tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89299187692463888032024-02-19T02:15:12.923-05:00barbli out loudThe not so complex writings of a mom, sister, daughter, friend and resident of a small town New Englander.barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-41031950751043508662013-09-12T19:44:00.000-04:002013-09-12T20:08:52.338-04:00Second part-time around<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Much has transpired since my last blog entry about our
family’s addiction turmoil. As I strongly suspected she might, my daughter has
all but disowned me and her siblings. She moved out when I refused to delete
the entry and our periodic contact has been hostile and alcohol fueled – on her
end. On my end, I have refused to respond in kind and have tried to enjoy a
relative calm that we have not had in the house for a few years now.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The biggest change around here though, has been my procuring
a part time job at our local supermarket. It’s an easy job in a pleasant place –
which I frequent many times each week anyway. Granted, I am surrounded by much
younger co-workers but they are respectful and there is a sprinkling of my similarly
aged employees and some even older. I enjoy being able to clock out and leave
the job there. That hasn’t been the case in most of my adult employment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The kids are adapting to my not being here constantly and I
think they even kind of like it. I find myself redirecting some responsibilities
to them and note the pride they take in reciting the “done” list when I come
home. I think my youngest is actually getting his homework done in a more
timely fashion since I am not here to “bug” him to get going on it. Okay – that
might have more to do with his ipod dying recently and with a new one not on
the horizon until the holidays, he figures he may as well do something – even if it
is homework.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Here is what is weird-ing me out. Many of my friends, acquaintances, etc… seem a
bit odd when they seem me ringing on a register or bagging groceries. I have
been trying to decipher their faces and I may be wrong but I think what I am
seeing something akin to embarrassment for me. This was not at all anticipated
as they have not known me to work in any professional capacity since my arrival
here in town and many of them knew I was seeking employment. In fact, most of
the people I know in town, I know from doing volunteer work in the schools and
community theater. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So let me set the record straight for you my friends. I am
happy to have a local job that allows me to be close at hand for my kids. (My
commute time is about 4.5 minutes – not the 600 plus miles I used to log each
week!) I am happy for the income to augment my other endeavors. And last but
not least - according to my older son, a trip to the store with me was like a “social
hour” - I am happy to see all of you when you come in. So come in, see me and
be normal. It’s all good…unless I have misinterpreted your faces…and you are
really worried about it NOT being some nameless cashier/bagger who is examining
each and every item you have chosen……. Just kidding.</span></div>
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barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-62812456515215388922013-07-31T23:29:00.001-04:002014-05-21T16:06:32.744-04:00Family addiction<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the past few years, I have refrained from writing about
my older daughter’s addiction to opiates. That is partially because it has
taken most of my facilities to deal with the varying stages of “recovery” but
mostly because I believed, for most of this time, that is was her story to
tell; not mine. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So what has changed you ask? This morning I did what any
self-respecting adult would do. I had thrashing hissy fit in the bathroom –
complete with smashing and throwing – in response to some disrespectful,
uppity, self-satisfying comments she made to me on her way out the door. All
that my fit managed to do was scare my younger kids and show that, after two
years of seemingly much worse circumstances, I was at my post traumatic
breaking point. I smashed up the bathroom so I wouldn't smash her. Her
response? She snidely told her little sister to call someone to deal with “her”
because she didn't “have the time for this” – or something to that effect –
then she flounced out the door – sanctimoniously accrediting my behavior to
menopause. I am not proud – but this was most certainly not hormone induced. It
was born of pure anger and frustration. I own it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So let’s start at the beginning. By the beginning I mean –
from the time she first told me of her heroin addiction. I now know, fr</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">om that
exact point, it was not just her story – it was mine too. I will admit that
parts of this story may not be chronologically accurate as much of it is a blur
and other parts my mind has chosen to scramble. So be it. The active and
emotional content is authentic.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As Cossette in Les Mis</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To say that I thought I knew my daughter so well that this
was all a huge surprise - would be a lie. When she came to me in July of 2011
and told me that she couldn't stay for her little sister’s 13</span><sup style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">th</sup><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
birthday party because she was trying to kick a two year long heroin habit was
a shock but not something I berated myself for not “seeing”. My daughter had
been raised by her father since she was five years old. (That was the result of
a two year long custody battle and is a long story for another time.) Her father
and I sent her off to college with all of the normal expectations. Well, maybe
more than normal expectations as she was such a smart, vivacious, talented and
happy girl. She always acted in school and community plays, was a National
Honor Society inductee, popular and active with her good group of friends, took
voice lessons and performed beautifully in recitals and loved spending time
with her little sister and brother. Some would say she was a bit of a drama
queen and relished the limelight and they would be right. Her father used to
claim – to anyone that would listen – that this was the kid who could be tossed
out onto the streets and successfully make a life for herself. Basically, she
had the brains, looks, personality and confidence to accomplish almost
anything. She had also recently met the guy who would become her first serious
boyfriend.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;">Her first semester of college passed with lots</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-align: center;"> of
communication and photos. She had fun dorm mates and her grades were on par
with her high school grades. She pined for the boyfriend after Thanksgiving
break but that was solved when he transferred to her Vermont school. In
hindsight, this is when I should have seen the red flags but those flags can be
confused with normal signs of growing independence. After a year of college,
kids should detach from their parents a bit and their patience for hanging out
with younger siblings is bound to wane…right? Every waking minute was spent
with the boyfriend or making plans to be with the boyfriend. Again – not so unusual.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The second year of college passed and I did begin to notice
small things like a certain lack of hygiene and some weight loss. Again, being
a college student in Vermont requires a certain unkempt look and devout
vegetarians will often lose some weight when they rely on available college
cuisine and/or don’t cook. I registered these things as choices rather that
symptoms.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The third year of college came down with a crash. The
communication with my daughter was sporadic and the photos of her on Facebook
were beginning to disturb me. Her demeanor was manic at times yet lethargic at
others. In my defense, not many parents would see this in their 19-20 year old
and think “heroin”. So I didn't. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That summer, between her junior and senior year, she told me
about her drug use and addiction. Actually, both she and her boyfriend were
addicted. They were trying to stop and the side effects were horrendous. That’s
why she felt that she couldn't stay home and participate in her sister’s
birthday party. They were trying to get clean before an upcoming WWOOFING trip
to Hawaii. (Worldwide Opportunities on Organic Farms) Basically, they were
going to Hawaii to work at a bed and breakfast to get out of their college town
and away from the drug culture they had become ensconced in.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They went off to Hawaii and I went off into a world of
information gathering about things that I never thought I would have to know.
Even armed with the knowledge of “typical” withdrawal and “other” people’s
stories, I was not prepared for what was to come and how watching it happen to
my own beautiful child would affect me – and all of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">They went to Hawaii armed with some amount of Suboxone; a
drug used for the treatment of opioid dependence. They returned and, I later learned, used
again as soon as they landed. My daughter started her senior year still
addicted to opiates – in any form she could get them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am not sure what to say about her father’s part in this.
He had moved to upstate NY and had recently remarried, in secret, the day our
daughter left for Hawaii. I know that he was as sad and as terrified as I was
and was also willing to throw any amount of money into her recovery as needed.
So while he fully financed sessions at a yoga recovery center, an energy healer
and eventually a drug rehab center attempt, he was more focused on his new wife
and her need to be the center of his attention. It was very clear that the
emotional and physical load was all on me. You don’t know it when you are
carrying it but it is kinda heavy.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Shortly after the beginning of her senior year, my daughter
was convinced to allow me communicate with the physician’s assistant,
associated with the university, that was her primary caregiver. Most of our
conversations centered on various medications that would ease her withdrawal
symptoms but her continuing drug use made those moot. I finally received a call
from a councilor at the university who stated, point blank, that my daughter
needed in-patient treatment and needed to leave school – immediately. He had
found a bed for her at a Vermont facility but that a bed wouldn’t be available
for at least a week – but that she needed to leave school now or, based on her
usage and mental status, we risked death by overdose.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The weeks that followed should have been the worst. I thought
they were at the time. The trip to retrieve her from Vermont was filled with so
many emotions. My gut reaction was to take care of her. That’s what most mothers
default to. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Nothing I read could have prepared me for what was to come.
I wasn't prepared for my daughter to beg me to stop so she could score just a
little bit and then scream at me when I refused. I learned how to park in unnoticeable</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> spots so that she could smoke weed to help alleviate withdrawal pain. I
learned that the passenger air bag compartment on a Toyota Corolla won’t
explode no matter how hard it is kicked in frustration. I learned that I could,
at the same time, both love and hate a child of mine.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Having someone in the home that is withdrawing from heroin
while awaiting a rehab bed will change you and everyone else who witnesses it.
My younger kids were mostly relegated to their bedrooms or friend’s houses if
possible. Their sister’s erratic behavior was terrifying. She would sit
starring at the television for long spells than suddenly throw herself to the
ground screaming, crying and moaning. In the past, the kids would have fallen
over each other to hug and comfort her but they were now afraid of her. They,
at least, held on to the hope that once she went to the hospital, she would be
“better” and be “back” to being her. They believed that because I told them
that.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I am trying to think of a way to describe her at this point
and the best I can come up with is – she was a shell of who she had been
before. She was still her. I know this because I could not let her out of my
sight except for brief naps when she slept. Her older brother helped by
following her when the intense restlessness would take control and she needed
to walk and I couldn't go with her. Her moods would swing wildly as the week
went on. One minute she would be cheerful and hungry – so I would make her
food. The next minute she would be frantically texting to find Suboxone, weed
or alcohol and the food would be forgotten. The keeping track of the
over-the-counter and prescription drugs - Clonidine, Trazodone , Zoloft,
Imodium, Tums, Ibuprofen … made me feel like a pharmacist at times. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We got through the waiting and sprinted to the Vermont rehab
center when the call came. It was with such hope that I drove away from that
facility. Granted, they were a cold bunch and the reception was not so warm and
fuzzy but they were professionals right? Here’s another thing I learned:
Atheists don’t do well in 12 step based rehab programs. After leaving the medical unit of the rehab
center, she lasted less than one week before she was calling both her father
and me, begging to be taken out. When we gently refused, she walked away from
the facility. She was found lying in a street later that night and was taken to
the hospital via ambulance. She left there the next day a returned to her
boyfriend and their apartment. Both tried to resume their studies and plan for
the upcoming holidays. Both claimed to be clean.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanksgiving came and the kids and I cooked a turkey and
planned a mostly vegetarian meal that my daughter was due home to share with us
after a visit with her boyfriend’s family in New Hampshire. My older son was
visiting his father and relatives in Virginia. That afternoon brought a phone
call from the boyfriend’s mother. She felt the need to bring my daughter to the
ER due to near constant vomiting through the night. We waited. The ER doctors
determined that my daughter had attempted to abruptly quit opiates (heroin) and
suffered what is called rapid detox syndrome. Had she not been brought to the hospital,
she most likely would have died. She returned to us a few days later, leaving
Vermont and school for good.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This is when the story should turn to one of perseverance
with some ups and downs but with a realistically modified happy ending. I wish.
Much of this time was spent with her telling me more about the height of her
drug life in Vermont. That she now needs to dress to hide her track marks
should have made many of these stories not so shocking to me – but they still were.
Some of the situations she willingly entered into and people she counted as
friends could have been straight out of a Law & Order episode. Maybe that
was how I had to think of it to handle it. Now I wonder how it was that she
survived at all.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Granted, to the best of my knowledge, the heroin is gone
from her life but it has been replaced alcohol abuse and a near nightly weed
haze. At her father’s suggestion, we “tapered down” her alcohol consumption by
me allowing her only one beer per hour. That worked – until she left the house
– which became the norm. One late night brought a call from a local hospital.
My daughter had been found in her parked car in a nearby town by an AAA driver
coming to repair her flat tire. The driver called police who called an
ambulance as she was unresponsive. Police had to break a window to get her out.
She became responsive, jumped from the back of the ambulance at one point and
was nearly tazed before they could catch her. This was all told to me by the
hospital nurse as my daughter was still too drunk to be allowed to leave on her
own. I drove to collect her from the hospital late at night only to have her
bolt from my car as soon as we got home. A call from our town police informed
me that they had found her passed out at the local McDonald’s and could either
bring her home or take her back to the hospital - my choice. They brought her
home. It took us a day or so to figure out where the car was. She was angry at
the world that night - but mostly me. She wasn't charged with anything as she wasn't actually driving.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Reality tried to set in over the next few days. When she
heard about the happenings of that night, she decided to try rehab again – this
time for alcohol. We did some research and made some phone calls. We even
packed for and went to her chosen center only to leave when she realized that
her father would never agree to pay the $3000 co-pay for a 30 day stay. She
didn’t attempt to call him based on his assertion that he would not pay for any
more “hocus pocus” counseling after the last rehab stint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">She
found a series of part-time jobs that would bolster her sense of self for brief
periods but they ultimately meant one thing – more money to drink. She has been
fired from most of them. Before moving to Minnesota for a job, her dad came
back during one of her “up” phases and bought her a car. “It will give her
something to take pride in, take care of….” (Yes – please. Question the wisdom
of spending $10k+ on a car but not $3k on wanted rehab. I certainly did.) He
has not seen her since. It took less than a month before I got a 2 a.m.
hospital call from her. She was very drunk. The nurse on the phone said that
she crossed lanes and crashed the car into some mailboxes while returning from
a pool hall in a nearby town. Police found her unresponsive so an ambulance was
called. The nurse said that if I was going to come get her, I should bring
clothes as hers had been cut off her in the ambulance. No one told me what
hospital so I went to the closest one only to discover that she was at a
different one forty minutes away. It was now 4 a.m. I got home in time to get
the kids to school. She took a cab home the </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">next
morning. It took us a few more days to find her car. She had earned a D.U.I and a 6
month license suspension this time.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So today, right now, she has a new part time job and a new
boyfriend. That means she is on top of the world and everyone one else is
stupid, wrong, jealous or just plain beneath her. So it begins…again. Are the
days of waiting up for a drunken daughter to be dumped off at the house and
then gather her passed out self from in front of the garage and get her at
least to the sofa so she doesn't get rained on or burn down the house with a
forgotten lit cigarette over? I can only hope. She just texted her sister
saying that she was at a friend’s house and would be back tomorrow. (Um –
suspended license – remember?) She said that she just needed a break from Mom. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It makes me wonder what might have happened
if I had said that at any time over the past few years?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This probably could have been a two part entry but the urge
to get it all out was intense. I am not such a martyr that I can’t be very
angry with her behavior. (She is certainly going to be pissed at me when/if she reads this!) At this point it feels never ending. I am worried that
while dealing with my daughter’s addiction, I have not been the mother that my
younger kids deserved. Depression and despair have too often taken control. Most
days I can’t even remember who I used to be – before all of this. There have
been many casualties in this story. I mourn for my daughter’s possible future
as I once saw it. I miss the faith that I once had in her ability to make wise
choices. I worry that she will never again believe in herself. I am sad that
she has lost the respect and affection of her younger siblings. It’s sadder
still that she doesn't quite realize that yet. I hope she gets it back some
day. Mostly I hope that she discovers why she feels the need to punish herself –
and stops.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpHOSPdxXbjm_QW4TtZsqE7hjTeRa3IiQfQV8a8PKjV6alfN9pFNQfdt6eCM8ZHOMaOrSe7z4vPVwE3oSKo_2QiqahiRs0QhZt8uQ1eWaV7eQAFI_v0he3nd8g3KAkS8MK8IprZS9qhr8/s1600/198213_1002797865246_1942_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGpHOSPdxXbjm_QW4TtZsqE7hjTeRa3IiQfQV8a8PKjV6alfN9pFNQfdt6eCM8ZHOMaOrSe7z4vPVwE3oSKo_2QiqahiRs0QhZt8uQ1eWaV7eQAFI_v0he3nd8g3KAkS8MK8IprZS9qhr8/s320/198213_1002797865246_1942_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To my fellow parents - feel no pity please. This has happened to many other parents of many other kids. Lots have much worse outcomes than this. Horrifying outcomes. Just know this - getting them into college doesn't mean that
they are launched. I remember sitting in a college orientation lecture for
parents and the speaker warned us of the perils of being a “helicopter” parent.
Screw that. With my younger kids – I will hover as much as I want.</span></div>
barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-59913283409167389452013-05-21T12:19:00.000-04:002013-05-21T14:16:31.333-04:00How much does "great" cost?<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We live in a great country. We have freedoms that can’t be
fully appreciated until you fully understand the lives of those that don’t have
the same liberties. Most of us, especially the young, don’t understand. Even
our lowest income families live comfortably when compared to what is the norm
for many third world countries. Why do we continually fail to understand that
there is a cost to this greatness?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Again, for what seems too many times over the past few
years, I find myself watching news coverage of yet another heart rending
disaster. Moore, Oklahoma has been hit by a massive tornado and the destruction
and loss of life is staggering. I tear up as I hear about a teacher who covered
of six of her students with her own body. Later in the broadcast, I stare at
her in awe was she is interviewed. She
is not camera savvy and she keeps pivoting away. I mentally tell her to face
the camera so I can see her beautiful face. As she scans the front of the Moore
City Hall with her back to the camera, she explains that she was hoping to see
some of “her kids”. If your kid was one
that she squished beneath her, how much would that be worth to you? Would you
give up a Disney vacation to cover the cost of having that caliber of teacher?</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGheoToQo576jJX2aQhlPt5bxVfATiTAjMV2XNJQT1Vs6ieLJgoqpT_hnsj8UMM1o1qCu3KhOhsCstx9Ji8_z_Td8vRQHtLXDODAIVKqMF-SWj1R9yGSU4Eah-Fz9eatVe_DIrJ2gb260/s1600/Gene+Blevins+Reuters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUGheoToQo576jJX2aQhlPt5bxVfATiTAjMV2XNJQT1Vs6ieLJgoqpT_hnsj8UMM1o1qCu3KhOhsCstx9Ji8_z_Td8vRQHtLXDODAIVKqMF-SWj1R9yGSU4Eah-Fz9eatVe_DIrJ2gb260/s320/Gene+Blevins+Reuters.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gene Blevins - Reuters</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">First responders and rescue workers are evident in every
shot, from every angle. Their faces are impassive yet intent. They exude
competence despite what they are surrounded by. But wait – if they are there,
so quickly on the scene, does that not mean that they too live nearby? </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Do they know if their families are safe? Do
they too, no longer have homes? The coverage cuts to local news and a story
about local town announces that it will have no choice but to significantly cut
the budgets of the police and fire departments.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Really?</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I can’t recall the name
of the town but I can bet there are at least one or two multi-million dollar
homes. It’s Connecticut.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I understand budgets and the need for them. I can
prioritize, re-allocate and conserve really well. It may be a happy accident
that I can demonstrate daily, that if my kids want to do or buy something, they
will have to sacrifice something else. It’s a pretty simple concept at its
core. Nationally, it gets a little trickier but isn’t it the same premise?
Granted, I do have a “don’t feed the neighborhood” policy but that is mostly to
thwart a gang of adolescent boys from mindlessly eating their way through whatever
is at eye level. (It happens.) This policy is more about waste than conservation. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our wealthiest citizens live in a country that has
facilitated the garnering of that wealth. They had the freedom to do that. How
can they, many a staunch conservative among them, look at what has befallen a
modest suburb and then look away to attend to their own fiscal needs? If the excessive liberties of the wealthy few
continue to reign supreme, maybe we are not, as a whole, as great as we think
we are.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So yes – let’s do something for the people of Moore,
Oklahoma. Don’t post pictures of a pile of teddy bears being sent to kids who
don’t have roofs over their heads. Don’t rally us to send school supplies to
schools that don’t exist anymore. Don’t ask me to knit mittens. Why do I need
to “like” a Facebook page in order for that company to send a contribution? Let’s
give them what they need. At this point it will probably be cold hard cash (via
relief organizations set up to handle just this sort of need) to obtain fresh
water and food, to replace destroyed clothing, to buy flippin’ toothbrushes…to
help them rebuild.That will force most of us to forfeit something personally. Do
it. I am all for “sweat equity” but do this if you can and do it quietly,
without accolades. Make only your kids aware what you do and make them part of
it. Use it to teach them about civic awareness, how to vote their conscience
later in life and to be thankful that we have the liberties to do so. Let it be
the best freedom we have. </span></div>
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<br />barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-54495931771270819902013-05-17T12:30:00.000-04:002013-05-17T12:30:22.384-04:00Look it up<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">More than just happy adults, I want my kids to be realists.
This will serve them so much better in life. I don’t think they should go
through life anticipating only worst case scenarios but there is something to
be said for fully exploring what COULD happen. That knowledge might better
allow them to take steps to avoid it or, at the very least, accept it without
paralyzing shock – and move on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Recently I have watched my biggers struggle with the
negative fallout from some of their own life choices. Clearly, we make choices
based on our own experiences but failing that, we make them based on what we
have been taught. I fully believe that it falls on the parent to “teach” so for
that reason, I must take some responsibility. I can always blame their other
parent…and I do…frequently and while that satisfies me greatly at times, it
does nothing for them so I move on and try to re-teach them from an adult point
of view. This re-teaching is often the equivalent of the “look it up” response
used by parents who don’t know an answer to a question. (C’mon. Admit it.) When
I say “look it up” to my biggers it means “I don’t know. I have not experienced
this before. You will need to research it, maybe make some calls, do some
reading. It’s what I would have to do but I’m not going to do it for you. Trust
me. I’m doing you a favor.” Then I walk
away and act like I am all involved in doing my own thing while my insides
tumble and I watch to see if anything takes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">These days, it seldom enters my mind to try to “fix” things
for the littles. Though I do have the benefit of hindsight from my biggers,
balancing this without shirking the core responsibility of what parents should
do, is the hard part. When I do choose to “fix”, I generally back it up with an
explanation, (not a defense), of why. These explanations run the gambit from
safety issues to logistical solutions to this was “my bad” so I should correct
things. I have never formally punished or grounded them. From my own childhood,
I can remember only focusing on the punishment and not on the behavior that created
it. Also, at around age eight, my youngest pointed out that if I was so tired
of his behavior why would I want to keep him “in the house… around you… for a
whole week?” Good point.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZncrPspjC7v9EuCLsObRxlu3VkLDN-J55E5p3gB_-O_rnEpvZDK8Mbkh3Mr4Ou57dmtq0Dkmg28rGhTp8_StuRVRin0vc5Bcr4mmSmgZW5K4cuslXOSHk-ox3U2lPaziS4OqKZ3H0mYo/s1600/2973_521424967921803_961334335_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZncrPspjC7v9EuCLsObRxlu3VkLDN-J55E5p3gB_-O_rnEpvZDK8Mbkh3Mr4Ou57dmtq0Dkmg28rGhTp8_StuRVRin0vc5Bcr4mmSmgZW5K4cuslXOSHk-ox3U2lPaziS4OqKZ3H0mYo/s320/2973_521424967921803_961334335_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Oddly, my youngest seems to have a better handle on reality
than his siblings. I could say that is because he has a brilliant mind and is
capable of comprehending concepts beyond his years but it most likely has more
to do with being on forth in a series of four. He didn’t get the hyper-vigilant
parenting that the biggers did. I have
actually said things to him like, “This is gonna suck for you.”, when he does
something irresponsible or just plain stupid. I am choosing to believe that
maternal responses like that have nudged him toward handling things on his own
when he can. Sometimes his handling skills are questionable and that becomes
our jump off parenting point. One time, while defending a friend on the bus, he
was told to sit in the “front seat of shame”. Telling his perpetually mean
spirited bus driver that she was being unfair and miserable because she hated
her own life probably hit too close to home. Righteously repeating it for the
assistant principal was a clear expression of his conviction. My reaction? I
listened to his side, congratulated him on being a good friend, talked about
how he should consider expressing his opinion is a less disrespectful way
because really - adults hate that - and ended with yes, I should be able to
pick him up from detention. My point is - he didn’t run home to ask me to do
something about it. Were it not for the call from the assistant principal as
per school policy, he was fully prepared to take his punishment without my ever
having known about it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Instead of “fixing”, I have begun to rely on something I
like to call conversational reality checks. The key is to keep all parental
advice in the context of an actual conversation, preferably one that they have
initiated. This can be tricky. Segueing into the dangers of freshman hanging out
with seniors while interpreting an episode of Grimm requires skill. Trying to parallel the potential gang
mentality of my youngest son’s group of buddies, (locally known as the “lost
boys”), with religious and political intolerance can be exhausting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Some of my conversational reality check technique is rubbing
off on the biggers. My older daughter answered the door one evening and was met
by a group of sad “lost boys”. When she asked what was wrong, they told her
that one of their dogs had been run over – horrifically - by their own mother -
in front of them. They wanted to share this with my son who was not home. My
daughter did what she felt best. She hugged them and then told them, “I’m so
sorry. Don’t worry. Things get much worse as you get older.” That’s my girl.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Sometimes late at night, I go outside and feel the presence
of my dad. I look up and ask him “How do I do this? What parts are the most
important?” I imagine him answering me from the stars in his Mufasa-like voice
- “Look it up.”</span></div>
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<br />
barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-32471228286792837832013-03-11T12:04:00.000-04:002013-03-11T12:04:21.391-04:00Time to paint again<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXvmXLOSKt45e8GmoSobPDTQADeiaijsRvJZVmbOXsBjdGcU2ZZAXyjNd0hh2m_V_6R9mWnuJcpJGtr0Y9KUnhnJEK84KyBig2ihCUmyfXZDi1GsKjCebtuh91MnwAHrcgCQrbEmQ9rjt/s1600/Lady+Tessie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXvmXLOSKt45e8GmoSobPDTQADeiaijsRvJZVmbOXsBjdGcU2ZZAXyjNd0hh2m_V_6R9mWnuJcpJGtr0Y9KUnhnJEK84KyBig2ihCUmyfXZDi1GsKjCebtuh91MnwAHrcgCQrbEmQ9rjt/s640/Lady+Tessie.JPG" width="449" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.800000190734863px; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Queen Tessie Ailish Laraia, "The Evil"</span></td></tr>
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<br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I need to admit that I have a weird fascination with dogs in clothes. Not real dogs dressed up - they hate that - but just depictions of them in outfits that may or may not represent their personalities. I recently completed this painting as a gift for some great friends. For the record - they titled it themselves. Enjoy.</span>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-17806504552207858712013-01-30T17:09:00.000-05:002013-01-30T17:09:13.066-05:00There is no "I" in Theater<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I would like to be able to open this post by saying
something like, “It’s play season again!”, but alas - it’s almost always play
season in our house. For the most part, being involved in theater is a
well-rounded activity for most kids. I still expect good grades - better than
good actually if they want a shot in hell of getting into a decent college with
some good scholarship chances. Actually, the status of their grades is a factor
in whether or not they will be allowed to audition for a play. That’s how
serious we are about it. Being able to participate in a play is a privilege.
It’s also a commitment that comes with sacrifices at times. It’s work. There
are good lessons for kids to learn.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">Though my kids choose to be involved most of the year,
early spring is an especially active time for local theater – both within the
schools and with the community groups. Audition dates are penciled in and
choices are ranked based on musical vs. non-musical, what group is producing,
scheduling conflicts and the all-important – which friends are doing which
shows – duh. <span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOiTLJX2RihqiyhyphenhyphenwhY1CcUign0nibRrKUEY48W6VFqLR1i3Dom7sdLhpMMR3wvOyVZ_dbnELz4E7rcADHJzVHiL_sED-PibrpeJelhpev3fAHJQ-WeedStI3-vsWHdCNeqTps4JZ2ypi/s1600/point+masks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdOiTLJX2RihqiyhyphenhyphenwhY1CcUign0nibRrKUEY48W6VFqLR1i3Dom7sdLhpMMR3wvOyVZ_dbnELz4E7rcADHJzVHiL_sED-PibrpeJelhpev3fAHJQ-WeedStI3-vsWHdCNeqTps4JZ2ypi/s320/point+masks.jpg" title="ehhs drama club" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">But wait…my youngest son is about to start a s-s-s-sport?
This is new - a true first for us. (Pretty sure that ski club doesn’t count.) This
will be good. Right? My hope is that he will benefit from things like routine
physical activity, sportsmanship, dealing with competition and possible failure
and hopefully - since he has been raised primarily by women - a hint of guy
bonding that doesn’t revolve around an Xbox. We realized that he probably
shouldn’t audition for a local production of Oliver. He is already part of his
middle schools play so adding yet another rehearsal schedule to a volleyball
schedule wouldn’t be prudent. Really? What 12 year old boy doesn’t want to be
in Oliver? Well - mine apparently. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">I have been pondering this change to our family dynamic
for a few weeks now and I have come to some conclusions. Theater and sports are
not all that different. Both require hard work, a certain level of commitment,
the ability to understand your strengths and weaknesses and accept your best
place on the “team”. The last part became abundantly clear after a recent round
of auditions. My younger daughter auditioned for said Oliver. For the first
time ever, she became very attached to one particular role. She focused her all
of energies and all of her hopes on landing this one role. As she conversed
continuously in a Cockney accent, I watched with some trepidation as her hopes
rose higher and higher. I felt that she had a shot at it but so did many
others. <span style="font-size: x-small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">I tried to caution her about her expectations. It was one
of those classic parental dilemmas. How do you inject some a possible reality
without shaking your child’s confidence? Why do we, as parents, do this?
Because we know we absolutely do NOT want to handle a possibly heartbreaking
negative outcome. (Just to tie in the sports theme here, let me admit to Monday
morning quarterbacking this insight.) According to her, auditions went well and
we settled into the waiting mode. Teenage texts flew back and forth and
practicing for the next auditions intensified. Then… the cast list came out…
early. We were not prepared. (That’s me pretending preparedness.) Damn instant,
social media! We had just settled into a Redbox when I noticed the posting. <span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">“It’s
up.” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">“No.
Wait. Don’t tell me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">“I’m
not gonna look yet.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">“If
you look, don’t tell me.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">“No.
Wait. You don’t look either. “<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">“I’m
gonna look.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">“Someone
will say something or text me so I better look.” she said.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">We
looked at the same time. I try not to look at her because she hates that. I
hear quiet sniffling. She didn’t get it. I continue to read. Her name is listed
further down for a bit – but named – speaking part.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">My greatest hope is that we are thinking the same thing –
if she hadn’t so set her sights on that one role – she would be thrilled with
the part she did get. I hope that she is thinking that the girl that did get
the role is an excellent choice. The recipient is talented, one year older, has
worked hard at theater and has always been a “team” player. If I was allowed to
speak – which I somehow know I am not – I would ask her if she wants a hug.
Sometimes words don’t work with a smart kid. Stating the obvious or other
platitudes won’t make her feel any better. So we sit and pretend to watch Men
in Black III knowing that we are going to need to re-rent it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">I am guessing that this is how parents of sport kids feel
when your kid’s team loses - not because your kid played poorly but because the
other team played better that day. Sometimes we just have to watch as our kids
suffer losses knowing that, while it is killing us and making us feel inept as
parents – we are making them stronger people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; line-height: 115%;">Another theater mom recently asked me if I had any
insight in to the most recent auditions since I was there. Her daughter was
hurt by the abrupt dismissal of the kids that the director & music director
did not wish to hear sing again. She said that her daughter was considering not
doing the drama club anymore because she felt overlooked. First thing I disclaimed
was any involvement in the casting on my part. I show up to hand out forms and
attempt to quiet excited high schoolers – then I come in to paint sets. Casting
is not my thing. The second thing I tried to explain was that two nights of
auditions were being packed into one night due to an early snow dismissal and
the availability of our hired music director. Things had to move right along. I
did feel a little complicit as my daughter was one that was “called back” to
re-sing so I went on to try and express how many of the kids that tended to get
roles were the kids wh</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">o have put the time into theater. My daughter did six
shows last year, with four different groups. Sometimes she had an actual part –
many times she was part of an ensemble. Each show was an opportunity to get
better at what she loves to do. My friend’s daughter is a sweet voiced,
cheerful kid – one of my favorites - but generally only does the school shows.
I haven’t heard back from her yet.<span style="font-size: small;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Maybe I should have put it into a sports analogy. (Spoiler
alert: I never bought into the whole
trophy-for-every-kid-just-for-participating/there-are-no-winners-or-losers
theory.) Is a “coach” expected to address each player personally, taking into
account every player’s individual circumstances or does he make line-ups and
calls based on the players’ performance histories and capability levels? Does a
coach reward players based on improvement and choose the best player for the position
all in an effort to create a winning team? Can a player skip practices and
work-outs most of the season then show up and expect to play in the big games?
Even if your kid is a good player, there will always be those that will get
more playing time for many of different reasons. Sometimes it’s as simple as
lots of players are trying out for few openings, (or lots of girls trying out
for two girl roles). Sometimes your kid doesn’t get the spot on the team – no
matter how good her Cockney accent is.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Hey - I might be okay with this whole s-s-s-sports twist.
There is quite a bit of crossover. I </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">have even seen heat exhaustion, pulled
muscles and broken noses happen in theater. Though I am sure that it will raise
many other interesting quandaries like - what does one wear to a middle school
volleyball game?</span></div>
barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-73155106196699294872012-12-31T00:43:00.001-05:002012-12-31T01:17:54.993-05:00Our "Village"<br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Did you ever
sit back and reflect on something that your kids did that just made you ask,
“Where did she/he learn that?” It generally happens to me when one of mine, big
or little, does something that I don’t feel that I have sufficiently taught
them. I’m talking about something good here. (If it’s something not good,
that’s easy - I can place that on their other parent’s heads via
genetics.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Let me give
you an example. One evening my youngest was sprinting back and forth between
our house and his friend’s house. Up and down the significant hill we live on
he ran, gathering all forms of art supplies, tin foil, empty bottles…. “Do you
have something that could look like milk but </span><span style="line-height: 21.111112594604492px;">isn't?</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> ” he asked me. Knowing these
boys, I was happy that no real liquids were involved but I still had to ask
“For what?” His buddy, one year younger than him, had a project due the
following day so Riley was helping him to get it done in time. I asked him about
his own project that was due early the next week. “But Mom – he’s stressing and
he’s sad and I’m good at these things – even if I haven’t read the book.” I
reminded him that he </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">hadn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> finished his own book so he’d better be REALLY good
at them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">See how I
dropped the ball there? With full hair and make-up, I could have turned that
into a Hallmark moment or at the very least, a Kodak commercial but instead I
helped him load a backpack and sent him off. What in him triggered his need to
help his friend and make him not sad? (I mean, when he fights with his sister
there is most certainly the intent to do bodily harm.) After what occurred at
our house one pre-Christmas night, I think I have kinda figured out part of
this mystery. Our kids learn things from everyone around us - the whole “village”.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After a seemingly
successful job interview, the first in a long time, I decided, since the car
was still running, to bypass my home and attempt some gift shopping for our
family holiday gathering. The criterion for our gift exchange has gone from
quaint to bizarre. This year all gifts needed to fit in a pocket. This required
some seriously thought filled shopping. I hate shopping. Especially in the
heels I still had on from the job interview. Jeez! What sized pocket? It could
mean a jeans pocket which holds nothing or parka pocket which could hold a
small pet. I managed to make some headway with the shopping for what my older
daughter is calling our “Little House on the Prairie” Christmas and headed
home. Earlier that same pre-Christmas week, two friends had surprised us with a
Christmas tree so it was good to know I was going home to a festive feeling
house. Little did I know...<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I grabbed
the bag with a frozen vegetarian pizza that was serving as tonight’s dinner,
off the floor of my car and turned to see three of my friends (and one teenage
son) walking up the driveway from three cars that were parked in the street.
(The three car part was just odd since two of the three are married to each
other.) My initial “What’s the matter?” reaction says more about me than it
does about them. I feared that I had missed some meeting or the like, in my
irritated, post shopping haze.<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">They assured
me that nothing was wrong. They explained that my last blog post had gone a
little bit “viral” within our town and that people wanted to help. Their cars
were filled with gifts for all of the kids, food, dozens of gift cards for
local merchants and so, SO much more. They tried to assure me that many of the
donations were made by people who </span><span style="line-height: 21.111112594604492px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> know who we were. I </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> believe
that. I wanted names. Once it all sank in - because I knew it </span><span style="line-height: 20px;">hadn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> yet - I
wanted to be able to acknowledge each and every one of them. They rattled off
some names – and more names – and more… It was a true “It’s a Wonderful Life”
moment. (With a bit of searching, I’m sure we could have found a Bevin Bell to
ring.)<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">But wait…did
they miss the message of my posting? No. They </span><span style="line-height: 21.111112594604492px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> I watched my kids’ faces
as they began to register what was happening. The best gift of the night was
when all of my kids – from 12 to 24 – fully understood what this wonderful
collection of people – friends, neighbors, relatives of friends & “unknown”
friends – had done for us for no reason other than pure goodness. My youngest
son helped his friend because we live in a place that models that – daily.<span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The second
best gift of the night was when my younger daughter followed me out to the car
to retrieve our frozen veggie pizza and stated “I can’t wait to pay this
forward!”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We will
continue to mourn here in Connecticut. There are some things we can’t fix. Right
now there is nothing we can do for Sandy Hook. We know that. They have asked to
be allowed to heal and grieve amongst themselves – their “village”. We can give
them that.</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">To those in
my town that opted to mirror Anne Curry’s suggested 26 acts of kindness path –
you’re good. Thank you our “village”.</span></div>
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barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-20973110616773121632012-12-15T23:51:00.001-05:002012-12-31T01:24:21.469-05:00Perspective<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">December 14,
2</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">012 started out badly for me. I woke to take my younger kids to their
respective schools and came home to clean the ever present pile of cat poop
from the front hall. Then I proceeded to unload the dishwasher, wipe down
counters, straighten throws and pillows, pick up isolated socks and hoodies,
organize the pile of discarded shoes inside the front door and brush crumbs
from the sofa while debating the whole vacuuming thing. While I did all of
this, I was crying quietly yet uncontrollably. I knew why.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Christmas
does not exist for us this year. Financially I can’t make it happen. I don’t
know how to explain it to my kids and make it okay. Explaining that their dad
is nearly $70k behind in child support won’t help them understand. He has been
behind for years but I always managed to make Christmas happen. This year I
have hit a wall. We have no tree and I have not had the heart to break out the
rest of the decorations though I will eventually. Watching the endless stream
of holiday movies depresses me this year. Their quandaries seem simplistic. Barring
illness, if they can afford to meet a friend for lunch or Christmas shop for
gifts – they have no real insurmountable problems. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Walt Jedziniak Photography</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I really have
tried to focus on the what-we-haves versus what-we-don’ts. My 14 year old
portrayed the Ghost of Christmas past in recent production of her high school
drama club’s A Christmas Carol. They are trying to rejuvenate the program so I
was happy to paint sets and my 12 year old and I finally worked on a stage crew
together. It was a feel good time but then the kids ask to be driven to various
activities then quickly realize that it would cost gas and whatever funds might
be required and they quickly retract the request. Add to this the failing
transmission in my eleven year old car that is going to require a
multi-thousand dollar repair once it does go…ho, ho, ho… Planning the annual
family party and gift exchange at my sister’s house forty five miles away, two
days before Christmas, is an exercise in pure fiction on my part. Yes, I know I
am pulling a total Scarlet O’Hara but really – I will think about it tomorrow.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;">Yet each
morning, once I go through my morning routine, I sit down and hit the job
boards. I apply for any position that I could possibly be considered for. I do
this knowing that even if I were to find something, it </span><span style="line-height: 17.77777862548828px;">wouldn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> be in enough
time to fix Christmas this year and if it is more than a few miles from where
we live, my car might not get me there. But I do it anyway on this December
morning. I remind myself that Christmas is only one day and I need to continue on
and think about our post-Christmas existence so I turn on the Today Show and boot
up my laptop.</span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Breaking
news alerts interrupt the regular Today Show.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> A possible school shooting in Newtown,
Connecticut but information is limited. I am familiar with Sandy Hook and have
a good friend in Newtown. It’s about 40 miles from where we live now. The
scenes on the screen are bustling but not frantic. I cautiously hope that the
reported shots were a high school prank.</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">It becomes
apparent that the report is not a prank. As I watch the local anchors admirably
struggle contain their own emotions, the reality of what has happened within
the elementary school is confirmed. At least twenty four are dead – mostly children.
I am cold.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">Part of me wants to drive to my kids schools
and bring them home but the other part wants them to never have to know about
this. My daily plans and worries stop. I watch previously filmed footage of
parents speed walking to the scene and know that at some of them were not reunited
with their children at the local firehouse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">It </span><span style="line-height: 17.77777862548828px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> feel real. I dig for digital photos of my kids at that age to make it hurt just
a fraction of the way it must be hurting those parents. I see a picture of my
oldest son. He most probably has Asperger’s , a version of Autism that was not
named until 1992 when he was four. I think about the shooter, mistakenly identified
as a twenty four year old male. The age, the lack of empathy, the similarity to
other, recent spree shootings and my unwished for knowledge of thought
disorders make me feel colder. I know what may be revealed in the following
days.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 115%;">I think
about my sister, a kindergarden teacher in nearby Waterbury. I don’t expect to
hear from her as she is at her school. I wonder if she knows about what has
happened and if she knew any of the adults. As the day moves on I answer
Facebook posts and messages from mutual friends and relatives who are worried about
her. I know instinctively that she is not hurt physically but when night falls
and I haven’t yet heard from her, I know that her hurt is emotional. She was
friends with the school’s slain principal. Her late night text confirms that it
was a “rough” day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 115%;">Our
Christmas still </span><span style="line-height: 17.77777862548828px;">doesn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> exist. That </span><span style="line-height: 17.77777862548828px;">didn't</span><span style="line-height: 115%;"> change. What did change was my
anguish over it. Nothing can compare to what these families will face over the
remainder of this holiday season or what they will feel each time they look at
photos of their lost ones … at any age. </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="line-height: 17.77777862548828px;">Tonight my kids and I will decorate the outside of the house.</span></span></div>
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<br />barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-72162029556554392492011-05-23T13:10:00.001-04:002011-05-23T13:18:18.573-04:00The Inability to Say "No"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yeah. This is me. I know why I can’t say “no” to my kids. Don’t get me wrong – I SAY it often but mostly I end up saying “yes” to avoid any prolonged ugliness. Some would call it “caving”. I call it “picking my battles”.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have no problem saying “no” to telemarketers, door-to-door lawn chemical companies and traveling missionaries. I crack-up when my kids think I’m being rude to solicitors. Just once I want to put it in perspective for them. “Okay. We will get the lawn care services being offered by the cool looking guy in the cowboy hat and you can spend your summer watching from inside because you can’t go play in the now chemical-laden lawn and all of the summer drama camp money went to pay for this new form of entertainment. By the way, you do realize that it won’t be the cool guy in the cowboy hat fixing the lawn – right?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Saying “no” to certain other adults is harder though. I really enjoy volunteering my time to community or school endeavors. Promoting and maintaining the arts for our kids is especially close to my heart. It seems downright selfish to withhold my ability to paint a set or a face. (I am particularly skilled at vampires, zombies and frogs.) Only time constraints and physical inability inhibit my involvement. Well, there was that one time when I had a strong personality clash with a certain director but even then, I knew that my continued involvement would not be beneficial to the play. And even then I was riddled with guilt enough to help with make-up for every performance.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqSoAtbeywqhOL-GE7t-orTgGPyvAbTP5BwoPm34aATta1KR7gLKDrpqArFANYaI79DTqSAYHV5B8c0M7d2BwZeGBIwE0j0_DKtR_r_F8RmKSfgs2gYgT42l61p8euHajyx9HVBL7pVQA/s1600/IMG_9719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjqSoAtbeywqhOL-GE7t-orTgGPyvAbTP5BwoPm34aATta1KR7gLKDrpqArFANYaI79DTqSAYHV5B8c0M7d2BwZeGBIwE0j0_DKtR_r_F8RmKSfgs2gYgT42l61p8euHajyx9HVBL7pVQA/s320/IMG_9719.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But there is always that one person that it is impossible to say “no” to. It is the person who gives so much of themselves that to say “no” to them would put you squarely in the ugly step-sister/Madoff/King John realm. I would like to claim that she is a master manipulator but no – I put myself squarely in the path of her do-gooding.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">For the next two weeks we are into what I call the “hell weeks” prior to a middle school production set in the 1920’s. My friend, (and I think I can call her that now since we bonded over the brown vs. black painting of a speakeasy platform and the make-up & costume transitions of numerous costermongers to Ascot attendees back to costermongers), is energetically flitting from one rehearsal to another. It amazes me how she so graciously handles the mysterious vanishing parent pool that to came to the original parent play meeting then – poof – are gone. But those of us that remain, in a secondary way, share in this crunch time and the pressure can manifest itself in odd ways.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Last night I had a dream. Generally I don’t remember my dreams and if I do – their meaning is pretty transparent. In this dream, a group of us were on a school bus and my friend turns to me and asks me, in her “it’s-okay-to-say-no-to-this-but-you-will-feel-like-crap-about-yourself-if-you-do” tone, if I will just help her out with some music event. She just needs a few people to fill out a little number that is kinda weak and needs some rhythm guitar in the back ground. Of course I agree. I remind her that I don’t play guitar. S’okay. We’ll get there early and I can get together with so & so who can get me up to speed. The thing is we need to get off that bus, run to her house, change into formal wear and get to the venue as this event happens to be that night. The bus drops us at some house I’ve never been to before and I am escorted to a closet filled with all sorts of showy clothes where I spend an inordinate amount of time on footwear buckles then rush back to the school bus. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #783f04;">Along the way to the event, the</span> <span style="color: #783f04;">bus stops to pick up an unusual array of people. We get the local supermarket cashiers, my high school boyfriend whom I haven’t seen in over 20 years and Hoda and Kathie Lee. Goody. Comic relief. I’m gonna need it because just then I look down and realize that I am wearing Ga Ga-esque black leather Daisy Dukes, over-the-knee boots and a billowy, transparent black poet shirt with a chartreuse green bra under it. I think my hair may match the bra but there is no mirror handy for me to confirm this – just a gut feeling.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As I de-bus, my kids are there waiting for me. My philosophical oldest son is kindly saying something about finding my “inner alter ego” being cool at my age. My oldest daughter is shrieking, “Mom?! What?! Mom!?” and laughing hysterically. Only a mortified college student can do these both – like - simultaneously. (Her alarm is genuine as she had previously dubbed me her “little monochromatic mom” in high school once she got taller than me.) My ‘tween daughter is nervously wringing her hands not knowing if she should join in the circus revelry as any normal kid would want to do or mimic her older sister’s sophisticated, yet affectionate, disdain. My 11 year old son is wandering around looking for his friends so they can partake of their own form of entertainment which will probably involve ping pong balls, aluminum foil and lighters. But I can’t focus on my children’s reactions. I am busy looking to follow Hoda and Kathie Lee because I don’t really care what day of the week it is; I’m going to want some of whatever they are having – or at the very least – a sympathy make-over.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In my dream we all stream into an auditorium. There is my friend – decked out in an elegant evening gown. I am just starting to hate her but she rushes over to me saying; “It’s okay. It will all work out. It always comes together. Let’s go find so & so for your music. Did you bring any duct tape?” We find so & so and my friend flits off to be one of the other twenty places she needs to be right then. So & so looks at me with disdain and hands me a book of sheet music. Uh oh. Not having actually learned how to play an instrument, I really had no need to learn to read music.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes! I’m awake! Covered in sweat - but awake. Whew. Note to self: Make sure the electric blanket is not set at #6 in mid-May no matter how chilly and damp it is outside. I’d better get finishing the faux brick walls for the current set. I’ll let you know if they develop into head banging or wailing walls. Could go either way…</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-18866388401966075882010-11-22T18:22:00.012-05:002010-11-27T20:48:20.917-05:00Budding artist?<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;">Riley's lastest assemblage installation is...installed. Actually, it's on the fireplace mantle right now but that's only until the nutcracker collection displaces it - AFTER Thanksgiving - when all self-respecting Christmas decorations are displayed - not before. (But that issue is for another blog entry.)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;">The newest tool in Riley's creative bag of tricks is a hot glue gun. Thanks Mrs.P. Having constructed a popsicle stick and hot glue long house in the classroom - he is an expert hot gluer. (glueist?) As with many things with Riley; what is mine is his and that's the way of my hot glue gun. His former, frequent use of Christmas lights is still in play but to a lesser degree. I expect that might change when the holiday decoration totes are brought up from the basement and he is faced, once again, with a tangled ball of nirvana at his feet. But until then, please enjoy his latest table top creations.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFhZZxi3TfU1kJaJHnQImU9e-GWD5I4trEhOl_GAONLVq8V5rdSKGo4zH02u8fo8hMDVxyPjRhw-0iyi43VWUnlem5ay5kQTjVwMPNwk-tBdhyphenhyphenIbdcdzVP7pEmTVgNHHgHqdHX8EZvRAU/s1600/IMG_2499.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542539665879485586" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsFhZZxi3TfU1kJaJHnQImU9e-GWD5I4trEhOl_GAONLVq8V5rdSKGo4zH02u8fo8hMDVxyPjRhw-0iyi43VWUnlem5ay5kQTjVwMPNwk-tBdhyphenhyphenIbdcdzVP7pEmTVgNHHgHqdHX8EZvRAU/s320/IMG_2499.JPG" style="cursor: hand; height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuG71up-3vO8WQhKQqFmmF6GY3d6hM8ZQ_51UKZa0W2idCCf7lyBQQMFV1CP3oTbsSKwny8pAJ0JOl5iReH-Lvvo9BOrhvP5jZwaE_dxKzyqfaQ-OV-S70hMwE-0lgZxCk3PmmXFWPRHbY/s1600/IMG_2517.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542539660652234866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuG71up-3vO8WQhKQqFmmF6GY3d6hM8ZQ_51UKZa0W2idCCf7lyBQQMFV1CP3oTbsSKwny8pAJ0JOl5iReH-Lvvo9BOrhvP5jZwaE_dxKzyqfaQ-OV-S70hMwE-0lgZxCk3PmmXFWPRHbY/s320/IMG_2517.JPG" style="cursor: hand; height: 320px; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyk5JP4LJuQRCaZ0E7eXMuyPQjW7YAaS_ch18BEmBIstU4sRWSPOECxKCRa1qAy24d7rGXKG7QIg0gGAyz5r6NJlVE_Hv3TNF3R6sS5O2TnUSbmlhg7M_g4MDtZ_mzJukRAxO1-RtCMl3/s1600/IMG_2520.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542539596001969714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTyk5JP4LJuQRCaZ0E7eXMuyPQjW7YAaS_ch18BEmBIstU4sRWSPOECxKCRa1qAy24d7rGXKG7QIg0gGAyz5r6NJlVE_Hv3TNF3R6sS5O2TnUSbmlhg7M_g4MDtZ_mzJukRAxO1-RtCMl3/s320/IMG_2520.JPG" style="cursor: hand; height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
<div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;">Okay, I will admit that this next one scared me at first. So much so that I didn't ask it's title. But still - pretty cool. Note the artistic use of thumb tacks and paper clips.</span></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;"><br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSMaPjGPRTrJf7_Fxefp6oIjCc15s16YWmzET314TopY2m0M2gAoKVj2DeVsHPGgSdk8KPLtZI7OsISy82UTo1u93XsUPXGQrbr94DmSJZ-3-wb4pSm6JR2HwS_17V3TDYIknuwOhKCEhH/s1600/IMG_2507.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542539352049350338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSMaPjGPRTrJf7_Fxefp6oIjCc15s16YWmzET314TopY2m0M2gAoKVj2DeVsHPGgSdk8KPLtZI7OsISy82UTo1u93XsUPXGQrbr94DmSJZ-3-wb4pSm6JR2HwS_17V3TDYIknuwOhKCEhH/s320/IMG_2507.JPG" style="cursor: hand; height: 320px; width: 240px;" /></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqNOKmUdo4HWmdUAQ4ETl1zsmu2SfFRJ8NGW_kfzjaKjq-Z9lCiu-EAyp_H1_xY3mUi5QBDsIQZYRRKwYT5idaF6oCc5W_S6cLSfliO0NYR7alcVqoZxbKHvi0UYa9pMjDFbUz63x3ByAj/s1600/IMG_2510.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542539343496853650" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqNOKmUdo4HWmdUAQ4ETl1zsmu2SfFRJ8NGW_kfzjaKjq-Z9lCiu-EAyp_H1_xY3mUi5QBDsIQZYRRKwYT5idaF6oCc5W_S6cLSfliO0NYR7alcVqoZxbKHvi0UYa9pMjDFbUz63x3ByAj/s320/IMG_2510.JPG" style="cursor: hand; height: 240px; width: 320px;" /></a><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfDhzcNEHY-_eiyn4GFe69inFaGBcA4RmW_87Ej8HB74Bvl5GTBizX7rB7EKABmv5cxQfJZ4rWz0O8zjlTfO06g3OoZ5wIfA-4jB_NmaojQDjc71GH4KOevv_Azc2Ytgtown69gSwo0Lb/s1600/IMG_2512.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542539338638932338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfDhzcNEHY-_eiyn4GFe69inFaGBcA4RmW_87Ej8HB74Bvl5GTBizX7rB7EKABmv5cxQfJZ4rWz0O8zjlTfO06g3OoZ5wIfA-4jB_NmaojQDjc71GH4KOevv_Azc2Ytgtown69gSwo0Lb/s320/IMG_2512.JPG" style="cursor: hand; height: 320px; width: 240px;" /></a></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 85%;">Right now he is working on another that involves a strobe light and a stage curtain that he has rigged to draw open and closed. Photos to follow.</span></div></div></div>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-39400679598828080962010-03-31T20:32:00.031-04:002010-04-02T20:48:20.601-04:00Eccentric Etsians<span style="font-family:arial;">I have just recently posted my fourth Etsy shop. (It's the fifth one I've created if you count the now defunk Plunk Soap but that's a whole other entry.) With each shop it seemed like I spent more time researching than actually building B. Noel Bijoux. </span><br /><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">(shameless plug: </span><a href="http://www.bnoelbijoux.etsy.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">http://www.bnoelbijoux.etsy.com/</span></a><a href="http://www.bnoelbijoux.etsy.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">bijoux.etsy.com/</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> ) </span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I have not tried selling jewelry online before and I felt that it had it's own separate set of rules so I just had to pop into a few fellow Etsian's stores. Needless to say, I found good and bad photos, some over priced and some under priced, detailed descriptions and inadequate descriptions... I also found myself deviating from my jewelry retailing research to follow odd tangents that that were sparked by front page features, "favorite items" of those whose work I liked and the "recently listed" cubes that scroll, cycle and pop up continuously 2/3rds of the way down the front page. Whoever thought of THAT knows the inner mind of an ADD artist cruising Etsy...avoiding laundry...the dishwasher...the mailbox... So I decided</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> to showcase a few of my more unique finds here - out loud - so my meandering was not completely wasted time.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXU5pO0BjIbydVqLa6IQbh9pBb1eh6jxatTJCZiqDfL_rhTSVJLw5NNH_6l3NKPzB6v2IZw7ztI1gc6uW2yhYcvTzLY6HYlks6RQTIIQToPnCoFZlw87W8XSyIO_7cg2GOdS0pjlvHlRcl/s1600/il_430xN_130573382.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 232px; HEIGHT: 165px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455005291957194050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXU5pO0BjIbydVqLa6IQbh9pBb1eh6jxatTJCZiqDfL_rhTSVJLw5NNH_6l3NKPzB6v2IZw7ztI1gc6uW2yhYcvTzLY6HYlks6RQTIIQToPnCoFZlw87W8XSyIO_7cg2GOdS0pjlvHlRcl/s200/il_430xN_130573382.jpg" /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Some of my friends and family thought that this piece was just "not right" when I shared it with them on Facebook. But I will state for the record - I think I want one. It's called a "Baby Limb Hooktastic". Honsestly - it's one of this Auckland artist's milder pieces. To see more go to </span><a href="http://www.luxfordst.etsy.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">http://www.luxfordst.etsy.com/</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> and the "Pony Butt Broach" may still be available. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">________________________________________________________________</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTPNeZK37wfy72Jasj57XQ2zzFVmEMv61WMyjw_9b6gDOriQhfSoiVBD4pXJvhA65evsIEwAh7rMzUFHkNNBOLDXSYXOsMCWuE9c-2iRBN5A9pxSvZ7jOJEItlp4bqV86m0wGn66upAYG/s1600/il_430xN_132409352.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 159px; HEIGHT: 201px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455005660918730034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTPNeZK37wfy72Jasj57XQ2zzFVmEMv61WMyjw_9b6gDOriQhfSoiVBD4pXJvhA65evsIEwAh7rMzUFHkNNBOLDXSYXOsMCWuE9c-2iRBN5A9pxSvZ7jOJEItlp4bqV86m0wGn66upAYG/s200/il_430xN_132409352.jpg" /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbTPNeZK37wfy72Jasj57XQ2zzFVmEMv61WMyjw_9b6gDOriQhfSoiVBD4pXJvhA65evsIEwAh7rMzUFHkNNBOLDXSYXOsMCWuE9c-2iRBN5A9pxSvZ7jOJEItlp4bqV86m0wGn66upAYG/s1600/il_430xN_132409352.jpg"></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Who doesn't look at this image and think "Hey! I think I know those guys!" Okay, my family was really big on ancestral potraits and - swear to gosh - there is some resemblance to our Pennsylvania branch. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxglHvWLqWBAOaFN9dAZ9j34f5CjCf3MiqhKQNtkHNCdaFBkNa6rdZq33N-2eCU_1KA7FOb9Tj5Sd7efUzQxkW8lG58wsupe1w2hAY6sPckbt6d-YxzAU_JM848RJLNK4PTrSfaPD1-y0/s1600/il_430xN_132410169.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455011384117353714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUxglHvWLqWBAOaFN9dAZ9j34f5CjCf3MiqhKQNtkHNCdaFBkNa6rdZq33N-2eCU_1KA7FOb9Tj5Sd7efUzQxkW8lG58wsupe1w2hAY6sPckbt6d-YxzAU_JM848RJLNK4PTrSfaPD1-y0/s200/il_430xN_132410169.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">And then I saw this one. I am choosing to share it though I will refrain from sharing all of the Republican jokes I had prepared to go along with it. Don't let the shop name scare you. It's worth the trip to:</span><a href="http://www.grandolebestiary.etsy.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">http://www.grandolebestiary.etsy.com/</span></a></div><div>____________________________________________________________</div><div><div><div><div><div><div><div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7cZc1UdqdchGlR4GiQ5RsFrV1lBnRBahS2tAAGjhY_xBZFhoSmhlpzdkg-bMEu7bilkJLEKLklpUFTfuaANw7RiQ2SWxqjKL1WY01vji3EHBhPeBR7Z722XXhM3T3nbzIWFNwk1gUFYU/s1600/il_430xN_113535390.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 154px; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455007805090818098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7cZc1UdqdchGlR4GiQ5RsFrV1lBnRBahS2tAAGjhY_xBZFhoSmhlpzdkg-bMEu7bilkJLEKLklpUFTfuaANw7RiQ2SWxqjKL1WY01vji3EHBhPeBR7Z722XXhM3T3nbzIWFNwk1gUFYU/s200/il_430xN_113535390.jpg" /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Even my younger kids are getting a bit old for the Easter Bunny but if they weren't - I would show them this picture and tell them that this is what he really looks like. The artist of this item described it as "Baby Hare Fluffa". She refers to it as a "he" but after seeing it on my Facebook posting, my sister-in-law believes that it is too pretty so it must really be a girl. Either way, you probably shouldn't shoo it off your porch if it shows up there. Especially since, (if you're reading this in the US), it came all the way from Scotland. </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="http://www.dragonhouseofyuen.etsy.com/">http://www.dragonhouseofyuen.etsy.com/</span></a></div><div>____________________________________________________________</div><div></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJjQJ01WyiC6sbiz_WuXTOkt4FDLpmKm4UJMk42fIVD2CnsyxvLG03qGf86cVi686QBG6lkV6JNzsPEGjTqG6EMXVF8tsV2PXV7ZCuzE4LE3CENbxkTZrOFnMG0mNRPZMg6E7rFEGuPQb/s1600/il_430xN_133635585.jpg"></a></div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJjQJ01WyiC6sbiz_WuXTOkt4FDLpmKm4UJMk42fIVD2CnsyxvLG03qGf86cVi686QBG6lkV6JNzsPEGjTqG6EMXVF8tsV2PXV7ZCuzE4LE3CENbxkTZrOFnMG0mNRPZMg6E7rFEGuPQb/s1600/il_430xN_133635585.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 167px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455008207782311874" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitJjQJ01WyiC6sbiz_WuXTOkt4FDLpmKm4UJMk42fIVD2CnsyxvLG03qGf86cVi686QBG6lkV6JNzsPEGjTqG6EMXVF8tsV2PXV7ZCuzE4LE3CENbxkTZrOFnMG0mNRPZMg6E7rFEGuPQb/s200/il_430xN_133635585.jpg" /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I really like most kinds of soap but have never especially wanted to smell like chocolate or coffee or even bananas. But this soap - yes - it's soap - took it to a whole new level. So wrap it up and take it to Easter dinner with the fam and wait for the inevitable "Why are the deviled eggs in the john?" </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Like bacon soap? Go to: </span><a href="http://www.sunbasilgarden.etsy.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">http://www.sunbasilgarden.etsy.com/</span></a></div><div>____________________________________________________________</div><div></div></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybQ5OsrBHGEl0AHCTEfXmE8KyowSJ4VTIPiYEotC-YubozZ1a2KNitnsUjD2wTB9aqahTc-BOTRW1H0QzCJ8Ja38E-2zUgyD4SbPo1-o9TArsXGUUkXKXsaqiTheOVUkPlQHLMEGvYBzm/s1600/il_430xN_106602622.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 196px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455008694678336402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhybQ5OsrBHGEl0AHCTEfXmE8KyowSJ4VTIPiYEotC-YubozZ1a2KNitnsUjD2wTB9aqahTc-BOTRW1H0QzCJ8Ja38E-2zUgyD4SbPo1-o9TArsXGUUkXKXsaqiTheOVUkPlQHLMEGvYBzm/s200/il_430xN_106602622.jpg" /></a></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I look at this tile and think "What is the artist trying to express? What is the backstory to this remarkable piece? Can we interpret the pain of the lizard losing it's tail as sybiotic to the artist's pain?". I think those things and so much, much more.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8YHo6NdzMEYN1CQ1GTbgt6dIgFfk3onJDxyP5svh9LOiKPHAO7hUqlOhmVIvx2TlI88H9xHCJIS91dOKVPTrBWrZ0PcMKc9nlmxOnDdoZ__SSYvzEcfr6GrpCYpUEbHvIA_3D84I7X604/s1600/il_430xN_133826938.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 188px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455009663752504834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8YHo6NdzMEYN1CQ1GTbgt6dIgFfk3onJDxyP5svh9LOiKPHAO7hUqlOhmVIvx2TlI88H9xHCJIS91dOKVPTrBWrZ0PcMKc9nlmxOnDdoZ__SSYvzEcfr6GrpCYpUEbHvIA_3D84I7X604/s200/il_430xN_133826938.jpg" /></a><br /><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I look at this tile and ask myself "Where the hell is the rest of the fish?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Bet we can find it at: </span><a href="http://www.gretchenkramp.etsy.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">http://www.gretchenkramp.etsy.com/</span></a></div><div>____________________________________________________________</div><div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjTtBC4jrbj68PS4-PglChCUTlzrrLKmn75N1ujQfxHsy7v3L9Gb-jjHK-CpzkMEq8IUh3knfUfW-el0-fvuvzdeSaxHx1U2NJoPaotrg-XwZ5B4L4McvPUcQgGJLVqOCeYqURx2tbs7E/s1600/il_430xN_133461991.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 200px; HEIGHT: 154px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455010507585711986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzjTtBC4jrbj68PS4-PglChCUTlzrrLKmn75N1ujQfxHsy7v3L9Gb-jjHK-CpzkMEq8IUh3knfUfW-el0-fvuvzdeSaxHx1U2NJoPaotrg-XwZ5B4L4McvPUcQgGJLVqOCeYqURx2tbs7E/s200/il_430xN_133461991.jpg" /></a><br /></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">This artist has either spent too much time alone - or works in an office cubicle. But can't you relate to this sculpture? I can. Since childhood, I have ALWAYS wanted to to this! (Or maybe I just dreamt that...) </span><span style="font-family:arial;">Check out this Etsy shop to see more from: </span><a href="http://www.kenjio.etsy.com/"><span style="font-family:arial;">http://www.kenjio.etsy.com/</span></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> </span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">____________________________________________________________________</span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:Arial;">I chose to leave out the Wax Dipped Stuffed Animal Air Freshener. If I had included it, I might have mentioned something about it's likeness to a toilet dunked toy that would constantly cause you to say "No, honey. That one is NOT a toy. It just looks like a toy. Yes - it looks just like the ones YOU put in the potty." Apparently, to re-freshen it's room scenting ability, you just "hit" it with a blowdryer. All in all - too violent, painful and unsanitary to be included here.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCaXp6EfZi_x8Oj9bdFlUNiB-kBp6zM_SLE7Gg-m5ZG2ml3BpBBNwNpWj18U0PpB0wtYuxAaYOfbLYyRMF1aVHtAJCK1xnOEdNMgMBXEjRjQ7_n16WlDP0JrwAeQcuRPJB4VddPOAWaFuN/s1600/il_430xN_114619060.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 155px; HEIGHT: 230px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5455011778413040786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCaXp6EfZi_x8Oj9bdFlUNiB-kBp6zM_SLE7Gg-m5ZG2ml3BpBBNwNpWj18U0PpB0wtYuxAaYOfbLYyRMF1aVHtAJCK1xnOEdNMgMBXEjRjQ7_n16WlDP0JrwAeQcuRPJB4VddPOAWaFuN/s200/il_430xN_114619060.jpg" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">To end this blog post on a somewhat Easter/Spring theme, I wanted to share one more sculpture from Kenjio. </span><span style="font-family:arial;">It's recycled too. The artist states very clearly that it is made from "clay and a thrown away toy bird".</span></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-20667448405741965742010-01-30T23:47:00.003-05:002010-01-31T00:01:50.617-05:00Where does it come from?<span style="font-family:arial;">Riley had another creative burst in the middle of his bedroom. I think I can let the pictures speak for themselves but what you need to remember it that each "installation" is musically accompanied. This one featured "Fireflies" by Owl City. There was also a band playing to an audience, a cat on a trapeze and a baseball player swinging a bat. Enjoy.</span><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXvbm25CWiVn8tjYKfo3lEpIgPYszd_m1znz_2NMZ_NGpbfjY7ayEJnXBwHwp5UJC8z2cOLWG3xl1Wcr-RNX6gEq2PgoKF1wmy4Zi5UZZpwNcaCSuqwREC7J2lGH4A1_zUfQo5A3qZ2pW/s1600-h/IMG_1854.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 276px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432762459670390642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuXvbm25CWiVn8tjYKfo3lEpIgPYszd_m1znz_2NMZ_NGpbfjY7ayEJnXBwHwp5UJC8z2cOLWG3xl1Wcr-RNX6gEq2PgoKF1wmy4Zi5UZZpwNcaCSuqwREC7J2lGH4A1_zUfQo5A3qZ2pW/s320/IMG_1854.JPG" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5aOZyVus7fQP-vnGrF8oPOWlmxOSg81DjAIQfT_PWhymVP6_j56XYwkr-rmWthOyIRI4poUFgev-D4QMEN_3yAGcJBG2agn5ck3XHFqCrzsiVO4zzajdSR-qQoSjnbUX8Ov6PqpVm8Uj/s1600-h/IMG_1855.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432762449850888466" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge5aOZyVus7fQP-vnGrF8oPOWlmxOSg81DjAIQfT_PWhymVP6_j56XYwkr-rmWthOyIRI4poUFgev-D4QMEN_3yAGcJBG2agn5ck3XHFqCrzsiVO4zzajdSR-qQoSjnbUX8Ov6PqpVm8Uj/s320/IMG_1855.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1RVxUE7Q2sYZfsRGoTGXgwC3ArKXLMJ4rbJXnmyPV3D9e9UvO5V4oFMSwlehZhjBwj0wihWTumK3VmEepVFz_5S0bcPeP5rhISPJkFLBJ0uqFsbxHa3MaIYmWkmITiCwbeHCYQ0guv0j/s1600-h/IMG_1848.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432762447658780098" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1RVxUE7Q2sYZfsRGoTGXgwC3ArKXLMJ4rbJXnmyPV3D9e9UvO5V4oFMSwlehZhjBwj0wihWTumK3VmEepVFz_5S0bcPeP5rhISPJkFLBJ0uqFsbxHa3MaIYmWkmITiCwbeHCYQ0guv0j/s320/IMG_1848.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8wjFWCWokOMi1kQnwk3Tgxqiau4sDY2cxoBTzH1DBFzc63H7Lb32Nlwe3CtXhz9Ci6Pm8sbcrJ9ZOrmlLL6HqwkSHF3olZJnxUc2tpJV07BM_hn1KeQK1Q-s9M7xPRM69K4dWGBFS3dS/s1600-h/IMG_1847.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 239px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432762440987210306" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL8wjFWCWokOMi1kQnwk3Tgxqiau4sDY2cxoBTzH1DBFzc63H7Lb32Nlwe3CtXhz9Ci6Pm8sbcrJ9ZOrmlLL6HqwkSHF3olZJnxUc2tpJV07BM_hn1KeQK1Q-s9M7xPRM69K4dWGBFS3dS/s320/IMG_1847.JPG" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">To answer the question posed by the title of this post - all over the house, garage, basement and the neighbors houses if they aren't careful.<br /></span><div></div></div></div></div>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-41611970411922813272009-10-26T10:45:00.003-04:002009-10-26T11:24:21.055-04:00October Sunshine<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OCmV8MUDZYPoGq33r9DJ5FuidTf-kTuhlv6z8SURYLsJqn_nfdLjx7_EevBvq2GXH03vlN2MUQICb7yOhBehNRXPhU-QyuduWU8idcoU7mCAaFZUiH2i5uJ0kboYLBV6PwvGk86zApSt/s1600-h/n502984301_1388725_13271.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396920487747738770" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 234px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OCmV8MUDZYPoGq33r9DJ5FuidTf-kTuhlv6z8SURYLsJqn_nfdLjx7_EevBvq2GXH03vlN2MUQICb7yOhBehNRXPhU-QyuduWU8idcoU7mCAaFZUiH2i5uJ0kboYLBV6PwvGk86zApSt/s320/n502984301_1388725_13271.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">This time that I have spent self (un) employed – has been a time of healing, a time of self-evaluation and a time to ponder some of life’s deeper meanings. I currently “house-share” with my first ex-husband. Saying this situation is good would be an over statement. Saying it is awful would be wrong too. Like most things in life, it’s somewhere in between and complicated. (Let’s face it – how many of us have the chance to re-examine why we divorced someone – and feel justified more than 15 years later?) But today, the kids are off to their respective schools, the kitchen has been surface swept and the cat is sunning herself on the back steps. It’s my time to grab the laptop and attend to my email messages, update my websites, blogs and Facebook. Time to check the weather and mentally adjusted the laundry needs for tomorrow. It’s also time to turn on the television and catch up on the news and settle into… the daytime talk shows.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The daytime personality that has really resonated with me is Bonnie Hunt. There are some obvious reasons for this. We are of a similar generation, (She experienced Pong.), and her show is new so I found myself really rooting for her. (You go girl! 40ish is NOT the slow down time.) Her humorous self-deprecation is endearing. While she has no children of her own and I have four, her interaction with the children on her show will make me laugh out loud and has made Bonnie Hunt Show (BHS) summer devotees of my younger kids. My 11 year old, Claire, actually sent a video to the show about her Invention Convention entry and, in her absolute conviction that she WOULD be on the BHS, began planning our trip to Los Angeles over spring break. (Bonnie – she must have missed your call…but we’ll talk later.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Whoever thought to have frequent video chats with Bonnie’s mom is either brilliant or sadistic. Not sure that I want my mom, at 68, addressing the nation with her thoughts on current events, my love life or whatever is crossing her frontal lobe that day. My mom once decided to have “the talk” with my sister, brother and me – en masse. Being a mom now, I can almost relate her get-it-over-with actions but I remember thinking, for years, that I missed the point of the story about "peanuts" and "China". (I didn’t connect those dots until WAY later in life.) Now it makes for a great sibling gathering laugh but Mom denies it to this day. Maybe if we had Skype or even video phones back then, I could have avoided a few years of therapy.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Anyway, Bonnie’s birthday was celebrated on her show a few weeks ago. That day, the video feed appeared with Bonnie’s mom wearing a flashing lighted, boa embellished sombrero holding a birthday cake complete with a lit candle that was perilously close to the boa aspect of the sombrero. It was too funny. But then she, Alice, did something that had the effect of a huge, emotional vacuum cleaner -pulling me back to my childhood. She began singing the song <strong>You Are My Sunshine</strong>. In my head – her voice was replaced by the rich baritone voice of my father.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">As I listened, I tried to regroup and focus on the comedy happening on the television. I couldn’t. I was going back in time but finding that I didn’t really mind. I began to tear up and finally cry outright. Glad I was alone. There are not many times in the life of a single mother when you are “allowed” to cry. Any hint of tears on my part and my kids assume the worst. The person that keeps all of the balls in the air needs to drop a few of them - to get a tissue. Single moms must always be in control or at least give the appearance of being in control. You especially can’t cry about something as simplistic as a few lines of a song… nor a potentially flaming sombrero.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />But why did this particular song cause me to cry? All of my kids were holding steady for the moment and I was not PMS-ing. Part of me attributes my reaction to the time of year. October was nearing. The song and the season brought me back to October of 1998.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">One early 1998 July morning in Syracuse, NY I gave birth to my third child – a perfect little girl. My first call was to my dad. He and my stepmother lived a little over 2 hours away. My stepmom tells the story of Dad hanging up the phone, finishing up his morning cup of Lapsing Soochong tea with honey and putting his mug in the dishwasher. When she asked him of his plans for the day he said, “I think I’m going to Syracuse today.” He was holding Claire, his 7th grandchild, by noon.</span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />And then it was October. Dad called and said he want to come see the baby. Perfect. We would have a nice afternoon – just the three of us. Claire was asleep when he got there but he gently scooped her out of her bassinet and cradled her on his lap, facing him, so he could “watch her sleep”. As she slept, my dad quietly told me about his recent surgery.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Dad had been diagnosed with lung cancer. A biopsy showed that it was in his lymph nodes. In plain language he told me of his treatment plan that included chemotherapy after the New Year. His agenda was to visit with my sister, brother and me, in each of our homes with our families, over the holidays. He did not want us involved in his chemotherapy. In retrospect, on that day in October, Dad seemed to want to impart some things to me. Not big things but odd little things like how he carefully washed his glasses, (I had recently had to wear glasses more routinely.), and how to make the perfect “Philadelphia hoagie” as we were assembling sandwiches for lunch. I have come to think of these as comfort things.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Before he left that day in October, we moved to sit on the front porch. Dad sat on a rocker holding the now wide awake Claire – facing him. We were talked out and were happy to have her hold center stage with her cooing and wide-eyed facial expressions. At some point she began to fade, rubbed her little face against Dad’s shirt front and “ginched”. (“Ginching” was squirming in Dad language.) Softly he began singing <strong>You Are My Sunshine</strong>. She rested her ear on his chest, comforted by the deep vibration, and dosed off. I knew how she felt.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Though it was a song from another generation, it was symbolic of every part of my childhood. Dad would launch into his boisterous version when we tromped through the woods on a camping trip, his soothing version while in the emergency room when I broke my collarbone, his mournful version he drove us back from an extended summer visit with him or, as he was doing now with Claire, his restful version that had sent my siblings and I off to sleep many times. When Dad sang that song, everything was okay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">I can still hear his voice in his pre-Christmas message on my answering machine, explaining that he was really worn out from his previous travels and promised to come to my home right after Christmas. Good. I wanted him to rest. I wanted him well. Sadly – he was not able to make it to my home for his holiday visit before succumbing to a fatal drug interaction on Christmas Eve. Dad died on December 28th in 1998. He was 59. He was surrounded by all of us. I like to think that one of us sang <strong>You Are My Sunshine</strong> to him at some point during those three days.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Today I had Bonnie Hunt’s mother singing <strong>You Are My Sunshine</strong> wearing a nearly flaming, birthday sombrero causing me to cry the cry of sadness and loss, of regret that my youngest children, (one born after Dad died), will not know my Dad and that my older kids will not benefit from his wisdom. But it is also the cry of release and of gratitude that a simple song can prove that I remember him so well. Today I have that October 1998 visit back to help comfort and steady me. Today, in the time it took for Bonnie’s mom to sing a few lines of <strong>You Are My Sunshine</strong> – everything was okay.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Wonder if Alice knows <strong>Skiddamarinkydinkidink</strong>? That was the song that always followed the Happy Birthday song in our family. Dad thoroughly enjoyed singing that song too – especially during the teenage cringe-and-dive-under-the-table years.</span>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-78134680390090705322009-06-08T15:42:00.001-04:002009-06-08T15:42:46.776-04:00Fish<script type="text/javascript" src="http://widgets.clearspring.com/o/48cfe5b37f644537/4a2d69b5ae58e241/48cfe5b37f644537/f8f13960/widget.js"></script>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-61110516842790088422009-02-24T13:15:00.014-05:002009-02-24T14:40:20.095-05:00Now and then<span style="font-size:85%;">I don’t usually spend a lot of time comparing the differences in my children’s childhoods to mine own. I feel I can pride myself on being a fairly progressive mother. My parents were too. Neighborhood kids collected around my dad as he showed off Kodak’s newest photographic gadget and he was very excited about the upcoming computer age. My mom has spent some significant time on senior singles web sites and is a pro at playing computer solitaire. I still call her for refresher on Excel functions. But really – I have a blog, an Etsy shop, an interior design web site, a Facebook page (and both of my college kids “friended” me), I have had the same email address for over 10 years and I can video chat with my daughter. I am a firm believer that progress is great and vastly improves our quality of life.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">A few weeks ago I made the decision to let my younger kids buy Nintendo DS’s with their own Christmas and birthday money. (Anything they can do autonomously and in one place – can’t be too bad.) Shortly after the purchases, the kids each had a friend over. The friends brought their DS’s. Generally - adding two kids to my two kids means I can plan on an appropriate volume increase. That day it was oddly silent so I had to creep upstairs to investigate. The girls were shoulder to shoulder on their bellies with their DS games open – Pictochatting – with the boys who were in the other room – sprawled toe to toe. (They’re guys.) For those of you who don’t know, Pictochat is a DS function that is like short wave texting but written with a stylus on a screen. Unlike texting, this can only be done with another DS that is within 65 feet. It seemed pointless to me when my kids sat across the dining room table Pictochatting with each other, explaining its finer points to me. But then I remembered what we were all excited to be the first kids in the neighborhood to have. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTpGL3-n3FCZ0q0G3pIGZZw9JnhQP-QB6psaJzFEMMGHT6dDfMXJOHOLo_zWG9ZJMfJ1R_37T0nbMdbzg0N_32LAZsu9qFi7UFqqkEEpS7f7eeYhw3rNitjuEM62niAWV7zH0jUjyumJ4F/s1600-h/IMG_0419.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306448147978973890" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTpGL3-n3FCZ0q0G3pIGZZw9JnhQP-QB6psaJzFEMMGHT6dDfMXJOHOLo_zWG9ZJMfJ1R_37T0nbMdbzg0N_32LAZsu9qFi7UFqqkEEpS7f7eeYhw3rNitjuEM62niAWV7zH0jUjyumJ4F/s200/IMG_0419.JPG" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl_l7iIKUug5IUwjDswnVjmBPK9AyB-we0JQ9QuAK5RTomkJa9YS1Vk3C2tvUL1fKizbBGUgu6p3S0Y2pz_8ffYk9a6ZJXYVFTYWJBT8lae8PZ_Z3v0dQ4WSCQaWjQkRGAX-rdkVnAAD_j/s1600-h/pong.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306446531922024322" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 142px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl_l7iIKUug5IUwjDswnVjmBPK9AyB-we0JQ9QuAK5RTomkJa9YS1Vk3C2tvUL1fKizbBGUgu6p3S0Y2pz_8ffYk9a6ZJXYVFTYWJBT8lae8PZ_Z3v0dQ4WSCQaWjQkRGAX-rdkVnAAD_j/s200/pong.jpg" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Some things remain the same – kind of. A day playing in the snow with the girl next door requires different equipment these days, (the Red Ryder sleds pictured are actually decorations now) , but it still takes about 20 minutes worth of preparation to get out of the door and the result tends to be similar to what I remember. (Except that this snowman’s face came from the neighbor’s prefabricated kit-in-a-bucket.)<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ief7KERZVPAnXBuCw77C4MQJIuBOHmxU5hmJS8ic50UXZE-oxTMBUI0ZOYDRZcJv5fYYDvn5GMG5aD6M1yYo-Ap-juV2zjaqko7BrHBC1BxffFh6deafQiKELg4ynz48_fp70LtWy0uE/s1600-h/IMG_0489.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306446538392701938" style="WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3ief7KERZVPAnXBuCw77C4MQJIuBOHmxU5hmJS8ic50UXZE-oxTMBUI0ZOYDRZcJv5fYYDvn5GMG5aD6M1yYo-Ap-juV2zjaqko7BrHBC1BxffFh6deafQiKELg4ynz48_fp70LtWy0uE/s200/IMG_0489.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTDDz9OsL-CUPVPu-n9rtD2WMVObnOH_OJHVcCLiuthg-ZYfnriUYSdNzyDZ5UU69v7wK5nJfr7Y-aWHZ9qN4Kr4xx-mdZenhNroJXNNYlx_rYvRWudGDN7_Cn3uAyi_T1S1zRKFs2omw/s1600-h/IMG_0490.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306446535181288274" style="WIDTH: 158px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidTDDz9OsL-CUPVPu-n9rtD2WMVObnOH_OJHVcCLiuthg-ZYfnriUYSdNzyDZ5UU69v7wK5nJfr7Y-aWHZ9qN4Kr4xx-mdZenhNroJXNNYlx_rYvRWudGDN7_Cn3uAyi_T1S1zRKFs2omw/s200/IMG_0490.JPG" border="0" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRQLJkPFxhGLAUpMBS7G4F6VAsDPl09MdDZDRK0zLl1HeBF1qIzUBEXHTV4mRrYW8BAYPgm8YUs_1VsIdUBrerenUBpngO0aYj5-FrD2fcTq8ewUWMPbKRZDuFSFgQw3Cb7SGZnTT4ptX/s1600-h/IMG_0501.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306446544470962946" style="WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkRQLJkPFxhGLAUpMBS7G4F6VAsDPl09MdDZDRK0zLl1HeBF1qIzUBEXHTV4mRrYW8BAYPgm8YUs_1VsIdUBrerenUBpngO0aYj5-FrD2fcTq8ewUWMPbKRZDuFSFgQw3Cb7SGZnTT4ptX/s200/IMG_0501.JPG" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Recently, I was forced to marvel at some of the more significant differences in how we now need to communicate with our savvy kids when my 8 year old was diagnosed with ADHD. Both his doctor and I tried our best to explain it to him while in her office but I could tell from his face that he didn’t quite get it. My son knows about ADD so I tried to explain the differences. A look of revelation came upon his face. “So you mean,” he said, “that I have ADD but it’s in HD!?” Exactly. </span>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-12733731153397333332009-02-02T09:32:00.013-05:002009-02-05T10:35:35.584-05:00Sister Turf<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQV2aQUlLhZZiPjo90pkYYHNK1IiO2fAep79jJ8DF5FESlmN0dOemA6odO144jhTB4Ry-CCuMKJeL1ndmPsZyagYZlv3pvomDfBPd5WjWxkdh_uM3CqSU1Vm9E67Wt1xTuGhoJBdKGR1sT/s1600-h/1809002537_4f9b861117%5B1%5D.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299330584379973554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQV2aQUlLhZZiPjo90pkYYHNK1IiO2fAep79jJ8DF5FESlmN0dOemA6odO144jhTB4Ry-CCuMKJeL1ndmPsZyagYZlv3pvomDfBPd5WjWxkdh_uM3CqSU1Vm9E67Wt1xTuGhoJBdKGR1sT/s320/1809002537_4f9b861117%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Last week I missed a call from my sister. This is not too unusual. Being sisters - we call for no reason and leave 20 minute long messages, call when we need "company" driving from one place to another, or call to rant about a significant other or any given child. It's all allowed. We are also allowed to ignore calls if we know at that moment that we can not give it our full attention. (After all - there's probably a 20 minute message waiting that will sum up the purpose for the call.)<br /><br /></span><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Anyway, the particular call I missed was to inform me that she had been in a car accident - again. (Another story.) I listened to the message, when I discovered it, while shopping in a craft store with my 10 year old daughter finding supplies for an invention project. Here was my sister's voice telling me in detail about the "idiotic woman" and everything that had transpired at the fateful intersection. She was fine. She was waiting for the wrecker to tow her car and she needed "company" while waiting. </span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">In the tape/glue/adhesive isle of the craft store, I stopped dead, my hands and feet went numb, my vision tunneled and my ears began to ring. Just as it was registering with me that she was okay - my phone rang in my hand. It was my sister. She was driving somewhere in her, apparently, still drivable Prius and needed to be entertained in transit.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoBjeu_6IjvtSgSGosLiBs67WuKUGIc_CgItoUJzTXGPxh3RcNeZwMTBoAb91dVpkcQ7dHpT4PcSTPzJ2vKg_Rya8ih_jTtmJDmIW8f0ugGKqhyr7M3T9mwrqm1q_ItoQFEWqafHyd17Qp/s1600-h/IM001887.JPG"></a><span style="font-family:arial;"> As she described in detail, (again - because she knows I don't always listen to her entire 20 minute long voice mails), how the accident happened, I regained feeling in my feet and hands, put my glasses on to adjust my vision and yawned to stop the ringing in my ears and reminded my self to wonder what life without my sister would have been like and what it would be like now.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">First - I blame her for a lifetime of inappropriate boyfriends on my part. When we were in early high school, I had a crush on a really nice, clean cut boy from our neighborhood. He would wait for me to get off the bus and walk me home. One afternoon, I came home late from an after school event, to find my sister and that nice boy strolling around our neighborhood together. Somehow it never dawned on me that while he waited for and walked me home - he also waited for and walked my sister home. Duh. Never again would I allow that to happen. Thus began the parade of long haired, cigarette smoking bad boys that she could openly disdain and NEVER consider stealing.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Later in our teens my sister and I had our own version of "What Not To Wear". We would go to the mall together, go into a clothing boutique and pick out outfits for each other that the RULES said - we had to try on. Here are some factors that set the tone for this game. My sister played clarinet, was in the German Club and listened to Sammy Davis Jr. I had a smoking lounge pass, had friends that were drop outs and I listened to Frampton Comes Alive over and over. She found herself modeling extreme bell bottoms, shirts that incorporated embroidery and/or tassels and clogs. I was forced into powder blue suits, (it was the 70's), blouses that had some sort of bow-like neck closures and lapel pins. We would crack up in front of the mirrors and then go get a slice and a Coke.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Ten years ago our family converged on a hospital in upstate NY. Our dad was dying. It was the determined that we would be split into duos that would take shifts around the clock so that he was never alone. My sister and I were a duo. We were allowed into intensive care for only 15 minutes of each hour. For the other 45 minutes of each hour we would read, eat, watch tv, eat, call our spouses and eat. My sister would keep me company in the restroom while I pumped breast milk, intended for my six month old, and dumped it down the drain. I listened to her talk about her marriage failing. We are the only people in each others lives that it is safe to be inappropriately irreverent with.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">My sister has a photo hanging in her bathroom. It was taken of a 3 year old her and a 1 1/2 year old me. Our dad took it so it is taken from an adult vantage and we are looking up to him. I am partially turned toward my sister - hanging on to her hand with both of mine. I always look at that picture, (every time I am seated in her bathroom), and think how deceptive it is. NEVER was I that dependant on my sister.</span></div><br /><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Our differences are vast yet our similarities tend to dominate our relationship. Maybe because we are only 1 1/2 years apart, (she's OLDER), and each other's only sister - our lives are tied in ways that don't require geographic proximity or even daily contact. Conversations tend to pick up where we left off, no matter how long ago they were started and we totally kick butt in Pictionary because with one single drawn line - we know what the other is thinking. (That used to drive our <strong>first</strong> husbands nuts.) For the few moments that I was listening to her phone message - I had to consider life with out her. Maybe that photo in her bathroom isn't so deceptive.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Last night I missed another call from my sister She was spending 3 plus hours having gel nails applied. Next time I might write about my brother.</span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGlp9S-kBd9ULg0-FgxLg352h2x4pUNSbDqkSG-dqHUcSK4jCzQ0z7ncBWtViJCfwavhkRx6KCWwoQkx22oCvNhenbqqF6Xodn06LZdmnZ6YbiSMQ4H8vYNtRkgJ7uyg9DXW6hEqSAjK-6/s1600-h/ben_barbi.JPG"></a><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299330897644345746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 259px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBD9Va1BMgrOYpT_ijKxaO9sXQy4fv_FOAkYIHXd-KjNDUANNWVzn4RKqbShTeXRA97AyWOAplgcW-jElfD2YE-33X7WeRdNT3GU8R1FE4h13_UZqOxCcfQt3gVwpgMpmjhyphenhyphenlc0qNuKJVf/s320/ben_barbi.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><div></div><div></div><div><div></div></div></div>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-57549798042009042592009-01-23T11:17:00.006-05:002009-01-23T11:28:46.175-05:00Hair Day<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294524838337392450" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 303px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC7X_gvkPkjIsOLhixeCUFPNWclIVWiHLz0LtV4XxsPDzE0uk9ztAuakzQC71FKquSuc9Ejq1ZfGvmr1kn8uiCOfn_iDavEo8MriWnRbEXBA-iuVUajQI0zPtqcEo7xLeLFW0W4oeiSxYR/s320/IMG_0319.JPG" border="0" /><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">Hair Day started before I moved into my current neighborhood so I am not sure how it started or who started it but I'm pretty sure they should patent it. </span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>Here is the concept.</strong><br />Someone finds a really good hair stylist who is willing to come to a private home. (This isn't too hard because the stylist makes out well. None of their fees need go to a salon.) A specific home and time are arranged based on a number factors. The home has to have running water, room for at least four women to sit, dry and/or sprawl - and a broom. It is beneficial for it to also have snacks and entertainment for any accompanying children. The time should be arranged around stylist's availability, pediatric appointments, the current school bus drop off time, soccer, Girl scouts, gymnastics, job interviews and naps. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294524838911803426" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX-bEvq1GLYJ3nR3NOvGAfi8_0QmzSzXevGgxUDIyd8pnuyEHgUX5y_xdBSLIjA21sIPr82IUFjY1xivxSXtc9pIJoS2ZaWdVp9vljIt9N6Mkl1r59s7iPcOl0B6hfLRqKwGv9NZxAQXq1/s320/IMG_0318.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>Here's how it works.</strong><br />All participants arrive within an hour of the appointed time. (Things happen.) The stylist assesses everyone's needs and wishes then plots her plan of attack. The participants rotate their way through the day and comply with all cutting, coloring, rinsing, drying, waxing and blowing-out directives and assume the necessary positions.<br />It is understood that any participant may be required, at any point, to get a drink for a child that is not their own, arbitrate pre-school squabbles, let the dog out or burp a baby. All activities are to be completed before 3:40 p.m.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"></span><div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqPYOKX33epMjuXupkb6ZV_-72xHqTozlXTtw0Jpd8_oqwsiSNkPSNFH0uQTsDHlGdC1hBomwQ6VakVbz-snyROEHCFQSOsnhvll_53R540kV92H44AghkdDS022cbrg_dPBFON23qB8a/s1600-h/IMG_0327.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294524842854363730" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqPYOKX33epMjuXupkb6ZV_-72xHqTozlXTtw0Jpd8_oqwsiSNkPSNFH0uQTsDHlGdC1hBomwQ6VakVbz-snyROEHCFQSOsnhvll_53R540kV92H44AghkdDS022cbrg_dPBFON23qB8a/s320/IMG_0327.JPG" border="0" /></a></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTqPYOKX33epMjuXupkb6ZV_-72xHqTozlXTtw0Jpd8_oqwsiSNkPSNFH0uQTsDHlGdC1hBomwQ6VakVbz-snyROEHCFQSOsnhvll_53R540kV92H44AghkdDS022cbrg_dPBFON23qB8a/s1600-h/IMG_0327.JPG"></a></strong></span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:85%;"><strong>Inherent benefits.</strong><br />Benefits will be things such as - getting to know your neighbors, (Nothing bonds women more than talking about Brazilian waxing out loud while wearing no make-up.), catching up on neighborhood gossip and spending a day not cleaning. The most obvious benefit - good hair.<br /><br />Repeat every 5 to 6 weeks.</span></div></div>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-60287875348319315412009-01-22T08:38:00.002-05:002009-01-22T08:59:49.332-05:00R.I.P. Flip<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXFVoqTdrBlAJeYQ7TP0pPxGpxvpvtohpDcu7v-BVPkuBxOSeh3UfrGK7L2LmKtLK5dEV5u2ZY1sVSX4ZNsP0oQpewjT45Sbl9jH1-Tzyn8GTcIJVJlDPLCDzD2ZLoUzGSUSQ98TjOBtM/s1600-h/beta-fish.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294112607225571682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitXFVoqTdrBlAJeYQ7TP0pPxGpxvpvtohpDcu7v-BVPkuBxOSeh3UfrGK7L2LmKtLK5dEV5u2ZY1sVSX4ZNsP0oQpewjT45Sbl9jH1-Tzyn8GTcIJVJlDPLCDzD2ZLoUzGSUSQ98TjOBtM/s320/beta-fish.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYdtQUHznuWPJlDJgG01AqemNvVGsA0ZzMj4WBumXoDg4GQByHnym7gsyuLuk0ymYeGszrXUUKhn9BUclbVDOfF3uL_HlX8LuU5Ln-b0-a0UiBK5H4JRQgemTftYv0h4l8YimEiqWmXdby/s1600-h/images.jpg"></a><span style="font-family:arial;">Okay - this is not really Flip. This is a Flip stand-in. Now that Flip has past away, I realized that we never thought to photograph him. Were he a puppy, he may have been in many birthday, backyard or travel photos. But he was a fish. Fish don't travel well. </span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I used to tell the kids that he was the best dog we ever had. He would greet us each evening by pressing his little fish lips to the front of his tank waiting for his 5 - 8 pellets of floating food. Much to the kid's delight, I would speak to him as if he were a dog. "There's my good boy!" </span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">I said goodnight to him every night.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">Now that he's gone, (well - waiting in the freezer for a spring funereal), and even though he was just a fish - there are voids in my day. I find myself coming down stairs and looking to his bowl's former spot on the diningroom cabinet to make sure that the sun is not coming through the window - cooking him. When the kids spill into the house after getting off the bus - my mind automatically goes to "Who's turn is it to feed Flip?"</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">The kids had the expected response to Flip's passing. Claire cried through dinner, homework and right through to bedtime. Riley got anxious at Claire's constant was crying and used all possible means to divert my attention. Mostly he threw things.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">But all is not lost - the twins down the street, (Michael & Gabriel - really), have an adorable little white dog named Lena. She's going to have puppies soon.</span></div><div><span style="font-family:arial;"></span> </div><div><span style="font-family:arial;">R.I.P Flip.</span><br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqANRek_y0ZiPcafcdKjiOJdGCcIS5dG9ck0AvoKk4v8OzxGXGjh975F8Js3llp_GtJLV9cG61fh3WgVLqvCAhmJmZJncJ34khQFZ5jfpCqCGdPU-S5v7UzM-3fNk5gcnpeTcqqHC90z7A/s1600-h/images.jpg"></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div></div>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-83664819453895141362009-01-21T00:20:00.003-05:002009-01-21T00:31:35.552-05:00Riley's creativity<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4RkDspHfYgwpwUzTZ1nzdaYZgOk1iOsegZzyh6_XhZIHt2fDzjVAcBFeVk_glx_QNzzWgZzSA76Bj15mu6rr-U3ae54jK-mh1EZqbJyU1goiEpVYYTIxWINwGfLIYw20R5OgWhlTiQBmN/s1600-h/IMG_0295.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293615087832896642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4RkDspHfYgwpwUzTZ1nzdaYZgOk1iOsegZzyh6_XhZIHt2fDzjVAcBFeVk_glx_QNzzWgZzSA76Bj15mu6rr-U3ae54jK-mh1EZqbJyU1goiEpVYYTIxWINwGfLIYw20R5OgWhlTiQBmN/s320/IMG_0295.JPG" border="0" /></a> <span style="font-family:arial;">Sometimes you can be pleasantly surprised when you realize that your 8 year old has been very quiet for a long time. Fearing the worst, I discovered that he had spent his time creating this wonderful assemblage. While thrilled that I thought it was photoworthy - he was less thrilled to have to take it all down because he had built it in front of his sister's dresser.<br /></span><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293613411480604562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 239px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_Rlw8J6RJ9lw1f40g2vbmwviDtoSexH-hmldiUip0Lb-_TcPGAavf3ouyiMjFPlbVMzC4hTPlhrVDxKCRwreYUwIOeIim387GpxGJuqt5rJ4eLskbnPjbVqlpVmbTdU0iA4F_PW-edob/s320/IMG_0300.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div></div>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8929918769246388803.post-87394392793686334942009-01-16T10:29:00.001-05:002009-01-16T14:38:50.185-05:00the start<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW0rakYNAgFKXnxvWojtFxA49-4VV87r6T6KwDct9pyzzNtqXL_bWArDPgBcF1f1lV7LZwoA9NSsU8LL-iyYqiW7d4ua-TykCpSEnsxggCID7BeBQgPSR5dhn2sefHuJjpDAbNDc4KaEZl/s1600-h/be+yourself.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291922264565724274" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 154px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW0rakYNAgFKXnxvWojtFxA49-4VV87r6T6KwDct9pyzzNtqXL_bWArDPgBcF1f1lV7LZwoA9NSsU8LL-iyYqiW7d4ua-TykCpSEnsxggCID7BeBQgPSR5dhn2sefHuJjpDAbNDc4KaEZl/s200/be+yourself.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div><br /><p align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;">it's a start</span></p><br /><p align="left"><span style="font-family:arial;font-size:130%;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXhM_YkAMABM4Wsdrro6TFCBe8g2TjHxE4o43OCwVVpOWTCsKBUPyxi5giHsDwylRIsiHYcmbkGHsOwYkiNAAb5J6AQvO91tpH05W_30HvY2-7UphP5dZsMGU0Q0vAeEunXj0vVhwz7Rka/s1600-h/be+yourself.jpg"></a></span></p>barblinoelhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03953959423668342307noreply@blogger.com3