it's difficult to think clearly or to make good judgments. Once while driving with a migraine, I bypassed a familiar street I needed to travel on to get home. The ability to think straight had been lost and I drove past my turn.</div><div><br /></div><div>At times, a migraine can produce flashing lights or zigzag patterns. It can also bring on the chills and nausea, and it may affect the bladder and bowels.<br />
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Like most migraine sufferers, I have triggers that set off the pounding headache. Of the fifteen common triggers listed below, the first eleven can give me a migraine.<br />
<br />
Loud noise<br />
Bright lights<br />
Air travel<br />
Stress<br />
Alcohol<br />
Foods with additives like soy* <br />
Changes in barometric pressure <br />
Female hormones<br />
Certain medicines<br />
Certain fragrances<br />
Certain baking odors<br />
Hunger<br />
Dehydration<br />
Caffeine<br />
Change in sleep patterns<br />
<br />Though I know what can set off a migraine, sometimes it's difficult to control or to avoid these triggers. So, for years I explored methods to give me some relief. I tried a bioidentical hormone cream, acupuncture, essential oils, and cannabis, but none of these treatments worked. <br /><br /></div><div>Finally, I saw a neurologist. He too, suffered from migraines. So, here was someone who understood these debilitating headaches. He prescribed the vasoconstrictor Imitrex. And voilà. Imitrex stops a migraine in its tracks. I reach for this wonder med at the first sign of a migraine attack, which in my case can be any of the following: a tightening across my forehead, sinus pressure, feeling foggy brained, seeing light flashes, or having blurry vision. </div><div> </div><div>
It's a godsend to have a reliable medicine. Without Imitrex, I'd be curled up in bed for up to six hours trying not to throw up and missing out on composing blogs, editing my stories, fine-tuning queries, advising clients, and doing social media marketing. A migraine can make me feel miserable and can ruin a major portion of my day. <br />
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Migraines will probably affect me for the rest of my life. That's a fact, not a complaint. I accept this. Luckily, when I feel one coming on, there's a medicine that brings relief in about fifteen minutes. As long as I can get ahead of a migraine before it manifests, I'm good to go. Pain-free, I can tackle my writing tasks. And without a migraine, I can make the most of a precious day. <br />
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<span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">Carpe diem! </span><br />
<br />*Soy lecithin is added to many foods such as ice cream, soups, breads, and chocolate. If you get headaches after having a meal, read the packaging labels. Find out if soy lecithin is one of the ingredients.<br />
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<br /></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3017506907456834468.post-53369291724371275532022-03-01T18:51:00.001-05:002022-03-11T08:13:02.461-05:00<p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2M81nFUTvaq5xYNs-vEIjBS8prK7eqy8kAgkS37UQBjBdf_adE7TUedox84M4Z0p2JoRGntSVUoMMZUD9tZk1th073RBaoAhfbWQwyekfu-uunULeAFGiFPLdlCH9zWzhKk5tNZKIg-zxb6iPps1k4BT7jzhaG2krSG3ALKfFV3UfVAHVMu65bvb4aA=s1211" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1211" data-original-width="1210" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg2M81nFUTvaq5xYNs-vEIjBS8prK7eqy8kAgkS37UQBjBdf_adE7TUedox84M4Z0p2JoRGntSVUoMMZUD9tZk1th073RBaoAhfbWQwyekfu-uunULeAFGiFPLdlCH9zWzhKk5tNZKIg-zxb6iPps1k4BT7jzhaG2krSG3ALKfFV3UfVAHVMu65bvb4aA=w640-h640" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">ODE TO OZZIE</span></div><br /><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had given up hope that my cat would return. </span><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ozzie escaped on a frosty November night. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">A</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> week later, I wrote this poem to come to terms with his death. </span><div><div><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div><br /></div><div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">ODE TO OZZIE</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That's the way it's meant to be</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">you and me</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">and the silver moon</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">and open doors with scents galore</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">unexplored</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">'til now.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">That's the way it's meant to be.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">You left me for wooded fields</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">and starry nights of winter chill</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">to roam the verdant virgin hills.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bed you down safe and sound</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">gather round angels</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">to bring you home </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">and keep you </span><span style="font-family: arial;">bound in peace. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">No longer by my side, </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">you padded off with Nature's guide </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">to wooded fields </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">and verdant hills, </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;">for that's the way it's meant to be. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">Epilogue:</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Near the end of January, a couple </span><span>found a stray hiding in the bushes by their home. He was crying. He was starving. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">They took him in, fed him, and then posted his picture on Next Door. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>A neighbor called me to say she had seen a post of a cat that might be Ozzie. </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>With a little detective work, my husband and I were able to find the people who rescued the stray. Down in their basement was skinny cat that could barely meow, that could barely lift his head. He had two different colored eyes. They had saved Ozzie. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span>Ozzie had travelled to the outskirts of our neighborhood. He b</span><span>raved snow and predators and single digit temperatures. </span><span>He had been missing for two months. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">With the guidance of angels and the kindness of strangers, we have been reunited.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: #ff6600; font-family: "freestyle script"; font-size: 37.3333px;">Je suis reconnaissant (I am grateful)</span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #ffa400;"><br /></span></span><br /><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiom0u0-lpZRQ4BFASAUgq98sourbUhnyqu7opSxHj7L5TCdKxKa1RegTnZQFBRdKrO9J3EgN-uItbDImmoCv3GqMyywokGenaRNFWi03tk0Fj6aTEQ--ryxF9JaQA9Skn5Rq4-x7C958AzsDK9VEpZprxynQc2pKt-Q14OQQA0MjC2u8BXfjjp-_rigg=s640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiom0u0-lpZRQ4BFASAUgq98sourbUhnyqu7opSxHj7L5TCdKxKa1RegTnZQFBRdKrO9J3EgN-uItbDImmoCv3GqMyywokGenaRNFWi03tk0Fj6aTEQ--ryxF9JaQA9Skn5Rq4-x7C958AzsDK9VEpZprxynQc2pKt-Q14OQQA0MjC2u8BXfjjp-_rigg=w480-h640" width="480" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exhausted, but happy to be home.</td></tr></tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: right;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div></div><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p></div></div></div>Randihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16383929731044130086noreply@blogger.com0