tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83500713789194538152024-03-05T17:42:31.640-06:00Ventage Inklings<i>...yes, it is a word.</i>
<br>ventage: n. A small opening; a vent.
<br>inkling: n. A vague idea or notion.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-64053189124836601602009-08-24T13:55:00.012-05:002009-09-09T08:00:08.550-05:00Here's Your Sign<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYRNhQ63hwCkomFmukybruGbuOu2VWrFrpG_JLRimuAxh8kwnmBn0TIuQoS9O-PQcZnqvsP9pRfKVcIF4dfndrl_Z_NGXOUDF5S3cbxz9GbKevjpnDfU7MELMnfxGegtyBm8tnVrGfL2M/s1600-h/Road+Work+Ahead.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 288px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYRNhQ63hwCkomFmukybruGbuOu2VWrFrpG_JLRimuAxh8kwnmBn0TIuQoS9O-PQcZnqvsP9pRfKVcIF4dfndrl_Z_NGXOUDF5S3cbxz9GbKevjpnDfU7MELMnfxGegtyBm8tnVrGfL2M/s400/Road+Work+Ahead.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373610961254056578" border="0" /></a>Lots of construction going on around our house. Not inside my house mind you, remember I am the cobbler's barefoot child. Rather BY our house.<br /><br />You know, road work. Sewage work. Our tax dollars hard at work.<br /><br />Not.<br /><br />I can say "not" because it seems every time we drive by the area the road crew is either standing around looking at a hole in the mud or sitting under a tree watching the mud dry. Seems more like my tax dollars on vacation. Not that my vacations are spent watching mud dry.<br /><br />Another thing we see everywhere are signs. Lots and lots of signs. Big neon yellow signs. Big orange and black signs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU5YSez5nu4cu8MITBdgczNXuuzWPYYwqZ2zKKsKIuCsEGTRI_GObM1EyHdCaiVHrZuGM-UedGIPzwrGeCIRoicBrE93G5XHT4LL1uK2NeKzPy4mOhHsNz10JoYAH_R9g72TMl0annIxA/s1600-h/Slow+Traffic.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 199px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU5YSez5nu4cu8MITBdgczNXuuzWPYYwqZ2zKKsKIuCsEGTRI_GObM1EyHdCaiVHrZuGM-UedGIPzwrGeCIRoicBrE93G5XHT4LL1uK2NeKzPy4mOhHsNz10JoYAH_R9g72TMl0annIxA/s400/Slow+Traffic.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373614789690551602" border="0" /></a><br />Making sure we are aware that there is actually something going on besides men in hard hats on extended lunch breaks discussing important official city stuff like if that really was a hole they were staring at for the past four hours.<br /><br />Signs like this one:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBhw9p6SFHvlZY7qS5AI5v3sZ_g3KkDK9mZ54liSZzrZMlsbYt9bhFVefORVvd6wzPtd6hMqKdvXW3WEVfhyphenhyphenT2aKYi_UtyhQmlq3I6UJJBYmhM7JnDYFNoDpT-uYh2-zNxTifWLA0Ev0/s1600-h/men_at_work_sign.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 265px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwBhw9p6SFHvlZY7qS5AI5v3sZ_g3KkDK9mZ54liSZzrZMlsbYt9bhFVefORVvd6wzPtd6hMqKdvXW3WEVfhyphenhyphenT2aKYi_UtyhQmlq3I6UJJBYmhM7JnDYFNoDpT-uYh2-zNxTifWLA0Ev0/s400/men_at_work_sign.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379449366582481378" border="0" /></a><br /><br />And this one:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dS_MlK1zm6QGf-ED8NAEa5eyJKCF7cPPrMh6sCwF97sApX4bs4TODIW5nRudUXkQi8cal8tWHB1YuCqLjyoGtmscXjJUcsNGD0sCMK7D30YquJJMESR_GgKaUWB2Q_XIWZtecILq3J8/s1600-h/Homeless+Crossing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6dS_MlK1zm6QGf-ED8NAEa5eyJKCF7cPPrMh6sCwF97sApX4bs4TODIW5nRudUXkQi8cal8tWHB1YuCqLjyoGtmscXjJUcsNGD0sCMK7D30YquJJMESR_GgKaUWB2Q_XIWZtecILq3J8/s400/Homeless+Crossing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373609235928068498" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Which made my daughter ask (in all sincerity, I might add) "What does that sign mean? 'homeless man crossing'?"<br /><br />Yes, baby, and his cardboard says <span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: verdana;">"Will work for your tax dollars (maybe)"</span>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-22741193331270155552009-07-31T14:49:00.004-05:002009-07-31T16:32:48.231-05:00Good QuestionMy husband, being the gifted handyman that he is, is often asked by friends and co-workers to repair some thing or another in their home.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Meanwhile, my honey-do list sits home by the phone waiting for a booty call. You know the old saying, "The handyman's children need their house painted." Oh, wait, that's a cobbler's children don't have shoes...sorry, just a little snarkiness leaking from the unfixed roof there.) </span><br /><br />Where was I? Oh yes...this past Saturday for instance he got the bat signal just as we were sitting down to lunch and he informed the commissioner he would be by to fix the woes of Gotham that evening. So around that time Vicky Vale here is feeling the need for caffeine and since Batman wanted me to tag-along and hang out with him I jumped in the Batmobile excited for the java, uh, the company...Hey, I may need my house painted, but I do have my priorities in order.<br /><br />This person's home is on the market and they no longer live there, but they did have friends of theirs staying in the home over the weekend since they were in town for a wedding. And their firends had the cutest stinking kids. Seriously.<br /><br />Their little boy was probably six months old and was all dressed up for the shindig. He was teething and drooling and quite the serious little man. I kept exchanging my dignity in hopes of a giggle, a smile, anything toothless and baby-like, but he remained indifferent to my blathering.<br /><br />The little girl was fashionably adorable, of course. All of 3 years old, she spoke as precise as an ivy league English professor. She informed me she was going to be a ballerina and firmly requested my full attention as she spun in a circle showing me her ballerina skills.<br /><br />Arms out, eyes closed she spun and spun in dizzying circles and her dress flared out around her like the perfect ballerina's dress should. I told her I thought that was the best thing about a dress. She heartily concurred.<br /><br />She finished her ballet recital with a grand flop (that is french for "to throw oneself with passion") on to the couch and emphasized it by sticking her legs straight up in the air. I applauded and politely turned away giving her a moment to recover and cover. However, she remained positioned thusly. After a moment or two of awkward silence, her mother, (in that very motherly voice that asks a question in a tone that implies it is in no way an easy question but something you should pay strict attention to or else) inquired "Mikaela, do ballerinas show their panties?"<br /><br />At this, my dainty little professor slash ballerina sat up, furrowed her brow in thought and replied...<br /><br />"maybe"<br /><br />And promptly began the second act of her recital.<br /><br />Applause, applause. Roses are thrown. Bows are taken. Curtains close. Good night.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-30075399628889719042009-07-02T07:53:00.009-05:002009-07-08T16:04:15.506-05:00The Right to Bare ArmsJust because my arms could fit a tattoo of one of them there naked lady outlines you see on 18 wheeler mud-flaps. Life-sized. With room to spare. Doesn't mean I should be ashamed. <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(Ok. Just disregard my last post and momentarily put aside all my insecurities.)<br /><br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlEhgF23Njp16WhPyVW068jyndqRScaHSMc_fWx045L8tancaenArBZgW6ajg3EJSb1ExgBXnlf0_6yJ1tBoEyeoKXBlRjB3hXa23KlFJnN2N1lNMK8_OGFV2QCOqv0GAkXBMVbvVLZY/s1600-h/The+Right+to+Bare+Arms.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQlEhgF23Njp16WhPyVW068jyndqRScaHSMc_fWx045L8tancaenArBZgW6ajg3EJSb1ExgBXnlf0_6yJ1tBoEyeoKXBlRjB3hXa23KlFJnN2N1lNMK8_OGFV2QCOqv0GAkXBMVbvVLZY/s320/The+Right+to+Bare+Arms.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356196148407487010" border="0" /></a><br />You see, I don't care that they flap in the breeze, jiggle when I brush, hang like a hammock with a sumo-wrestler napping in it.<br /><br />Or that I've been likened to a flying bat.<br /><br />Or that I could be a circus side show phenomenon, The Incredible Stretchy Woman! (as well as The Bearded & Mustached Lady!)<br /><br />Or that I could get some serious lift (about 1 to 2 inches off the ground) if I flap hard enough.<br /><br />Or that I should register them as weapons. No kidding. Honey, I can slap the silly off of a clown from two feet away with these arm flaps of mine!<br /><br />Never mind any of that...I've worked so very hard. And these flappy babies are a symbol, a memorial banner (hung low) if you will, to where and who I once was. A beautiful tribute to WLS success stories and 40+ women all over the world.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IpI-it7PRUJhBLtCWr8x6y6qApvvvWNtUY9rLuGRnWHBFFr24SUMKIpJ7p2dwnYQRQ7tVsT9V0qWIT7OAe7Oy-xeEHj0NpgzrEVutHfCfYOhvi4OAJ2aQL5xApN9oSI-2YzNHssu5nI/s1600-h/Before+WLS.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2IpI-it7PRUJhBLtCWr8x6y6qApvvvWNtUY9rLuGRnWHBFFr24SUMKIpJ7p2dwnYQRQ7tVsT9V0qWIT7OAe7Oy-xeEHj0NpgzrEVutHfCfYOhvi4OAJ2aQL5xApN9oSI-2YzNHssu5nI/s320/Before+WLS.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356195915056103186" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg928-fMuSoLNCIShyphenhyphendAV8Aug2Y1RAwIRENN8m0hVfOSZcwD-jXiClGQC5eqvHJMGjg2AA_SPmVXeRshHxvBri8qL_zrxO_5gair4RMsDmiC9xxKBiUGsym9hnSTANhyoK5Mac9ED85T6o/s1600-h/Bare+Arms+Comic.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 347px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg928-fMuSoLNCIShyphenhyphendAV8Aug2Y1RAwIRENN8m0hVfOSZcwD-jXiClGQC5eqvHJMGjg2AA_SPmVXeRshHxvBri8qL_zrxO_5gair4RMsDmiC9xxKBiUGsym9hnSTANhyoK5Mac9ED85T6o/s320/Bare+Arms+Comic.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356195593598573298" border="0" /></a><br />And I want them removed as soon as I can get insurance approval. Or a large sum of money falls from the heavens with no strings or taxes attached...whichever comes first.<br /><br />But until then, I <span style="font-weight: bold;">will</span> wear short sleeves. Go sleeveless. Wear spaghetti straps. Wave and flap as much as Grandma Moses with an American flag on 4th of July. Without shame or shawl to hide behind.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLu9Y1VHE5B_8J1wVGtFhG2mNJSeTM5oI9xZX3lmsPV9Du61tX-3tz9v8f1_XHNoMotYyCw5-Vb3zYWM7jKFECXK0jGreLBSGhExkVbWldsI_U_a2mXR8gGtyBy_wsgsHBvsmiZpe_zgE/s1600-h/The+Right+to+Bare+Arms+III.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLu9Y1VHE5B_8J1wVGtFhG2mNJSeTM5oI9xZX3lmsPV9Du61tX-3tz9v8f1_XHNoMotYyCw5-Vb3zYWM7jKFECXK0jGreLBSGhExkVbWldsI_U_a2mXR8gGtyBy_wsgsHBvsmiZpe_zgE/s320/The+Right+to+Bare+Arms+III.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356196435274713426" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Take <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;" >that</span> you inbred, banjo playing goons!Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-65853754992332880412009-06-09T07:53:00.021-05:002009-06-24T18:17:10.382-05:00If the Shoe Fits Size TwoI had the rare pleasure of buying myself some new shoes a couple of weeks ago. I say "pleasure" rather tongue-in-cheekish because (if you know anything about me) you know I hate (read <i>loathe</i>) to shop. (Which explaineth the rarity of said "pleasure"). Any well, I went straight for the size that I've worn for all adulthood and found several not so high-heeled, not so pricey, not too limited color-wise and sat down to try on my selections.<br /><br />And to my delight, not a single one of them fit.<br /><br />I returned to the shelves and picked up smaller size, slipped it on before I got comfy and nope...still too big. Wow. Cool. My feet have <i>really</i> shrunk.<br /><br />Now, somewhere in the area otherwise known as my brain...where the knowledge dwells and thinking is <i>(in theory) </i>supposed to happen...the realization has already occurred. I've lost 175 pounds so, yeah, my old shoes have become looser and I connected that to shrinkage happening all over and not just to my butt. However, the reality of it, or rather the proof of it is far sweeter. Seriously, my feet lost a size or two depending on the shoe. Like I said, sweet!<br /><br />That brain to body connection gets broken down in lots of areas. It's like there's this highway from self-image to reality and this highway has detours in to necks of the wood where reality is not at all welcome. Your hurtful past and your distorted self-image are there sitting on the porch of a post-Katrina-esque shack all gussied up in tattered overalls, scratching their bloated bellies and swigging moonshine. Reality has a not-so-firm grip on your arm and is tapping you on the shoulder for all its worth, begging you to get out of there NOW because reality hears the banjos playing. All the while those inbred goons are waving a shotgun in your face and telling you white lies through 3 black teeth and a wicked smile. And for reasons known only to your heart you continue to walk right in to their disinuring web of deception.<br /><br />I’ve said it before, what I see in the mirror and what I am in reality are often uncharted miles apart.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNkOoP5mKU8jnzSp3YK8WEExcyxbMa362id-i7AtCnNhai1ktIc116Kqriz8WF-8nR_G-4x6Jlwh9MqQiH0IBP5v8E6XqiT6YHj_sKMzsI2FXFC4Xu12Sc1K0r39Zx0TwrqXg7nym2WE/s1600-h/Funhouse+Mirror.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 155px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnNkOoP5mKU8jnzSp3YK8WEExcyxbMa362id-i7AtCnNhai1ktIc116Kqriz8WF-8nR_G-4x6Jlwh9MqQiH0IBP5v8E6XqiT6YHj_sKMzsI2FXFC4Xu12Sc1K0r39Zx0TwrqXg7nym2WE/s320/Funhouse+Mirror.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349428543729030178" border="0" /></a>And more often how others see me and how I view myself are as different as Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Yes, I am the cynical sort. Not the glass is half-empty kind. No, I see the positive in life, I just don't think I'm really the recipient of the positive. Or that the positive is what it appears to be. So, even if the glass is half-full doesn't mean I get to drink from it. And I'm going to doubt the actual fullness of said glass until the water is poured out, measured, weighed and the glass is refilled and handed back to me. Then maybe I will believe that I get to have the glass and drink the water too. But, I tarry on the wrong rabbit trail...<br /><br />You would think the more time that passes in this new body of mine, the more I would grow used to the new view. But words that are now ascribed to me are as unfitting and unfamiliar to me as those size 9 1/2 shoes. Words like: <span style="font-family:times new roman;">skinny, tiny, little </span>and phrases such as <span style="font-family:times new roman;">you are an inspiration to me, you look amazing, I hate you, I want to look like you,</span> cause me to turn to see just who the heck they are talking to because, surely, it’s not me. This isn’t me pretending to be humble and this isn’t me fishing for compliments, this is out and out disbelief because I just don’t see it that way at all. Nor do I believe it. (Remember the half-full glass? Of course you do...)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKTAKw696I5jinQv8S_Lmx589hFoUqBGB8a2z-CBlDhZU2BYm1bwxt4LNykV3lkz545gw1KTXjcPS1HGHaP-B_LePVTJtK5tXLfD1ilka0fzHVtc0ryzqyWC6dxX9EX1_BtWidxphZz0I/s1600-h/Funhouse+Mirror+3.GIF"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKTAKw696I5jinQv8S_Lmx589hFoUqBGB8a2z-CBlDhZU2BYm1bwxt4LNykV3lkz545gw1KTXjcPS1HGHaP-B_LePVTJtK5tXLfD1ilka0fzHVtc0ryzqyWC6dxX9EX1_BtWidxphZz0I/s320/Funhouse+Mirror+3.GIF" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351035391156253378" border="0" /></a>No matter that it has been nearly 16 months since my surgery. Or that I'm now a size 4 and have been for 3 or 4 months. Size FOUR I said. Something I never, ever, ever, ever dreamed possible. No matter that I am physically capable of doing anything and everything that I want to do, whereas before even thinking of attempting any level of activity would have rendered me breathless, immobile from pain or dead of cardiac arrest. No matter. The words are foreign and I don’t speak the language.<br /><br />This is due to the fact that the weight loss surgery didn't occur in my brain. That operation does not happen once and its over with, whew I'm cured. Nope, this is a medicine I have to take daily like a good girl. Sometimes I refuse the treatment and suffer the consequences.<br /><br />And for those who think weight loss surgery is the easy route, you should know that there are no easy routes in life. You may start down that seemingly easy road, but the banjos will catch up to you my friend. And if you want to escape the outcome you and reality will have to paddle faster.<br /><br />And frankly my dears, it’s all just a bit scary. Not the banjos. Well, yes the banjos are scary but I am going somewhere else...Scary because seriously, you want to look like <i>ME</i>? I inspire <i>YOU</i>? You <i>HATE </i>me because I’m skinny? Inconceivable. Oh people, if you only knew.<br /><br />There is within me a fierce insecurity with regards to how I look now, more so than when I weighed 315 lbs. I was far more comfortable cloaked in my layers of fat, protected and cushioned from the world’s eyes along with its expectations and ideas. And while I’d like to believe that I do not and will not cater to the world, truth is I find that I very much do. And while I long to be free of the desire for man’s approval, that desire sits there along with my self-image and my past, both daunting and taunting me. Quite a motley crew, those three are.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ICLqg54uZu5-EEZyUC_I1uoWBRa2WPQITNMI5Ss8w19FH5RV74a9zNrBIx5qzJUCqqkOdtlczXdEquuJXAJ9FYv0ltt65uZr7pcx2yodZasbKyTS21F8-RYsMBzVvctGMGnGQ3vUPJQ/s1600-h/Funhouse+Mirror+4.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 163px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ICLqg54uZu5-EEZyUC_I1uoWBRa2WPQITNMI5Ss8w19FH5RV74a9zNrBIx5qzJUCqqkOdtlczXdEquuJXAJ9FYv0ltt65uZr7pcx2yodZasbKyTS21F8-RYsMBzVvctGMGnGQ3vUPJQ/s320/Funhouse+Mirror+4.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350511791092962850" border="0" /></a><br /></div>So now I am learning to make peace with both the reflection and the reality. Connecting who it is I think I am with who I want to be. I think, basically, that is life daily for all on planet Earth.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Go figure.<br /><br />Oh, and yes I found shoes. Not these though...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMKOGNtvOJURsxO7hC5DlBRAA9wFVk8SG3gLmm1IOb_zjy-3zXcpGchqH4_eCPgwNP009uFBThfmilolsd_46cK2w4xJmW-f-4Uuk3oOiDReDimZsmhHbAU0AQnBmWe9zN3xeVfnWz84/s1600-h/Anime+Shoes.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSMKOGNtvOJURsxO7hC5DlBRAA9wFVk8SG3gLmm1IOb_zjy-3zXcpGchqH4_eCPgwNP009uFBThfmilolsd_46cK2w4xJmW-f-4Uuk3oOiDReDimZsmhHbAU0AQnBmWe9zN3xeVfnWz84/s320/Anime+Shoes.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351035395114524034" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(not my foot)</span></span><br /><br />Those beauties - according to my bff - are for all the <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anime">anime</a> hookers out there...Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-83558898373860965592009-06-05T11:12:00.007-05:002009-06-09T07:50:57.328-05:00Empty NexterI'm standing in the middle of my favorite grocery store and I've been shopping for quite some time now. My basket is, for all intents and purposes, more than full. I stand, looking over my selections, watching the other shoppers. They appear enraptured with their selections, their carts, their choices...just their being there. Yawn.<br /><br />Some are genuinely happy and I envy them. In my heart there is a longing to feel that happiness, that sense of contentment they seem to get from just being there. I don't understand it anymore. I used to, but now I am so very bored with it all. I've seen everything, over and over. I've snacked on the samples. I've gone home with and gorged on probably every item available to me in hopes that I will finally feel that proverbial illusive happiness only to realize I'm not content at all. I am still so very, very empty.<br /><br />I walk up and down each aisle looking for what it is I feel I am missing. There is a clue here somewhere. Something they have in their cart that I don't have. Surely.<br /><br />Some offer a specific item they are sure will answer my dilemma. I used to toss those into my cart with hopeful eagerness. But at this point in my journey I no longer think another item in my cart will make a difference to the balance, one way or the other. My appetite waned, my interest unmotivated.<br /><br />I feel like walking away. No, scratch that. I feel like <span style="font-style: italic;">running</span> away. Screaming. The urge to flee is so very strong. I want to leave the basket there and never return. What's the use? What purpose does this or that item serve. I no longer care about the contents or what happens to me if I don't purchase them. I no longer care to be here. I am empty. My heart screams NEXT!!??!!??<br /><br />This is how it's been for some time now. It's not the store; I've been to many different stores. And it's not the contents of the basket; it's all healthy choices, no Twinkies or chips - not that an occasional Twinkie or bag of chips is bad mind you - but I don't even crave those things. I am empty. And I want next.<br /><br />This is my walk in the Christian life of late. I am bored. Bored with Christianity, bored with church, bored with the reasons I am bored and bored with the answers to my boredom.<br /><br />I am empty and I am screaming NEXT!?!?!?!<br /><br />Yes, I work at a church. Yes, I attend this church and love this church. I love the God I worship and serve. I have no question of who He is or if He is or where He is. I've no question of my faith, the validity of my religion or the truth of Christ. All that is very solid, very real.<br /><br />I know His word. I've read His word over and over. I've sat at His feet and desperately clung to His cross pleading for more of Him. He knows all of this because I talk to Him in very real terms on a daily basis.<br /><br />And yet, I am empty. Next?<br /><br />I'm not sure where this post is going or what my point is other than to put it out there. I know others feel the same because I've had this conversation with quite a few people. Christians bored with Christianity.<br /><br />There is no answer you can give me. I am not asking for <u>a</u> solution or even <u>your</u> solution. No need to invite me to visit your grocery store. No sense in me envying or borrowing what you have in your cart. No need to figure out what snack, ingredient or even recipe I should try now. Nope. Been there. Done that. Next?Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-52369555357366668382009-06-02T07:46:00.004-05:002009-06-04T15:47:21.459-05:00If the Shoe Fits<span style="font-style: italic;">Buy it in 3 colors and work it girl! </span>I know, I know...it doesn't end that way. But again, I remind you, this is my blog neglected or not.<br /><br />I had other titles in mind. "That Witch We Call, Arose" Or how about, "The Lovely Miss Gnomer" and for our Spanish speaking friends "¡Eso sí que es, s.o.c.k.s.!" And these all are, indeed, a bit more apropos to the subject at hand, but oh well.<br /><br />On the way to work the car radio was squawking as usual. I truly hate morning radio, just play some music and be quiet already. It is too early to think, I don't want to hear crude humor and I'm far to sleepy to care. And I'm a morning person. So, I reach over to turn it down/off when this line from a commercial got my attention.<br /><br />"Come stay at the Lock n' Terror Resort"<br /><br />I turned, quizzically to Speed Racer, also known as my husband and said "would you want to stay at a hotel named "Lock 'n Terror"?" He chuckled. Then realized I was serious. Then he laughed. Out loud. In my face.<br /><br />Rude.<br /><br />"La Cantera. hon. It's La Can-ter-a."<br /><br />Oh. Well, that clears that up. The gentleman from the commercial was, clearly, from the south of east Texas and was, clearly, (how shall I say this?) NOT of the Hispanic persuasion because it, clearly, was not heard as anything recognizable as, close to or resembling Spanish or a Spanish pronunciation. So there.<br /><br />Of course there was not a goofy white-guy to excuse the time I asked my beloved why anyone in their right mind would name a company "Tit-least"? He responded so graciously and mercifully - laughing till he cried and then gently correcting me, at the top of his lungs, so as to protect me from the embarrassment of anyone nearby hearing "that's title-IST"...and to keep from furthering my embarrassment, he refuses to tell anyone this story. More than once or twice. While laughing.<br /><br />I take it in stride. Only hitting him once or twice. While laughing.<br /><br />Apparently the tree keeps its fruit really close because the youngest tends to ask the same questions. While examining a bag of cough drops during her recent brush with death she asked me "what's four-moo-lah?"<br /><br />"I'm sorry, what?"<br /><br />"What's four-moo-lah?" saying it slow for me, because that helps the blond lead the blind.<br /><br />"In context?"<br /><br />"On the cough drops bag it says: soothing four-moo-lah."Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-21065239503967418612009-05-20T14:09:00.010-05:002009-05-22T09:50:49.624-05:00One Post Will Not Do<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHS25r8PQ0UL7X6BaVbmvRyOqiNGq8HDvHXkMlj8VYIyp2wF69sFurOXYhJ2RhTVJ4gTfeZDAxCwfXczVin8oA5BlDG6Yhwwq-BYCT55S8cQzrVrIZA1Mg21OUvDFgWnbU5KphS68I6E/s1600-h/Mom.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 230px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGHS25r8PQ0UL7X6BaVbmvRyOqiNGq8HDvHXkMlj8VYIyp2wF69sFurOXYhJ2RhTVJ4gTfeZDAxCwfXczVin8oA5BlDG6Yhwwq-BYCT55S8cQzrVrIZA1Mg21OUvDFgWnbU5KphS68I6E/s320/Mom.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338000953615717266" border="0" /></a>How can you sum up someone's life in a post, an obituary, or even a biography of epic proportions? You cannot. There are too many moments, uncountable elements, layers shifting constantly and many varied roles and characters. So much so that one's life is never, ever completely captured in any form.<br /><br />To try seems almost offensive. Tasteless even. As if you are somehow detracting from all that a person was by attempting to convey only the significant details, meanwhile all the perfect little moments slip by unnoticed and forgotten. The Reader's Digest abridged version of a life, if you will.<br /><br />Which details do you decide are significant? Which part of the whole defines one's essence? Where do you begin, follow and end? What do you leave out? What do you leave with?<br /><br />I guess for some this task might be an easy one. Not me. I've struggled with the words, the title, the manner in which I attempt tell you about the woman who was/is my mother since her passing.<br /><br />There is no way I could impart to you the strength with which she faced each day and the tenacious grip she held on life. You would perhaps miss the fact that she lived life with a quiet dignity and tremendous courage. You might not see the depth of her beauty and possibly never grasp the dynamics of her wisdom and humor.<br /><br />In my grief I am not forgetting her less than shiny qualities. Her razor sharp tongue that could put you in your place and let you know how she felt in no uncertain terms. Then there's her more than quick temper (that some might say I inherited) her love for an off-colored joke and so on. No, those things are part of the whole as well. They must remain in tact with the rest of the memories otherwise it is a dishonor to her. And I cherish the rough facets of her life as much as I do the polished ones.<br /><br />I especially cherish the last two weeks I had with her. I sat by her bed from early morning to late night as she lay dying. I keep a notebook in my purse and would take it out to journal the last days with her, lest I forget. Lest anyone forget.<br /><br />Some of my notes are far too personal, some too sad or cruel to share because death is not a Hollywood moment. As I look them over now, I hesitate to put them here, to hand them over to anyone. For up until now they have been my memories alone.<br /><br />My purpose it not to make you cry, my mother would not have that, merely to give you a glimpse. An unedited glimpse, I do not apologize for the grammar/spelling or language.<br /><br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">She wants to go in to hospice. Basta is basta she says. Huh, didn't know she knew those words in Spanish. Oh God help me, this is for real. I am torn, selfishly torn. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Can I remember everything I need to remember about my mom? Where was she born? Who were her parents? Do those things matter? (here I try to jot down details, dates, names...)</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">She removes the oxygen mask from her face, I stand and start to tell her she has to leave it on. She tells me, I heart you. I laugh and cry at the same time. I heart you too mom.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">She lays there staring at the ceiling. I ask what she's thinking. (I'm expecting some end of journey deep thought) She informs me she is playing mental games and counting the ceiling tiles. I ask how many are there? She replies, there is 1/2 an inning left and the batter strikes out. That's some mental game mom.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Next door the family has just learned their husband/father/brother has suffered a debilitating stroke. My heart is filled with sadness for the journey they have ahead. The nurses are yelling his name "Mr Rosie-lest?" He isn't answering. I want to tell them "You idiots! Of course he won't respond, it's ROSALES! (rose-ah-less)." But I stay quiet.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Each day there's a song stuck in my head. A playlist if you will. Today's song is </span><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://www.lyricsmode.com/lyrics/l/lifehouse/you_and_me_and_all_of_the_people.html">Lifehouse's song You And Me And All of the People...nothing to do, nothing to lose...</a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">I think what is her absolute favorite song? I know she likes Sinatra, Helen Reddy...I want to sing to her and cannot remember the stinking words to any songs she likes. I keep singing Lifehouse. The next day it was </span><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/d/don+mclean/american+pie_20042099.html">"American Pie" by Don McLean.</a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"> Then </span><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/p/peter%2C+paul+%26+mary/leaving+on+a+jet+plane_20107643.html">"Leaving on a Jet Plane" by Peter, Paul & Mary</a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">. Then </span><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://www.stlyrics.com/lyrics/bridgetjonessdiary/upupandaway.htm">"Up, Up & Away" by Fifth Dimension</a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">. Strange what songs the mind dregs up.We liked those songs when I was little. I remembered there was one song she sang to me over and over. She said it was our song. I cannot remember this song either. This makes me cry.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">CC has come again today. She comes everyday and stays for hours. I so enjoy her company. What person can do this without it being their relative or friend? With the power of God's love and mercy. Perhaps mom has brought me a friend. Sometimes visitors come and I almost feel resentful of their intrusion. I don't resent her. I am grateful for her presence, it is comforting.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">The nursing home called. They want to box up her stuff and release her bed. I am confused. I know she is dying but am hesitant to make that step. I resent their implications. The rudeness, the callousness and the reality of what their call means. Is this the denial phase of grief? Isn't that supposed to happen after death?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Her first nurse's name was Blessing. Then there was Nazarene. This nurse's name is Tommy. So young, just a baby really. How does he deal with this every day? I think I like him best. He is the kindest to her.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Man I've had way too much coffee. Hospital coffee sucks. All they have are these little packets of powder creamer and I add way too many in hopes it will taste a bit better. I hope someone will bring me a gallon of Starbuck's...I'd settle for a Venti.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">She asks me to lower the head of her bed. She sighs "heaven, here I come." I burst into tears. She doesn't notice, she is back asleep.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Her breathing see-saws between labored and shallow with long silences between each. I find myself watching closely and holding my breath with her.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">She has been unresponsive now for days. I miss her already. I tell her this. I talk to her while I watch "Cash Cab". I ask her the questions from the show and then remark on the answers. I cry and I laugh. She lays there, not knowing. Damnit, is this even still her? I wonder. This seems to be an empty shell, the body functioning, the spirit gone.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">I went home last night to find 3 boxes of her things in my living room from the nursing home. How sad. 76 years of a life dumped into 3 boxes. Those sons of bitches could have waited. There is someone already in her bed, Jesse tells me.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">I've told her I love her a thousand times today alone. Does she hear me? Does she remember that? I wash her, brush her teeth, change her. Tell her I love her again. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">Each night I leave there is a sense of this is it finality. Panic sets in the moment I step foot outside her room. What if she leaves now and I'm not there to say goodbye? People encourage me to go eat, go sleep...do something normal. It feels good to get out of there, but not for long. fear sets in quickly and I fear I must get back to her.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);">She passed away on Mother's Day. What a gift to her to be released from that body of death. That broken shell is no longer her home.This is the same day I remember the song she called ours.</span><a style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://www.metrolyrics.com/you-and-me-against-the-world-lyrics-helen-reddy.html"> You and Me Against the World by Helen Reddy.</a><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"> I sing it over and over and cry myself to sleep.</span><br /></span><br /></span>Cory Ann Snowdon 1932-2009<br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><br /></span>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-61675147881547276902009-04-29T14:58:00.008-05:002009-04-29T15:58:56.964-05:00For Lack of a Better WordI wrote the following post back in August of last year, and except for the part about the Olympics, the post is still eh, <span style="font-style: italic;">somewhat</span> relevant. I don't think I've ever posted any part of it but, hey if I did, then read it again dangit. And if I didn't, then in the spirit of protecting the earth's resources, you know being GREEN, reduce, reuse, recycle and all that jazz (What? Oh don't tell me it doesn't apply to blogging!) I thought I would go ahead and post it for you. I have several such as this one, started, not finished. Random ideas floating about and pinned to the cork-board of my blog's dashboard like a long forgotten post-it reminder. And those will follow...<br /><br />In the mean time, I'm writing something that's been a recurring theme. It is a difficult quilt to pattern, so it is taking me quite some time to lay it out, piece it together and make it in to something you can use. Bear with me, k?<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">------------------------------------------------------<br /></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >I'm Not So Good At This...</span><br /><br />...blogging more often thing.</span><br />Every time I write a new post I say to my blog "I will come back much sooner next time." To which she replies rather snottily "Whatever."<br /><br />"What's that supposed to mean?"<br />"You know exactly what it means. I don't think I need to spell it out for you."<br />"Well fine then, don't."<br />"Fine."<br />"Fine."<br /><br />I admit it, I have been pretty lame at the blogging games.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...watching every Olympic event thing.</span><br />Speaking of games, my daughter and I were watching the Olympics. Sad but we've not been able to watch everything as I am old and must be put to bed early right after I take my Geritol and The Golden Girls is over (RIP Bea Arthur). However we've not missed out on everything. We got to watch the oh-so-popular highly-anticipated and watched-more-than-any-other-sport THE men's water polo games.<br /><br />It was USA vs. Croatia.<br /><br />I was completely lost the entire time....I couldn't follow a thing I mean for one, half of the game is under water (duh) and with all the splashing about and going back and forth across the pool it was never very clear where the ball was nor who was on what team. But what was quite clear and truly amazing was that those teeny tiny itty bitty pieces of what I think were supposed to be bathing suits held on for their dear little lives during all that action. In fact I think they should award medals for that feat of athleticism alone.<br /><br />This match in particular was, according to the announcers, unexpectedly exciting due to the fact that Croatia was favored to have a very easy win over the Americans but it seemed the Americans had other ideas (don't we always?) and kept the lead with a very close score. At one point the cameras panned to the Croatian team members on the side lines where they are jumping around, running up and down and cheering on their teammates while their patch of spandex, displaying stamina achieved only by those with the greatest skill, were holding their own. At this point the announcer says, I kid you not, "Boy, it just doesn't get any tighter than this."<br /><br />Let's hope not Dave. Let's hope not. To the spandex goes the gold.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...patience thing.</span><br />I hate to shop. I really do. I know, it's not American. It's not female. And it's just not normal. Oh well.<br /><br />This past weekend was the tax-free weekend and along with half the world and their momma we did our parental duty - school shopping.<br /><br />To me that is like the worst form of shopping there is folks. I mean, let us just head right on over to the mall, join a mob of strangers <span style="font-style: italic;">and take</span> our kids for several hours on end and spend gobs of money on stuff they will never use in the classroom however the school requires it EVERY year as well as clothes they won't be able to wear in 3 months time why don't we?<br /><br />The thing is, and perhaps (just a slight <span style="font-style: italic;">perhaps</span> mind you!) this applies to me just as much, people are just rude. Inconsiderate, selfish, blind, arrogant and rude - especially when it comes to being in a store.<br /><br />Whether it's parking their cars/carts with no care what so ever as to where anyone else is, cutting you off with their car/cart, trying to run you over with their car/cart, leaving the cart in the aisles so that no one can pass and then glaring you down as if you are trying to kidnap their precious bundle of joy (that just so happens to be standing in the cart being ignored) when you move it, letting the aforementioned precious bundle of joy (that you hope no one does kidnap - uh maybe) run willy-nilly around the store screaming as if there were a bloody fire that they want this that or the other, generally walking about like mindless zombies as if no one else in the world exists except for them, or leaving unwanted items - be it their precious bundle of joy, their merchandise or their trash - strewn about as if this were a dump site. Or perhaps it is all of the above. Whatever the case, these are the very essence of why I hate to shop.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">...parenting/it takes a whole tribe thing.</span><br />We are ever changing, (n)ever growing creatures are we not? Myself included in the growing and changing business...however I'm not so sure it would be considered growing UP or in the right direction. Lately I've found myself being less and less patient with and even less desiring to be around other people's children. HEAR/READ me carefully people please. I've had 4 children and know (boy, do I know) that they will be children...I am referring to the undisciplined, unmonitored, untrained little monsters that scream/whine/throw tantrums/cry on and on and on without reason, running a muck & destroying all that lay in their path and seemingly with no parental unit to take them by the scruff of their neck and teach them the error of their ways.<br /><br />What...? Me, God? No way. So, um, You are telling me I scream/whine/throw tantrums/cry on and on (and on) without reason? Hey, I have my reasons. I mean, not that I whine. Okay, okay....I whine. But no one hears it Lord. Oh, You do? Right. I guess you got me there. You do take me by the scruff of my neck and teach me the error of my ways don't You Father? Sigh.<br /><br />Dear Lord Baby Jesus how do you keep from killing us? They say that's the reason children are so cute when they are asleep. No wonder You watch over us as we sleep.<br /></div></div>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-67177555565077879172009-02-19T10:28:00.008-06:002009-02-19T11:03:43.251-06:00It Was Before My Morning Coffee<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15NIyJMxY_vEHMCLk3nW2n841eM3jCTSlufKteGtFVYV4C2WrbuYXB2HWdfgCp9_qgQKJKfLHBKKUUPRg4xVKM_I5NQnlHJyYMhSHmHNjDQL_tiLuIIkT6QP6kv8Y5Ws2EoUHkuLIRy0/s1600-h/Match+Game.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg15NIyJMxY_vEHMCLk3nW2n841eM3jCTSlufKteGtFVYV4C2WrbuYXB2HWdfgCp9_qgQKJKfLHBKKUUPRg4xVKM_I5NQnlHJyYMhSHmHNjDQL_tiLuIIkT6QP6kv8Y5Ws2EoUHkuLIRy0/s320/Match+Game.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304546633103710210" border="0" /></a><br />Had to of been.<br /><br />No clue what I'm on about? Well, it's not the hair even though that's looking rather nest-ish in this picture.<br /><br /><br />Here...take a closer look:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_tG_6DBq_DczJZNSwc1QNHbC7kp9Ogp6jJG9diYZhsYnBAuTrbSg6Ph3NK7L9poqWIsWnDmrLiZwRJ8A7uEMFam7RNs1kCrkTT4qh-1Qww8JFjbpdzobKvZexovUXofk2lRMokynwXk/s1600-h/Right.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 104px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_tG_6DBq_DczJZNSwc1QNHbC7kp9Ogp6jJG9diYZhsYnBAuTrbSg6Ph3NK7L9poqWIsWnDmrLiZwRJ8A7uEMFam7RNs1kCrkTT4qh-1Qww8JFjbpdzobKvZexovUXofk2lRMokynwXk/s320/Right.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304547669448035442" border="0" /></a>This is my right earring.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And this...this my friends is...<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgkbtxpp4HUB4kyCN7ZEYDbq3kj3kKpvWZ8aYj5zY9Ps47JgDoMtQm5BW9OyOJpNlVjHnKkSIdjEsET_iImYWEVckZx6N3ha60jnZWSxq78rTEZ4jPGGvHKSGXifcDPXvjg4r4tkyPQw/s1600-h/Left.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 158px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgkbtxpp4HUB4kyCN7ZEYDbq3kj3kKpvWZ8aYj5zY9Ps47JgDoMtQm5BW9OyOJpNlVjHnKkSIdjEsET_iImYWEVckZx6N3ha60jnZWSxq78rTEZ4jPGGvHKSGXifcDPXvjg4r4tkyPQw/s320/Left.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304547669833786626" border="0" /></a>...is my left one.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><br />Why yes they are quite cute. Thank you Rae, one of my bff's <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> fbf's, for noticing! <span style="font-size:85%;">(where is <span style="font-style: italic;">she</span> when I get dressed at the crack of dawn because neither my husband, my daughter, my son, my friendly baristas NOR my mirror paid one bit of attention.)</span> And did I take them off once my fashion <strike>faux pas</strike> statement was pointed out? Oh heck no.<br /><br />I'm gonna work it like I meant to. Or maybe just point it out to everyone and get a few laughs.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">So, when I went to post this lovely bit of self-deprecating humor, I happen to notice that my last post was dated 1 day short of 1 month ago. Visit much?</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Probably not. </span><br /><br /><br /></div></div>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-73227936360667395212009-01-20T08:04:00.005-06:002009-01-20T12:57:40.322-06:00An Irish Inauguration SongThanks <a href="http://chemicalsblog.blogspot.com/">Ali</a>!<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z0xFWbarrsc&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z0xFWbarrsc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-12926288175041317692009-01-06T18:20:00.010-06:002009-01-10T16:05:12.993-06:00**No, No, That's Not It....In middle school we had to write a paper on how old we thought we'd be when we die and what method we preferred. As if middle school wasn't already all sunshine and daisies. I didn't seem to think I could possibly bear to live past the decrepit age of 43. <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >(I'm currently eking out every measure of life my ancient bones can stand in the few months I have left.)</span> As for the macabre subject of how, I don't remember what I deemed an acceptable demise. I probably chose to go in my sleep or something along those lines since I knew at such a rusty age a person would not be able to do a thing worth enjoying any way.<br /><br />If only I had heard of Fannie. I would have decided to live much longer. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ></span> At a venerable 92 years old, Miss Fannie is one of the most active ladies I have ever known. She has served in our church for much longer than I've lived and every day of the week she is there working just as hard (if not harder than) the rest of us. She is the tiniest thing, probably weighs less than she is old, is mild mannered and soft spoken, yet in my eyes she is larger than life.<br /><br />A couple of months after my weight loss surgery, at a point when I'd lost about 60 pounds Miss Fannie comes in to our office bringing the mail as she does daily, just as she's leaving she stops, looks at me and says <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"There is something different about you..." </span>I assume she is about to say something about my weight loss, instead she says <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"Did you get a hair cut?"</span> I smile, because I actually did just get a hair cut...<span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"yes Miss Fannie, I did."</span> She tells me it looks nice and moves on. She makes me want to go home with her and have her bake me cookies.<br /><br />Some months after that, when I'd lost about 100 pounds Miss Fannie comes in to our office, to drop off the mail and the above scene is played out again. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"There is something different about you..."</span> I say that I'm not sure what it is. She asks if I just cut my hair, I don't want to offend so I say yes and she smiles and walks out. Miss Fannie you make me smile.<br /><br />After having lost 130 pounds the change is no longer a questionable one, at least in my opinion, but leave it to Miss Fannie to humble my vain heart yet again. This time it is about 7 or 8 months after my surgery and I'm walking down the hall on an errand when she passes me she turns to me and utters the familiar<span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" > "There sure is something different about you I can't put my finger on it..." </span>I'm thinking don't embarrass her by stating the oh-so-very obvious and instead reply <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"I colored my hair Miss Fannie."</span> She looks at me sort of questionably as if she wants to say no, that's not it, but says <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"I like it, you look good." </span>Miss Fannie, will you adopt me?<br /><br />I've now lost 159 pounds. Over HALF the woman I once was is gone. (yay!) I am often told I look like a completely different person and several people have commented, more than once, that they have to do a double take and don't recognize me at first. So, perhaps Miss Fannie thinks after seven years they've gone and hired some new girl who goes and gets her hair done an awful lot because what else would explain her confusion?<br /><br />Last week she walked in the office, we did the usual hello's and thank you's as she handed me the mail. This time she turned to me and said <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"Have you lost a little weight?" </span>I smile. Miss Fannie, you have no clue. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"I have lost just a little weight Miss Fannie."</span> And you know what she said?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >"Well, don't lose too much!" </span><br /><br />I've shared these stories as they've happened with those who love her and know her because I think it's the sweetest thing ever. I in no way intend to be mean, it is in my opinion a kindness <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> to correct her. I've pondered the possibilities of why she has no clue that I now can call myself Mini Me. Perhaps it is her generation or her genteel southern raising that keeps her from coming out and saying "Girl you were huge!"<br /><br />In sharing this latest exchange with one of my closest she put it all in to perspective for me. She said,<span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" > "Miss Fannie has only ever seen you as Dana and what you are on the inside. The reason she can’t tell what the difference is, is because she's never seen you in terms of fat or thin."</span><br /><br />And I think she is spot on. I fervently wish we all had eyes like that. That we would only see people for what they are on the inside. There would be no fatties, no uglies, just hello's and I like your hair cut's. But our world does not move that way and the case is often that I am now treated different. It is usually people I don't know, but it also happens with people who do know me...How do they treat me different? That is another post for another day. Suffice it to say, it isn't as heartwarming as a smile from Miss Fannie.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;">**I tried real hard to come up with a title that was suggestive of the pending post yet didn't in any way resemble an elementary school joke about a person's backside. Sadly anytime you hail or make reference to someone with the name Fannie the resulting images evoked are that of school yard taunts regarding one's rear end and childish snickering. Or is that just, perhaps, my immature self?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: times new roman;">So, once again, the title is somewhat of a working title...other titles I flirted with include: Sherlock Fannie. Curious Fannie. Fannie May or May Not. It's Elementary My Dear Fannie. Granny Fannie. Oh and then there was Fists of Fannie, Kung Fu Fannie and my personal favorite Enter the Fannie. (The last three have nothing to do with this particular post however, they were movie titles awarded her the day Miss Fannie dressed in an outfit that very closely resembled a karate student. A karate student with a black belt I might add.)</span>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-79697691524830618932008-12-27T08:49:00.015-06:002008-12-31T07:50:57.152-06:00'Tis *Two* Tags Then a Tangy Trophy<span style="font-style: italic;">*Scratch that and make it THREE! </span><br /><br />'Twas a tidbit of T alliteration for you. Remember F Alliteration? You all thought I was cussing...which is not uncommon mind you, sometimes only a good old fashioned curse word will do. I just don't <span style="font-style: italic;">normally</span> cuss on my blog. It just seems cruder (somehow) to cuss in print rather than verbally.<br /><br />But I wasn't tagged for cussing or not cussing now was I? So, what am I on about? Off I go...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Tag #1</span><br />The VERY beautiful <a href="http://thevillalpandos.blogspot.com/">Jessica</a> my co-worker and friend, tagged me some days back with a little thing called <a href="http://thevillalpandos.blogspot.com/2008/12/picture-tag.html">Picture Tag.</a><br /><br />Seems I am to do the following;<br /><br />1. Go to the <strong>4th</strong> folder in your computer where you store your pictures.<br />2. Pick the <strong>4th </strong>picture in that folder.<br />3. Explain the picture. (what, no 4?)<br />4. Tag <strong>4</strong> people to do the same!<br /><br />The sad thing is, I'm at home and there aren't many picture folders or pictures IN the folders. The other sad thing is, I'm at home and the computer I have thinks it funny to sit there pretending you haven't clicked on a link or typed a few hundred paragraphs. It gets a small thrill out of your mounting frustration as you move the mouse (like THAT helps) back and forth like a mad woman. On crack. On an etch a sketch. On crack.<br /><br />SO, finally when it does load I see the picture that is nominated and I am thinking "Oh dear Lord in your never ending compassion have mercy on my soul I am in so much trouble." But I play fair and square even if the outcome is life threatening or not...<br /><br />Here it is:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSDWMLZaUMfZMdmhAyqIbs6ErSDS8ElQZfPR4jVUJLaOkxlcZsMZVjGqqqdWGPgoUz97OCasA8fYaB84eEmPFhwLCZheGIu4VSuU6TIXwBCOjlzDlbAwxUC67xOJQGBj0XH3nv1XGiE0/s1600-h/Elena+C+01.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSDWMLZaUMfZMdmhAyqIbs6ErSDS8ElQZfPR4jVUJLaOkxlcZsMZVjGqqqdWGPgoUz97OCasA8fYaB84eEmPFhwLCZheGIu4VSuU6TIXwBCOjlzDlbAwxUC67xOJQGBj0XH3nv1XGiE0/s320/Elena+C+01.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5284491539400768562" border="0" /></a>Looks innocent and rather sweet don't it?<br /><br />Don't be fooled gentle folk. If your momma told you once, she told you a million times "don't be deceived by a picture thinking it's all innocent and rather sweet just because of its beauty" or something like that...It is rather Venus fly trap in its deception. Especially with the head turned to the side and those beautiful eyes smiling back at you. Oh, but sweetness turns bitter with the slightest of ease and this one can morph in to an unrecognizable beast in a half a turn of the knob.<br /><br />The fact is, this picture is from <span style="font-size:85%;">(almost exactly)</span> one year ago. The childling (and her brother) just got her braces on and we wanted some pictures to show progress. Somewhere in the time since then she's decided all pictures either before-braces-or-just-after-braces shall henceforth be spat upon, torn to tiny little pieces and then after pouring copious amounts of acid upon them they shall be burned. And, henceforth, anyone in possession of aforementioned contraband shall be spat upon, torn in to tiny little pieces and then after pouring copious amounts of acid upon them they shall be burned. And hanged. Oh and then quartered. While hungry. While she screams at you.<br /><br />But that's the risk I take in order to bring you the kind of honest blogalism you deserve.<br /><br />Next we have the <a href="http://chemicalsblog.blogspot.com/2008/12/8-things.html">8 Things Tag</a>:<br />The ABSOLUTELY gorgeous Mrs. <a href="http://chemicalsblog.blogspot.com/">Ali</a> from across the pond has tagged me for the following (here's where the THIRD tag comes in...) and the ABSOLUTELY ravishing <a href="http://shaedaisy.blogspot.com/2008/12/8-things.html">Miss Sharona</a> also from across the pond if only in our heart:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 Things</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 TV Shows I Watch -</span><br />1. Lost<br />2. American Idol<br />3. What I Like About You<br />4. Tyler's Ultimate, Malto Mario, Barefoot Contessa, Paula Deen and the Iron Chef and just about anything on the Food Network because I'm addicted to cooking shows.<br />5. Dancing With The Stars<br />6. CSI: Las Vegas (I also watch NY and Miami as well as NCIS)<br />7. Um...really, don't watch much tv.<br />8. My husband asked me to put this: Monday Night Football.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 Favorite Restaurants -</span><br />Oh this is a little hard since the surgery. But, I will list previous and still very worthy of eating at favorites.<br />1. Starbuck's. So, yeah, not technically a restaurant I know...however they do serve food (which I don't eat) but I am there more often than any other place listed below.<br />2. Taste of Texas<br />3. Ciro's<br />4. P.F. Chang's<br />5. Spanish Flower<br />6. Yia Yia Mary's (yes, Jessica my love, still. I think you just went on an off day)<br />7. (my husband asked me to put this): Casa de Moya<br />8. Fogo de Chao<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 Things That Happened To Me Today (actually this was several days ago, I've just not had time to post!)-</span><br />1. Made coffee at home. (that is major happenings folks, if you know me)<br />2. Talked to my heavenly Father.<br />3. Went for a walk. It rained I went home.<br />4. Cooked breakfast.<br />5. Read.<br />6. Wrote.<br />7. Talked to a neighbor.<br />8. Checked Facebook, email, weather, blogs and was bored.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 Things I Look Forward To -</span><br />1. Every morning with my coffee.<br />2. Every evening with my family.<br />3. Every moment with my husband. When we aren't fighting. Okay, even when we are fighting.<br />4. One step closer to being healthier - physically, spiritually & mentally.<br />5. My 3 kids coming home from war make that everybody's children coming home from war.<br />5. The war ending.<br />6. Jesus returning.<br />7. Heaven.<br />8. Ali's trip to Houston!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 Things I Wish For -</span><br />1. See above?<br />2. Okay that's a cop out. Freedom from depression.<br />3. A lap top computer.<br />4. More confidence.<br />5. My children's lives to be successful - not as the world sees success.<br />6. More time with people I love.<br />7. Um...<br />8. Ooops...skipped a few.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">8 People I Tag -</span><br />1. Anyone who wants to play along!<br /><br />And now folks for the trophy. Eh, hem. *Cue fanfare, marching band and confetti!* One of my favorite blogs to read is <a href="http://onething.beautifulheritage.com/">One Thing.</a> Jenni is funny, smart, creative, interesting and REAL. There is much to learn about her and even much more to learn from her and I admire her so very much. YES, Jenni, I do believe that. All this and she has the nerve to give ME an award. Truth is, she was given this very same award and it seems the idea is to pass it forward after you've reveled in its glory. Jenni did not revel. Not one bit. She's so humble.<br /><br />So here it is, The Most Highly Esteemed Ever Sought After Only A Few Can Aspire to Lemonade Award:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_UrubfPilfK1q8GKGAhdLhzRg5tRNUCtCjTcXVQXusBHHalu1sd1240qbY1g60S0p14LErmRLJrZ3IechpiyuvDnQfkjXr0lcXro2AMH4kUXLJ5YyEbOTxexxBzQiXF-dFtZMsynb7g/s1600-h/lemonadeaward.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 195px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_UrubfPilfK1q8GKGAhdLhzRg5tRNUCtCjTcXVQXusBHHalu1sd1240qbY1g60S0p14LErmRLJrZ3IechpiyuvDnQfkjXr0lcXro2AMH4kUXLJ5YyEbOTxexxBzQiXF-dFtZMsynb7g/s320/lemonadeaward.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285588942851976418" border="0" /></a>See, she said I take the <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >Lemons That Life Hands Me</span> and make <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >Sweet Lemonade</span>. I'm not sure I am deserving of such accolades but I do know some people who are...And the winners are (in no particular order other than alphabetical):<br /><br /><a href="http://chemicalsblog.blogspot.com/">Ali</a> - For taking those lemons thrown at you and squeezing back. Real hard. Ali, my hat is off to you. You make me laugh out loud often and wish I had such a cool accent! I am so looking forward to meeting you!<br /><br /><a href="http://candyrant.blogspot.com/">Candy Rant</a> - For those of you who don't read Candy's blog, your loss. This is another woman of faith who is raw bones real with life. She takes the lemons and makes you wish life would have given you the gift of making lemons sound so dang tasty. And funny. And why didn't I ever see lemons that way? Truly a gifted writer. I anxiously await your book Candy!<br /><br /><a href="http://www.shaedaisy.blogspot.com/">Sharona</a> - All of the above and then some. Sharon is one of my closest friends and I cherish her every word. Sharon has taken the puddles of lemons meted her way and learned to jump them. Splash all up in them. She revels in the scent for it means there has been victory over the lemon. She too is a gifted writer and I cannot wait to see her published.<br /><br />and <a href="http://nancysmonablog.blogspot.com/">Nancy</a> - Okay, you see the pattern here, but it bears repeating. Funny, smart, real, makes me laugh out loud, (sadly, she doesn't have an accent) A woman of faith who makes me long for God to speak to me as clearly as He does her. Of course she talks to Him more clearly than I do, so perhaps that's the key? She takes life's lemons and uses them to teach, makes them funny, and makes them seem not as sour as I know they have been. I am honored to know her and am glad that God has given me the chance to see Him work miracles in her life.<br /><br />Ladies, do your **thing.<br /><br />**EDIT - which means, post your award and tag someonee you know who you feel deserves the Lemonade Stand of Glory.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-71685909154838163072008-12-21T07:29:00.007-06:002008-12-21T10:07:57.618-06:00Weight Bearing WallsDuring the first 4 months after my weight-loss surgery the pounds rapidly melted off of me as if a magician were pulling pound after pound after pound from his sleeve then a wave of his hand and a tap of his wand, <span style="font-style: italic;">voila!</span> Gone. Each day I greeted the scale with a smile and it always, always, smiled back. *Sigh* We had such a good thing. At least that is how I remember it.<br /><br />Now I hate the damned thing. Alas, a little too much time together and the newness of a relationship wears thin. The magic is exposed for the slight of hand illusion that it is and the memories, once cherished, are now seemingly empty and worthless.<br /><br />We quarrel constantly - rarely seeing eye to eye on anything that should matter between us. I long to see it, so we meet and it quickly goes bad and I'm back to calling it off - for good this time. We've tried time apart, seeing others and seeing one another only on certain days of the week. Sadly, nothing seems to bring repair to our broken relationship.<br /><br />It and all it stands for and in between, torments me. So much so, I've named<span style="font-size:85%;"></span> the scale <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magical_creatures_%28Harry_Potter%29#Dementors">Dementor</a>. Soulless and soul-sucking it feeds on my positive emotions, my happiness and my good memories. Whenever I'm in it's presence I relive my worst memories. I could devour a hunk of chocolate after our dates and I regularly scream <a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patronus_Charm#Expecto_Patronum_.28Patronus_Charm.29"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Expecto Patronum!</span></a> at its cold, dark self.<br /><br />So why continue on with the wretched affair? I can only say it is done so in hopes that this time it will be different. I mean there are still moments when it is actually good between us, telling me what it thinks I want to hear. Teasing me with just enough affection that I, despite everything else, want to stick around.<br /><br />But, for the past 4? weeks my scale has read the same number, over and over, to me. Although I know the inches are moving (because my clothes grow steadily baggier) I long with all my heart for the number to decrease. I long for it way, too, much.<br /><br />I am coming to the realization <span style="font-size:85%;">(yet again)</span> that, this information (not affirmation!) dispensing mechanism holds too much weight in my life. While not truly a weight-bearing wall in the construct of my heart, I treat it as such. Fearful of collapse upon removal and giving it full credit for the support of my entire being. Ah but deep down and truthfully (somewhere), I know it to be a non-weight bearing wall for it only supports itself.<br /><br />In my mind, I know the number displayed does not display who I truly am, nor could it measure my self-worth or indicate how I should feel. It is a scale and not a thermostat registering the degree of my value on any level. Information, not affirmation.<br /><br />I know this. But do I live this? No. No, at least not every day. Or even every moment of every day. I am a work in progress. Under renovation, as most of us are. Daily I am breaking down the lie of that deceptive wall so that I can have a better view of the truth. In its place, windows and open spaces. More room for lesser things.<br /><br />So tell me, what holds too much weight in your life? What do you give credit for full structural support where no credit is due? What non-load bearing wall<span style="font-size:85%;">(s)</span> should come down? And what would you do with the space it would create once it's gone?<br /><br /><br /><br />On my scale I've written the following:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;">THIS holds no weight.</span><br /><br />And I believe it.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-51414573875952617452008-12-10T14:59:00.013-06:002008-12-10T19:42:57.553-06:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fGyS5vtLhJ_EduG-K6tIJI_jLDQvcQsUL1mRcH_FJSwEBtKJg8aIL2ILS4nlq7Ck6I-eWspLzUB-W1sOxrqlbnYFIQlWzQtdVTvIxTAAd63ZFQM9EYLqcDLi6bd7Uh198BL9jgu6B_Y/s1600-h/The+Stork.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 292px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3fGyS5vtLhJ_EduG-K6tIJI_jLDQvcQsUL1mRcH_FJSwEBtKJg8aIL2ILS4nlq7Ck6I-eWspLzUB-W1sOxrqlbnYFIQlWzQtdVTvIxTAAd63ZFQM9EYLqcDLi6bd7Uh198BL9jgu6B_Y/s320/The+Stork.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278280256536517666" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style=";font-family:trebuchet ms;font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255); font-weight: bold;">Dana R. Moya</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255); font-weight: bold;">Born: December 10th, 2008 at 9:13 am</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255); font-weight: bold;">Weight: 155 lbs 3 oz</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255); font-weight: bold;">Lots of inches</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 255); font-weight: bold;">Now go have a cigar!</span></span><br /></div><br />Today is the 9 Month Anniversary of My Weight Loss Surgery!<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Not sure all that needed to be capitalized, but hey, it's a major event to celebrate so why not...</span></span><br /><br />To this day I've lost 155 lbs and I now weigh 160 lbs. I'm almost half 'n half! I am now wearing a size 8 or 10 depending on the brand. Hard to believe, a single digit size fits me.<br /><br />And just like the pregnancy and birth of a child, the advent of my surgery has wrought many changes in my life. There has been much joy, there has been much loss, there are some sleepless nights and worries that plague me - some founded, others unfounded. There has been stretching. Weeping. Laughing. Kicking. Surprises. Sickness. Moodiness. Hello's & goodbyes. And all along these 9 months were the birth pangs of labor ushering in this new life. And there is so much more life now to live...<br /><br />Want to see the pictures? Okay, okay, I'll be quiet now...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPt31rFVqOMZmI0aVW-XU8EqlhuAFOLhSKRaCdOLjvU2lyhdVDjpNEq-soJYj0HA7LbX5JbUhFfFsHzkabEfszCZm2U8XDutxuJv5S2ag0aWmnmM1TKMHbxBw4O1RcDb7JqRfFWjq9bDk/s1600-h/Side+Shot+12.10.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPt31rFVqOMZmI0aVW-XU8EqlhuAFOLhSKRaCdOLjvU2lyhdVDjpNEq-soJYj0HA7LbX5JbUhFfFsHzkabEfszCZm2U8XDutxuJv5S2ag0aWmnmM1TKMHbxBw4O1RcDb7JqRfFWjq9bDk/s400/Side+Shot+12.10.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278269567411352130" border="0" /></a>Same old fuzzy picture in the kitchen side view...Add in one Sunny dog eating breakfast.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlc6ELfpdgddj8ZnQFn0957SNG2X5hKw0ijHWtRxyH4eWRZS5ZZWVMZmzQCV_8V4Dm0yhjducBInLB6AjBdixrCL3QoutR0Ud2z-8FEC_TdeXKp7_4cFY_zvZM5U13thrBBf4S5QmcXY/s1600-h/dana5.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrlc6ELfpdgddj8ZnQFn0957SNG2X5hKw0ijHWtRxyH4eWRZS5ZZWVMZmzQCV_8V4Dm0yhjducBInLB6AjBdixrCL3QoutR0Ud2z-8FEC_TdeXKp7_4cFY_zvZM5U13thrBBf4S5QmcXY/s400/dana5.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278269568149005170" border="0" /></a>Oh Christmas Tree.<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj8PiOTnY62wO2-XBfnUKyUCVzJJxKoRbko3LoCkJRm30GNuepI1OQJPrISydYjUootoIKmJYd07ZfzDmJfVVFCs-GRLf9n8aRS9jyDzEzHMw8XGsr175tMfGR3yvPqDJHEWMVGGxcq-g/s1600-h/Christmas+Decorating+2008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj8PiOTnY62wO2-XBfnUKyUCVzJJxKoRbko3LoCkJRm30GNuepI1OQJPrISydYjUootoIKmJYd07ZfzDmJfVVFCs-GRLf9n8aRS9jyDzEzHMw8XGsr175tMfGR3yvPqDJHEWMVGGxcq-g/s400/Christmas+Decorating+2008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278269300160606914" border="0" /></a>Love this next one. Look at me hiding way in the back, arms crossed, leg kicked out...These gorgeous ladies were decorating the Education Suite tree. Rather, they were supervising the decoration of the tree. Apparently Rae was not happy with the placement of an ornament...<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAU0sRCnuX8F5zPbx59uXSdHQhgykjy3C-HvYZbwSq0okEY66Zav2jGuZMed1mX1duXw06BIggzAF_yBd-D2fmmf0z2ILbVZt-oRUQVekyX_wE4iaNB3N6cWVEhQL_nrQ0tL0cGOqV8CE/s1600-h/9+Months+Front+View.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAU0sRCnuX8F5zPbx59uXSdHQhgykjy3C-HvYZbwSq0okEY66Zav2jGuZMed1mX1duXw06BIggzAF_yBd-D2fmmf0z2ILbVZt-oRUQVekyX_wE4iaNB3N6cWVEhQL_nrQ0tL0cGOqV8CE/s400/9+Months+Front+View.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278269296471905058" border="0" /></a>Oh yeah?<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAP7t3f2aQoSDElH64pbiNARFQrYWuSK8c9W0b-OwRXR4-_1J6MgS7IO_IUJYAC5ylaITDcQmG-_l7jSfMMSTSn-sKHtfcNn-80VX7mw1JaU5MXpGhwGR9DDfq52Zz4Wh_suNkVUCE54/s1600-h/9+Months+Close+Up.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMAP7t3f2aQoSDElH64pbiNARFQrYWuSK8c9W0b-OwRXR4-_1J6MgS7IO_IUJYAC5ylaITDcQmG-_l7jSfMMSTSn-sKHtfcNn-80VX7mw1JaU5MXpGhwGR9DDfq52Zz4Wh_suNkVUCE54/s400/9+Months+Close+Up.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278269291320377970" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">OH YEAH? </span></span>Love the deathly pale look.<br /><br /><br />Okay...</div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Last out of focus, poorly lit, badly posed one for the day...<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPdKIwN4SsT7clM8u1gtMN7PH6J2-INP9w1HCGmL4sJH3LgXArF1lcaKbkvPZcziav7k1I-41PpiidQImiU6QPMQo6UE3hIudrF559Iqik3nIDthxikse9tPOdR79a5ULZP0RZT-Qhec0/s1600-h/9+Months+155+pounds+12.10.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPdKIwN4SsT7clM8u1gtMN7PH6J2-INP9w1HCGmL4sJH3LgXArF1lcaKbkvPZcziav7k1I-41PpiidQImiU6QPMQo6UE3hIudrF559Iqik3nIDthxikse9tPOdR79a5ULZP0RZT-Qhec0/s400/9+Months+155+pounds+12.10.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278269293532127650" border="0" /></a><br />They say it takes a tribe to raise a child, I believe the same goes for every journey in our life. I say it takes a tribe to get us through, and oh how I love my tribe! You have cheered me on so! Keep taking the steps with me, big or small we can't journey it alone.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-83301198723662076352008-12-09T07:39:00.006-06:002008-12-09T07:57:20.504-06:00I Am Unique - Just Like Everyone Else<p><em>I saw this on <a href="http://nancysmonablog.blogspot.com/2008/12/who-are-you.html">Nancy's</a> blog, who saw it on <a href="http://nenesnook.blogspot.com/2008/12/time-for-something-silly.html">Jene's</a> blog who saw it on <a href="http://rebelliouspastorswife.blogspot.com/2008/12/i-am-ingrid.html">someone else's blog</a> (who happens to be an Ingrid as well) and so on...</em></p><p><em>It is kind of scary how spot on about me this actually is.<br /></em></p><h4>You Are an Ingrid!</h4><p><img src="http://vintagegriffin.com/images/uploads/mm.ingrid_.jpg" alt="mm.ingrid_.jpg" /><br /><br /></p><span style="font-size:small;"><span style="font-size:medium;"><strong>You are an Ingrid -- "I am unique"</strong><br /></span></span><div><p> </p><p> </p>Ingrids have sensitive feelings and are warm and perceptive.<br /><p> </p><br /><strong>How to Get Along with Me</strong><br /><ul><br /><li>* Give me plenty of compliments. They mean a lot to me.</li><br /><li>* Be a supportive friend or partner. Help me to learn to love and value myself.</li><br /><li>* Respect me for my special gifts of intuition and vision.</li><br /><li>* Though I don't always want to be cheered up when I'm feeling melancholy, I sometimes like to have someone lighten me up a little.</li><br /><li>* Don't tell me I'm too sensitive or that I'm overreacting!</li><br /></ul><p> </p><strong>What I Like About Being an Ingrid</strong><br /><ul><br /><li>* my ability to find meaning in life and to experience feeling at a deep level</li><br /><li>* my ability to establish warm connections with people</li><br /><li>* admiring what is noble, truthful, and beautiful in life</li><br /><li>* my creativity, intuition, and sense of humor</li><br /><li>* being unique and being seen as unique by others</li><br /><li>* having aesthetic sensibilities</li><br /><li>* being able to easily pick up the feelings of people around me</li><br /></ul><p> </p><strong>What's Hard About Being an Ingrid</strong><br /><ul><br /><li>* experiencing dark moods of emptiness and despair</li><br /><li>* feelings of self-hatred and shame; believing I don't deserve to be loved</li><br /><li>* feeling guilty when I disappoint people</li><br /><li>* feeling hurt or attacked when someone misundertands me</li><br /><li>* expecting too much from myself and life</li><br /><li>* fearing being abandoned</li><br /><li>* obsessing over resentments</li><br /><li>* longing for what I don't have</li><br /></ul><p> </p><strong>Ingrids as Children Often</strong><br /><ul><br /><li>* have active imaginations: play creatively alone or organize playmates in original games</li><br /><li>* are very sensitive</li><br /><li>* feel that they don't fit in</li><br /><li>* believe they are missing something that other people have</li><br /><li>* attach themselves to idealized teachers, heroes, artists, etc.</li><br /><li>* become antiauthoritarian or rebellious when criticized or not understood</li><br /><li>* feel lonely or abandoned (perhaps as a result of a death or their parents' divorce)</li><br /></ul><p> </p><strong>Ingrids as Parents</strong><br /><ul><br /><li>* help their children become who they really are</li><br /><li>* support their children's creativity and originality</li><br /><li>* are good at helping their children get in touch with their feelings</li><br /><li>* are sometimes overly critical or overly protective</li><br /><li>* are usually very good with children if not too self-absorbed</li><br /><br />So, what do you think? Sounds just like me right? Now tell me, who are you?<br /><br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><br /></span></ul></div><p><a href="http://www.helloquizzy.com/tests/are-you-a-jackie-or-a-marilyn-or-someone-else-mad-menera-female-icon-quiz">Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz</a> at <a href="http://www.helloquizzy.com/"><b style="color: rgb(19, 19, 19);"><span style="color: rgb(172, 0, 12);">H</span>ello<span style="color: rgb(172, 0, 12);">Q</span>uizzy</b></a><br /></p>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-24511420329715458362008-11-30T10:14:00.010-06:002008-11-30T18:30:42.675-06:00Thanksgiving LeftoversOh yeah. Pull out that picked over turkey carcass, grab some congealed gravy and warm up them 3 day old rolls baby and let's munch!<br /><br />But first, the Ritual Giving Thanks Moment:<br />This year's Thanksgiving niblet was radically different from the gorge fest of every other year of my life. Using scrawny little contrasts like night and day or even black and white would be like describing a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Image:Botticelli_Venus.jpg">Botticelli</a> with stick figures. It was as if I had moved from the palatial decadence of a mansion to the cardboard box slums of a beggar. And oh how I appreciate that box - So. Much. More.<br /><br />I've found since my surgery that, whether traditionally food related or not, no event is what it used to be. Because before weight loss surgery, every moment of my life was food related. There was breakfast, lunch and dinner to celebrate and all the minutes in between. Life was one big meal.<br /><br />And it's not that I would eat so much, it's just that everything I did or wanted to do seemed to be centered around food. Whether growing it, cooking or eating it, food is and, I'm afraid, ever will be an enchantment for me. It is art. It is pleasure. It is a basic human need. It effects every one of the senses and moves the soul to a form of worship. Which got me to where I was 9 months, 20 sizes and 152 pounds ago...a faithful disciple of the Church of Gluttony...eat, eat and be merry. Thank you Fodder.<br /><br />So here we are at the Thanksgiving holiday, one day a year held in reverence by millions of Americans. A day that we pay homage to with family gatherings, vacation, more football than should be legal and tables, stove-tops and counters loaded down with every comfort food imaginable. Even the most recognizable symbols of Thanksgiving - a very fat turkey and a cornucopia spilling over with the bountiful harvest of the season - denote indulgence.<br /><br />And here I am with a stomach smaller than an egg. And the day - or rather what the day used to be - has turned the tables on me...so to speak. I still cooked. I made ham, cornbread dressing made from scratch, roasted red & sweet potatoes, roasted butternut squash with fresh yeast rolls. I even made a sugar free apple pie with an oatmeal & pecan crumb topping - I figured I would get one treat. I ate a bite of ham <span style="font-size:85%;">(no I didn't have the glaze but with or without glaze pork now tastes horrid to me)</span>, a few bites of dressing and a bite of sweet potato. Done. (had some pie later...it was eh.)<br /><br />And there I sat while my family feasted till they absolutely hurt<span style="font-size:85%;"> (which made me feel happy)</span>. We talked, told stories and laughed as we always do - we don't need a special day of the year to enjoy one another. But it took a moment for the reality of it to sink in. And it sank fast and deep.<br /><br />Truthfully? At first it made me sad. But then, I began to give thanks and it wasn't for a slab of pie. And I remembered that I was full, but not from indecent mounds of food. And I rejoiced, but it was in the stripped down to the bare bones reality of it all version of what I'd known in my previous life. I imagine this is what it might be like for an alcoholic celebrating New Year's Eve or other events commonly celebrated with alcohol. Sober(ing).<br /><br />And the stripped down to the bare bones version? It's far more enchanting. It is the rarest work of art. It is the sweetest pleasure. It is the most basic human need. And it effects every one of the senses and moves the soul to true worship.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">--------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And now for the feast. I was reading through last November's posts. Most of which made me laugh. Really, really hard. I am so silly. So, in the tradition of all things Thanksgiving we shall feast on leftovers.<br /><br />Seems I used to do this little thing called the Art of Conversation. In November we had the <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/art-of-conversation-at-office.html">Art of Conversation at the Office.</a><br /></div></div><br />The Hopefully Some Day it Might Actually Be the Annual <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/beaches-bikers-bowling-oh-my.html">Take Your White Friends to the Beach Day!</a> Sigh. That was so much fun...We didn't get to go this year. Stupid hurricane.<br /><br />There were <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/lets-meme-shall-we.html">Meme's</a> & <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/monday-mande.html">Mande Mondays</a>.<br /><br />There were <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/ch-ch-ch-changes.html">Changes</a>, <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/wise-child-once-asked.html">Children</a> and <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/holiday-blog-give-away.html">Chances to Win</a>.<br /><br />There were <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/water-water-everywhere.html">Disasters</a> & <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/delusional.html">Delusions</a>.<br /><br />Then there were my favorites <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/resounding.html">Resounding</a> and <a href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/11/thankful-for-everything-im-not.html">Rejoicing</a>.<br /><br />Happy Thanksgiving to EVERY one. It's not just for the fourth Thursday of November. It's not just for Americans. It is every moment of every day and the feast is in the bounty of love and grace poured in to our hearts by the Father, the Giver of all good things.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-52331994995032334112008-11-13T07:46:00.000-06:002008-11-13T23:05:35.303-06:00Google Me ThisAs a child I could not abide in even a moment of uncertainty. I passionately hated the unknown and incessantly plagued whoever was around with my interrogation tactics. I was an unceasing dribble of why or why not and a constant drip of what for. My curiosity was the Chinese water torture to my mom's peace and quiet.<br /><br />So much so, she bought me a series of books poplar in the '70's written by Arkady Leokum. With titles like <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tell-Me-Why-Arkady-Leokum/dp/B00120W93I/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226633138&sr=1-7">Tell Me Why</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/More-Tell-Me-Why-Questions/dp/B000JL5YJ2/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226632692&sr=1-6">More Tell Me Why</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/MORE-TELL-ME-WHY/dp/B0000COBMT/ref=sr_1_33?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226632869&sr=1-33">More More More Tell Me Why</a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Still-More-Tell-Me-Why/dp/0448044587/ref=sr_1_9?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1226632692&sr=1-9">Still More Tell Me Why</a>, <span style="font-size:78%;">(Uh, yeah, I didn't write them I just read them) </span>these mini-encyclopedic style books were meant to appease my appetite for knowledge. That, and perhaps she hoped to lighten the ever burgeoning responsibility that had been placed solely upon her shoulders as a single parent. The shaping and guiding of such a young and hungry mind had to have been quite overwhelming. That and she got tired of making up the answers.<br /><br />What? No really, she <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >did</span>. It's not an ill-reflection of her parenting skills, I promise, that's just what parents did back then. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >Hello</span>, there was no such thing as <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&rls=GGGL%2CGGGL%3A2007-23%2CGGGL%3Aen&q=google&btnG=Search">Google</a>.<br /><br />Any way, these books, I could not get enough of them. I would read them for hours and hours. They were the internet, the Wikipedia, and yes, even the Google of my time.<br /><br />Now, as an adult, the tidal flow of curiosity has not ceased <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >in the least</span>. Constant and persistent, it has remained a part of my life. Whether the queries are my own or my children's, is not the point. The fact remains...with all those books and now the internet, answering our innumerable Tell Me Why's...we have yet to plumb the depths of the inquisitive human brain.<br /><br />For instance <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >tell me why</span> when my hair started falling out by the handful <span style="font-size:78%;">(due to rapid weight loss after my surgery)</span> it ONLY fell out from my head? Sweet ones, the multitude of hair that persists in growing on my upper lip did not, not even for one hopeful second, thin in the slightest. Au contraire, mon fraire, it continues to grow just as lush, dense and dark as the jungle at night. Nor did the hair anywhere else on my face or body lose it's substance, abundance, denseness, profuseness nor any other adjective I don't particularly care for when discussing hair on anything other than the glorious follicles of vanity that should be covering my near-bald head.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >More tell me why</span> my 13 year old could possibly think it wise to voice aloud <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >to my face</span> that I have a huge back and an extremely flat butt. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" >(Sweetie, lets work on those complimentary skills, shall we?)</span><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >Still more, tell me why</span> on God's green earth she is still breathing after the voicing of such a statement. Oh, and while you are at it, answer why all of a sudden the idea that my butt might actually be extremely flat <strike>kind of</strike> really bothers me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >More more more tell me why</span> how she could possibly still be alive - <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >proof that miracles do really happen</span> - when just a few days later she tells me that she likes a certain shirt on me. <span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">(that's better baby you are starting to get the idea)</span></span> *wait for it* because and I quote "it makes you look like you actually have boobs." Oh hon, you know I couldn't breast feed for just that reason.<br /><br />Here's one for the books Mr. Arkady Leokum, why oh why oh why (oh why) has the hair that has decided to return to my lovely little head, changed not only color (to a beautiful <span style="font-style: italic;">(not!)</span> shade of GRAY thank YOU very MUCH) but changed TEXTURE as well? Suffice it to say, it makes for bad hair <strike>days</strike> months and I will just go ahead and inform you so you won't have to Google this one, L'Oreal? Oh they lie...it doesn't cover the gray. It just covers every single hair all around the gray ones and leaves those little heralds of aging to stand out like a lighthouse on the shore. <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;" >(It covers gray like a band-aid covers an elephant's butt.) </span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Dear Mr. Leokum, </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">If you would please address the oh-so-very deep, heart felt and provocative questions listed above in your next book of the Tell Me Why series (probably titled - Tell Me Why and I Promise I'll Quit Whining) I would be most appreciative.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Your adoring, and not aged in the least bit fan, </span><br /><span style="font-family:courier new;">Dana</span>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-83871425880113598722008-11-10T07:52:00.007-06:002008-11-10T16:42:03.179-06:00Just Nothing RevisitedIn my mind's eye I see the sky, almost white, as if it's being drained of the color of summer, along with its smoke thin clouds randomly placed along the way.<br /><br />In my memory I can feel the gingerbread hued leaves under my feet, crisp and brittle from having given their all to the wind and the trees they once clung to.<br /><br />From afar, a breeze carries to me the scent of fireplaces burning, the heart of someone's home rekindling the great romance of life that is the redolence of families gathered in and around one another in love.<br /><br />These are the places my heart travels to; like a pilgrim to his holy land I return to the season of my sentiment.<br /><br />Apparently this trek is an annual one. <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://ventageinklings.blogspot.com/2007/10/just-nothing.html">This post</a><span style="font-weight: bold;">,</span> although in a slightly different vein, is from the very same heartbeat.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-77881119736357882282008-11-03T07:44:00.017-06:002008-11-04T15:45:47.582-06:00Act I Scene XWe left our <span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;">(not so very) </span>brave and beautiful leading lady in the clutches of the ruthless cold villain known as The Smasher, The Crusher, Ice-Ice Booby, Bruiser and Bob. More commonly referred to as "you want me to put my what where so you can do what?".<br /><br />Ah, but that time has since passed, and these days our loverly heroine lavishes in the luxury of complete peace and quiet mixed with the noticeable absence of drama <span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;">*cue needle dragging across a record** music, conversation and action come to an abrupt and theatrical stop* </span> <br /><br />That's what life has been lately - a needle dragging across the record of my life cuing yet another scene of the never ending drama in the One Act Play called Life. Oh of course I know that we aren't supposed to live our lives in a consummate cake walk. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;" >That </span>would be boring. What with all the sunshine and good health, geez who could stand it? Well, I for one could stand it just a little bit more of late!<br /><br />The stage darkens the curtains close and re-open on what we soon realize is a flashback.<span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;"> (as soon as we tell you that is)</span> Flashback: The date, October 10th. Or 9th, no the 8th. Or something. Whatever, it's a Wednesday in October okay? Our beautimous leading lady is heading to the Dr. for her 6 month post surgery follow-up visit, only it's one month late thank you very much Ike.<br /><br />She is in pain and has been for several days now. Clutching her stomach she patiently awaits her turn however, the pain has become increasingly worse over the past few days and is, at this point, almost unbearable. When she finally sees her Dr. he notices her tortured expression. He asks her a few questions, she answers, he prods her belly and then utters these exact words "blah, blah, hospital" and "something, something, surgery" and "right now" and "something, something, blah, blah, blah".<br /><br />No! What? No. Wait, I have an exercise class today...I have a family...I need to go back to work...<span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic;">(all very lame excuses - except for the family - but like that made any sense.)</span> Uh, hey Doc...don't you just want me to take some Gas-X and quit being such a baby? You know, this too shall pass and all that? Nope. Surgery. <span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;">Surgery?</span> Surgery. Gah! So, she obediently heads to the hospital, right after texting her husband and friends of course, and checks herself in.<br /><br />Surgery happened the next morning. It seems WLS patients can easily get these little things called hernias. Which sound pretty harmless (to me) but can be extremely painful and can become life-threatening if not taken care of.<br /><br />Our brave (and as some have noted, crazy) actress returned to the job she loves (eh, hem) apparently more than a few extra days off, the following Monday. <span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;">*the word actress is used here rather than leading lady to denote the fact that this was indeed all an act. Who the heck returns to work that quick after surgery unless they are pretending to be insane? A leading lady would have stayed home and milked that puppy for all its worth*</span><br /><br />Then there was the whole Crusher incident with several call backs for more pictures of you know what. Toss in a little scare due to a "questionable area" that looked like someone placed a cotton ball on my x-ray but actually turned out to be nothing. Well, not 'nothing' but nothing of importance. Whew. Rest. Breathe. Yay!<br /><br />Nope.<br /><br />Our beloved, brave, beautimous, loverly, insane heroine then decides it's time for an eye exam. Why not? I mean it is the end o' the year. Time to take care of all the body parts.<br /><br />Eye Dr. does the usual look at this and squint at that. Performs the ever arduous and grueling task where she makes you decide ONE or TWO? TWO or THREE? Dude. DUDE! So much stress...I just know I am going to somehow fail her in my answer. Uh...four? To which she calmly replies, ONE or TWO? TWO or THREE?<br /><br />After I fail that obstacle course miserably, she informs me there is something wonky with one of my tests. Um...NO.<br /><br />Seriously? NO MORE DRAMA. I am quitting Broadway and going back to Kansas because this yellow brick road crap ain't fun anymore Toto.<br /><br />The intra-ocular pressure in my eyes is high and there is significant nerve damage in the right eye. What does it mean Vern? Possibly Glaucoma. Go see a specialist. More tests. More concern. More drama.<br /><br />Sigh. A heroine's job is never done.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-family: arial;">**For my youngER readers a record was an ancient form we primitive elderly persons used to record sound, primarily music. These antiquated relics could be found in the form of what was known as vinyl and were approximately 10 inches across and round. Grooves were formed in the vinyl which, when you placed a needle of a "record player" on the grooves the record, began to play whatever was recorded. The sound was amazing. Not at all like the CD's or MP3's of today's generation. It was as if you were listening to scratchy muffled sound coming out of a can and through a wall. Oh and the crackling, scratching and skipping was a beautiful touch.</span></span>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-35252777501087512922008-10-24T07:43:00.008-05:002008-10-24T20:15:56.366-05:00So, Do You Come Here Often?<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:courier new;">*Fair warning to any male readers. This is not your usual love story.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I walked in to the dimly lit and crowded room. I could hear the white noise buzz mingled in with the sounds of soft jazz playing overhead.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I noticed my heart begin to pick its pace up a bit. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >Calm down"</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I told myself. </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" ><br /><br />"I'm not scared"</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I replied. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Slightly apprehensive, maybe that would be a better way to describe it. I mean, this is my first time and all and I have heard the sordid tales about this very moment in other women's lives and I must admit, it was all just a bit intimidating. Sordid tales of torture that would chill you to your bones.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Then</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" > she</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">walked in.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">And she smiled at </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >me</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I gulped. For lo, soon she would have me in her firm cold grip and at her mercy and there I was half naked and no where to run. </span><br /><br />For any woman, the word mammogram strikes a chord of trepidation deep within the heart. Ahem, the, er breast if you will, and please, pardon the pun. Because with that word comes all the unknown possibles that tag along on its coattails like some stranger's snot-nosed whiny kid throwing a tantrum in the grocery store. Not yours, not cute and definitely something you'd like to just walk away from with your fingers in yours ears saying "la, la, la, la" at the top of your lungs.<br /><br />Being an intelligent, well-informed, 42 year old woman who is concerned about her physical well-being, this should have been my third or fourth walk down mammogram lane. <span style="font-style: italic;">Should</span> have been. IF I happened to actually be an intelligent, well-informed woman who might be concerned about my well-being. Or perhaps it would be better said <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >if I weren't such a big stinking scaredy-cat.</span><br /><br />I am woman, hear me whimper.<br /><br />And whimper I did indeed. Not only did I whimper, I whined and pouted like a three year old faced with a bowl of cold spinach. But, stamp my feet and pout as I may, along I went - albeit kicking and screaming (all inwardly of course!) all the way to the Dr. to have my first ever mammogram this week.<br /><br />And you know what? It wasn't that danged bad. In fact, it was rather painless, quick and simple. And I'll be darned if I didn't come away with the cutest little flower and rhinestone bandaids!<br /><br />Ehem.<br /><br />Any who, that said, as a woman I feel it is my duty to put an end to the horrendous lies that have been needlessly perpetuated on down through the ages.<br /><br />And since I've discovered over and over that my imagination is a far scarier place than anything I've yet faced in my life, I wanted to put the truth out there for all to see. Uh, so to speak.<br /><br />Now, before you go thinking I'm some sort of masochistic sicko, I feel I have to qualify my earlier 'not that danged bad' statement with I wouldn't put it up there with going to the spa.<br /><br />Except maybe for the cute little bandaids.<br /><br />Ehem.<br /><br />Yes, well, where was I?<br /><br />There was the usual small talk. Light hearted chit-chat and banter to make you feel a little more comfortable. Although I'm not sure just how comfortable one can get with a total stranger handling such an intimate area while casually flopping you to and fro like you were that night's pizza dough. You know, lightly floured, kneaded and hand-tossed. Bring on the rolling pin.<br /><br />Once the technician gets all familiar with your....self, decorates her for her close up and gets her situated on the metal serving dish, the acrobatics begin. Hold this arm here, that arm there, hug this, turn your head so, lean to the side and <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;" >hold</span>.<br /><br />The tech walks away and says this will just be a second. Pushes a button, a low hum comes from the machine and your eyes follow as the little plastic plate over your...self...lowers, and lowers, and lowers. Hold. Okay, breathe. You are free.<br /><br />Wait. That's it? That was all? I mean, what happened to running my girls through the old-fashioned clothes ringer and slamming them between two blocks of ice?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:times new roman;font-size:130%;" >NOT</span> that I want <span style="font-style: italic;">THAT</span> to happen. But <span style="font-style: italic;">THAT</span> is exactly what I've heard a mammogram is like. And let me tell you, what a relief to find out that it is not. All that whimpering and whining was for naught.<br /><br />So my lovely ladies. I beseech you, do not be afraid. Love yourself enough to go forth and mammogram.<br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Afterward I removed my adornments and threw them in the trash with all the other discarded decorations left from so many others who've passed through her life. As I dressed I wondered to myself if she would call. Would I ever see her again? We had such a brief few moments together, would I miss her? I can still hear our song.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">I wasn't expecting to hear from her so soon, but she called me back the very next morning. What did this mean for us? I fretted as I waited on hold to speak to her. Her voice was unemotional, even after all we shared. But she did say she wants to see me again. Well, at least part of me.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">More pictures? Different angles? Sure. When? Soon? Okay. See you then. Bye.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Sigh. I feel so easy.</span>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-10404619821438033892008-10-07T15:14:00.007-05:002008-10-07T18:55:32.063-05:00Houston Thanks YOUQuestion: How do you feed a half a million people?<br /><br /><span>Answer:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> One meal at a time of course.</span><br /><br />And that is exactly what the <a href="http://www.redcross.org/services/disaster/0,1082,0_294_,00.html">Red Cross</a>, <a href="http://www.namb.net/site/c.9qKILUOzEpH/b.224451/">The Disaster Relief Team of SBC</a> and <a href="http://www.americorps.org/">Americorps</a> have been doing for the past 4 weeks.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.houstonsfirst.org/hurricaneinfo">Our church</a>, my work, has literally housed 150 volunteers and the parking lot has been a staging center for these teams as they work together around the clock to prepare roughly 30,000 meals a day for the City of Houston and surrounding areas.<br /><br />Sadly, they are leaving us this week and I wanted to give a big <span style="font-size:180%;">Thank You</span> to each of them. They have not personally fed, clothed or sheltered my family. But they have, so willingly, done this and so much more for many others.<br /><br />Without question, Ike has left an indelible mark on Houston. Some of its effects are clearly visible. Just take a look around and see the buildings, trees, curbs and rooftops bearing the wounds and scars all over town. Some of the effects are not as easy to see, but no less profound.<br /><br />Like these volunteers. They have left their very own indelible mark on my heart. They have come from all over our nation to provide a ministry to our city and this speaks to me of the love we can have for one another, regardless of anything we choose to lay claim to and define ourselves with.<br /><br />I notice them each and every day in their meetings, in the comings and goings of their daily routine and they almost always have a smile, a readiness to talk and a kind and kindred spirit. This in spite of the fact that they don't get much rest and when they do sleep it's on a cot or an air mattress in our GYM. This in spite of the fact that they've worked 4 weeks straight under less than pleasant conditions. This in spite of the fact that all they have done since their arrival is give completely of themselves.<br /><br />Here I am thanking them, and rightly so...yet, there is a poster just outside our Fellowship Center thanking us! Go figure...it is the most amazing thing to read, check it out:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9b5TTpI2bWm92IKM3Y4IW7Naa15CjS7y6RJuUA8UdGoL62JQHt8H223mpMIIRc1C1KC9CeIfS4zPHT4joFJWy0j7iH4cY3hHa534_L0qNXn7S7ZSjqkV24UXLhrJ5x6K69CWICN4HJEA/s1600-h/Thank+You+Whole+Poster.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9b5TTpI2bWm92IKM3Y4IW7Naa15CjS7y6RJuUA8UdGoL62JQHt8H223mpMIIRc1C1KC9CeIfS4zPHT4joFJWy0j7iH4cY3hHa534_L0qNXn7S7ZSjqkV24UXLhrJ5x6K69CWICN4HJEA/s400/Thank+You+Whole+Poster.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254519918841262418" border="0" /></a>Not sure you could read that. Here is a closer shot.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiGHFScznGlKTosIdMfbqj1_JxEkSkOkjFXI-pkEpW8SdVe0lh_rb97brvlPyat6IO82uxb-j76y7AIeAXEqTtBw2i_Hl0n1Ytfn7ouaK38obsHHrhtnmxzOxqmG08eGLO_dO0pHT3oHM/s1600-h/Thank+You+Red+Cross.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiGHFScznGlKTosIdMfbqj1_JxEkSkOkjFXI-pkEpW8SdVe0lh_rb97brvlPyat6IO82uxb-j76y7AIeAXEqTtBw2i_Hl0n1Ytfn7ouaK38obsHHrhtnmxzOxqmG08eGLO_dO0pHT3oHM/s400/Thank+You+Red+Cross.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254519919721423810" border="0" /></a><br />And more kind words.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFsobU8jwTP6ZP3oFPZHGZsr07O6Z4TNUYDBUlcu-BIN69OC1ECLgYH4xRcdGtDW4BAHVR87LuM32Pfhxu3_xbHDbV437M4ohBmJwvmci0Q3J8hkTsgE-zWtrIEsDu5fJ8Xzeu2XGB7w/s1600-h/Thank+You+SBC.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAFsobU8jwTP6ZP3oFPZHGZsr07O6Z4TNUYDBUlcu-BIN69OC1ECLgYH4xRcdGtDW4BAHVR87LuM32Pfhxu3_xbHDbV437M4ohBmJwvmci0Q3J8hkTsgE-zWtrIEsDu5fJ8Xzeu2XGB7w/s400/Thank+You+SBC.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254519931862881186" border="0" /></a><br />And even more.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JHAJJpm8O4HNbU7RVUHRWy9CNLuIFGWcqmM-g-pngh5vLqMIycwP1EWtuKEkc1_99SpLHk0Y5wV51_JFd8SC7OerFDI5iYQ4XLv9NPb-9voC_ZrZ0hHZYmRLafKOC89qCjqAp74FKD8/s1600-h/Thank+You+Americorps.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9JHAJJpm8O4HNbU7RVUHRWy9CNLuIFGWcqmM-g-pngh5vLqMIycwP1EWtuKEkc1_99SpLHk0Y5wV51_JFd8SC7OerFDI5iYQ4XLv9NPb-9voC_ZrZ0hHZYmRLafKOC89qCjqAp74FKD8/s400/Thank+You+Americorps.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254519939483465874" border="0" /></a><br />This poster truly touched my heart and every time I pass it I stop to read it again. It made me so thankful for what we as a city have seen rise up out of the loss and destruction. Love.<br /><br />But you know what? I think of all the words written on this poster, these below in blue mean the most to me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG6p-0vCXfAw2pT2dJz4b5skRnNwKdj2ZJxd0E9Dc5o0dbsAwRAW1UERqjQItx8RFDkVuzyniZTB_OehHayiM1E7XnYp338kIXZq3G8uF-WIxpyA7ia6VegHkLVW0gEBPUztNWFYTDg1g/s1600-h/Thank+You+First+Time.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG6p-0vCXfAw2pT2dJz4b5skRnNwKdj2ZJxd0E9Dc5o0dbsAwRAW1UERqjQItx8RFDkVuzyniZTB_OehHayiM1E7XnYp338kIXZq3G8uF-WIxpyA7ia6VegHkLVW0gEBPUztNWFYTDg1g/s400/Thank+You+First+Time.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254522114345638610" border="0" /></a>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-44227164683402958282008-10-05T14:26:00.002-05:002008-10-05T15:54:55.963-05:00Comes in 666 Flavors I Might AddSo today in Sunday class we walk over to the snacky-snack section where we have a veritable smorgasborg of breakfast selections. There's the standard bacon or sausage and egg tacos, fresh cut seasonal fruit, orange juice and of course yogurt.<br /><br />Me, I have my sustenance already in hand. That's right children, a grande bold brew from Starbuck's.<br /><br />Also known as The Cathedral of St. Arbuck's. And since it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> Sunday and I do <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> my coffee...it does seem apropos.<br /><br />My husband goes for the yogurt.<br /><br />I eye the brand and give my two cents about the nutritional value of that particular brand. (cause I's the expert now. um. not.)<br /><br />He looks at it and says "Naw, it's okay. It's Damnation yogurt..."<br /><br />"Hon, I believe that says <span style="font-style: italic;">Danimals.</span>"<br /><br />I'm pretty sure you can find the Damnation<span style="font-style: italic;">-Free</span> Yogurt <span style="font-style: italic;">(with live and active script-cul-tures)</span> on aisle 3, right between the Testamints & Veggie Tales.Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-48446497137408717312008-09-30T10:23:00.006-05:002008-09-30T11:55:51.047-05:00The Sound of MusicAs I was leaving work yesterday a harmless little song popped in to my head. And stayed there. For hours...and hours.<br /><br />So, you say? Happens all the time, you say. Yes. Yes, I know. But this particular ditty (no longer considered harmless after thirty minutes of repetition) is one I've not heard (at least that I know of) in over 30 years. Although 30 years ago I am most certain I heard it hundreds and hundreds of times. But isn't really a song. At least not one that would make the Billboard charts...<br /><br />Take a listen....<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/5juK-UrgJG0&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/5juK-UrgJG0&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Apparently the fragrance is not the only thing that is here to stay...can you say Earworm children? I knew you could.<br /><br />So tell me, what is the worst <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/earworm#sharethis">ear worm</a> (definition #2) you've ever had?Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-66609839900579074012008-09-29T07:52:00.013-05:002008-09-30T16:08:17.749-05:00On Being 12A <span style="font-style: italic;font-size:130%;" >size</span> 12! <span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you very much.</span><br /><br />Well, I promised a weight-loss update so, true to my word, here you go my adoring fans. I must insert the usual "be forewarned" disclaimer that I've merely got a camera <span style="font-style: italic;">phone</span> and my photographer is usually my daughter who forgets to tell me "when". So, with that said, some of the pictures are less than good. Dude, what can I say? I'm no Stan Kwan.<br /><br />Just to refresh your memory let's begin with where else? Uh, the beginning, duh.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0LwmXp5cLq-Kwjs_k0_FXO6GR_7J5hGl4U6oyRzn47zkgaeUgKLi8VaHYWrbR5iClwsKl5BBe4gDIjwPfUegGUuI4Gt301la5bwqshZm907c7zzXJ8Mm4su2QzeQ_ZjQUCmyB6guFhg/s1600-h/Me+Galveston+too+315+lbs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 303px; height: 279px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq0LwmXp5cLq-Kwjs_k0_FXO6GR_7J5hGl4U6oyRzn47zkgaeUgKLi8VaHYWrbR5iClwsKl5BBe4gDIjwPfUegGUuI4Gt301la5bwqshZm907c7zzXJ8Mm4su2QzeQ_ZjQUCmyB6guFhg/s400/Me+Galveston+too+315+lbs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251427234113107602" border="0" /></a>A 315 lb me Nov. 2007<br /></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWwn9Un6w_4ASGqLfyt3G0LLi739WT8RkrCxyyaGcocjoMyD2JvsKLvxRFmoi5IGQ21ppGGalonlHYJTpsd342-xLZdqqGU9RJq8BoGlHJit1s_L49cdihY-Dx0ADl2sC53sVXfJVRLk/s1600-h/2007+admins.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfWwn9Un6w_4ASGqLfyt3G0LLi739WT8RkrCxyyaGcocjoMyD2JvsKLvxRFmoi5IGQ21ppGGalonlHYJTpsd342-xLZdqqGU9RJq8BoGlHJit1s_L49cdihY-Dx0ADl2sC53sVXfJVRLk/s400/2007+admins.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251427234773797634" border="0" /></a>That bears repeating, 315 lbs!<br /><br />Then...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXV9Q2UPq1cSRJEmt8i6og24QohTpEhskBdU5HTdOG99qaQoqnUemNNoFm4Xuq0fjiBYKVFPaJnFkPgxJN0PhLAAFb8pWN8CgY3IPM0RacRaTm5scOyNBE1NAmw2i8-3SOm_Yl-8PkEmo/s1600-h/One+Month+and+53+Pounds+4.10.08.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXV9Q2UPq1cSRJEmt8i6og24QohTpEhskBdU5HTdOG99qaQoqnUemNNoFm4Xuq0fjiBYKVFPaJnFkPgxJN0PhLAAFb8pWN8CgY3IPM0RacRaTm5scOyNBE1NAmw2i8-3SOm_Yl-8PkEmo/s400/One+Month+and+53+Pounds+4.10.08.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251442170439354722" border="0" /></a>1 month after surgery.<br /><br />Then....<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehsSpKgwc5Q5wXIfo3aiAatMa3jgvlocDfM3sTaO-3R_vuXKDkyWIk-2ooTOT4Ug89QghldVrYdtZ0f4k898-24D7LEOq14LVgViR3fLz9Maodi4sECjOQAbVTeXriZD8ulHfBdC4oPw/s1600-h/Side+Shot+6.10.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgehsSpKgwc5Q5wXIfo3aiAatMa3jgvlocDfM3sTaO-3R_vuXKDkyWIk-2ooTOT4Ug89QghldVrYdtZ0f4k898-24D7LEOq14LVgViR3fLz9Maodi4sECjOQAbVTeXriZD8ulHfBdC4oPw/s400/Side+Shot+6.10.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251442175195742386" border="0" /></a> 3 months after surgery.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><br />And now for the latest photos...<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfLrMN6VHRY01W_tCUlGBgLR-JwqAzU0zKt5LaqDrs4GZjmxxytEbxQIXxbmpLKrrhOcQdyt12Mu8RwOqXxmvP4g1RHLTucEK417G6-QfDQSHC4BGa2rlxL4bnJAQ1w6YRzLBkwM4Wk4/s1600-h/7+Months+and+133+lbs.+9.29.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOfLrMN6VHRY01W_tCUlGBgLR-JwqAzU0zKt5LaqDrs4GZjmxxytEbxQIXxbmpLKrrhOcQdyt12Mu8RwOqXxmvP4g1RHLTucEK417G6-QfDQSHC4BGa2rlxL4bnJAQ1w6YRzLBkwM4Wk4/s400/7+Months+and+133+lbs.+9.29.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251445651103093842" border="0" /></a>Me...almost 7 months post-surgery. 133 lbs lighter and a size 12.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSauW9MQRLvuLrL9huDam1Mdfh0JwWrWwgQVRagmaK7GEstHjvdo2bIGEdiTZBvfghFKkAdiRZzjYfBhJafnmlV2ZWSlcNOEZfkXOpmH51p-u23TjYRmNlzffWAujAyimraqfiWPxf6Uw/s1600-h/Size+12.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSauW9MQRLvuLrL9huDam1Mdfh0JwWrWwgQVRagmaK7GEstHjvdo2bIGEdiTZBvfghFKkAdiRZzjYfBhJafnmlV2ZWSlcNOEZfkXOpmH51p-u23TjYRmNlzffWAujAyimraqfiWPxf6Uw/s400/Size+12.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251468474878181618" border="0" /></a>Shut up! A size 12...Can I just tell you I giggled when I tried these pants on?<br />I just did.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgXGt8X77KV6_x0IZzl3S8ZIZEgTXxmpMsETwGIiwCGUa1hsSh8U1K9MgnD5aGeotkigcI0P4TFtSCksjlQxH8QXjMHd-ez93MsyK-bI4L57ql9rMNEYedvwPjD_lckonwnKTPsrPx5Y/s1600-h/7+Months+and+133+Pounds+9.29.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDgXGt8X77KV6_x0IZzl3S8ZIZEgTXxmpMsETwGIiwCGUa1hsSh8U1K9MgnD5aGeotkigcI0P4TFtSCksjlQxH8QXjMHd-ez93MsyK-bI4L57ql9rMNEYedvwPjD_lckonwnKTPsrPx5Y/s400/7+Months+and+133+Pounds+9.29.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251445656687038034" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0CawTLltXdKeUbtlLcDPUP8HS1qzw-qEgS1sGlpJaQd9_X8qEEsFDXJjxLJKYsHXwTMrPCdxNMfyXfuCi6Uk9q2j8kqk_zQvHz9SdiFFdr0Hy4_ICcMI9-Ak1JVKSa7Cwon7FXb-8NI/s1600-h/7+Months+and+133+Pounds.+9.27.08.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA0CawTLltXdKeUbtlLcDPUP8HS1qzw-qEgS1sGlpJaQd9_X8qEEsFDXJjxLJKYsHXwTMrPCdxNMfyXfuCi6Uk9q2j8kqk_zQvHz9SdiFFdr0Hy4_ICcMI9-Ak1JVKSa7Cwon7FXb-8NI/s400/7+Months+and+133+Pounds.+9.27.08.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5251445657517139794" border="0" /></a>Me. Again....oh yeah, it is <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> update.<br />What's with the funky face?<br />(That would be the NO warning I referred to earlier.)<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Alas me lovies, that's all the blurry, poorly lit, horribly posed, same old kitchen for a background photos I have. For now.<br /><br />Where from here? Not sure. If the weight loss gods* have forsaken me and left me for greener pastures, then I am just hunky-dory with that. I consider this weight loss surgery journey a success so far.<br /><br />Considering that I've gone from 2 diabetes injections, 2 to 4 blood sugar finger tests, 2 blood pressure meds, a handful of pain meds A DAY to none of the above a day. I've gone from a size 26/28 to a size 12. From 315 lbs. to 182 lbs. From 165 pounds to goal, to 33 pounds to goal. I've gone from not being able to sit in a chair comfortably (without my hips hanging out the sides and over the edge) to...well...it's still not comfortable but it's now because I have very little cushion between my tail-bone and the chair...I've gone from wanting to sleep all the time to, oh wait, ha, that's still true. From not being active with my family to being active....Any way, you get the picture. If not, scroll up and start over.<br /><br />So, that's it for now. I will update again at 9 months. The same amount of time of a full term pregnancy. Except by then it will be as if I've given birth to a full grown man.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">*(please do not take offense. I am a Jesus loving, scripture believing, Holy Spirit filled girl...I would never be so silly as to truly think that the weight loss gods have forsaken me...so there.)</span><br /></div></div></div></div>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8350071378919453815.post-11782456944043156672008-09-25T07:32:00.005-05:002008-09-25T15:56:39.786-05:00A Tale of Two Cities<span style="font-style: italic;" class="chapt_body_italic">It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. . . .</span><br /><br />The lines have been drawn and the city has been divided. There are those with and those without. No matter where you are or what you are doing the mutual concern sounds and common question rings in everyone's conversation, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Do you have power?</span>" The ones who have seem almost apologetic to answer yes to those who have not. Those who are without are merely seeking a fellow sufferer to commiserate with.<br /><br />And it <span style="font-style: italic;">has</span> been suffering. True, we still have a home. True, we can now go to the store without a two hour wait in line. And true, we can run to the nearest fast food place for a quick bite to eat and a breath of fresh air conditioning. But then we must return to our muggy, dark and eerily quiet homes to rummage in the blackness for our belongings and lay in our bed praying for the slightest breeze.<br /><br />Time has been divided as well. There is <span style="font-style: italic;">Before the Storm</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">After the Storm</span>. Or perhaps you go by <span style="font-style: italic;">Before Ike</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">After Ike.</span> The novelty of it all (if there ever was any) has certainly lost its shine. The first week <span style="font-style: italic;">After the Storm</span> was filled with busyness and gratefulness and sheer determination to be strong in the face of whatever may come. The second week has been filled with deep sighs at yet another day of <span style="font-style: italic;">hurricane hair</span>, showering by flashlight and eating cheap fast food. Also the petty envy and the childish whining that fills my heart while longingly looking out my window at the porch lights of my neighbor across the street. Wah.<br /><br />One thread runs common through all of us, whether in a season of light or a season of darkness, we are all very tired. I've decided we are all suffering from P.I.T. Post Ike Trauma or P.I.S.T. Post Ike Severe (or Stress &) Trauma. <span style="font-style: italic;">Symptoms include: Crying/laughing or cussing at the sight of a porch light (not yours), a bag of ice, a gas can, a grill or the sound of a generator. Exhaustion. The appearance of having chicken pox (from the hawk-sized mosquitoes biting you while you sit outside at night trying to catch a cool breeze while staring plotting ways to run electricity from your neighbors house to yours). Scratches, bruises, blisters, sunburn, heatstroke and callouses from hauling the forest from your backyard to your curb. Exhaustion. Forgetfulness. Repeating the following Do you have power yet? Is that the microwave? Is that a power line truck? Who has ice? Do you have power yet? and exhaustion.</span><br /><br />I hope this doesn't come across as whiny and negative. As I said before there are pockets of joy we've been able to delve our little hands in to and grab hold of some semblance of peace. We have learned much about ourselves and one another. Found reserves of strength deep within that would not have been discovered if not for the current situation.<br /><br />For instance I have learned that it is possible to cook pasta, make coffee and even bake a pie on a grill as well as a variety of dishes only thought possible with the modern miracles known as KitchenAid, Cuisinart and General Electric.<br /><br />I've found it is possible to live without tv, radio, internet and sometimes air conditioning, but NOT Starbucks. You can have serious, even life threatening withdrawals from Starbucks. And I don't even drink the fancy stuff. Just straight coffee ma'am, thank you very much. You would have thought they were giving away the store the day I found they were open again. I squealed with the delight of a preteen viewing the Jonas Brothers when I saw the Open sign finally return to my <strike>crack dealer</strike> Java Love Distributor. Sigh.<br /><br />I now know I am still able to do my own pedicure. (dangit) I have become quite the spoiled little brat regarding my feet and was at the point where I refused to even <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> about touching them myself. I must say, they aren't as pretty nor is it as relaxing as having My Le, sorry Tammy give me a pedicure, but nonetheless still possible. At least I can reach them now...<span style="font-style: italic;">(small weight loss surgery update: I've lost 133 pounds and have 32 to go. I have gone from a size 26/28 to a 12/14. I am at almost 7 months post surgery and will post pictures soon barring another hurricane of course.)</span><br /><br />I have discovered it is possible to be in the close proximity of two teenagers and one husband for 24 hours a day and 14 days straight without committing murder. Although I must say I've not been happier in the past two weeks than the day the kids went back to school and I was able to spend 8 child-free hours - even if it was at work.<br /><br />Tomorrow marks 14 days without for our family. Oh but weep not for me for there is hope...yesterday as we entered our neighborhood the sight of huge orange and white trucks filled my heart with joy and my eyes with tears. When we got home there were 4 large, smelly, filthy and sweaty men in my backyard fixing the the power lines and I've never wanted to hug a stranger more. While we are still without and others around us may have light, we have each other, we have the love of fa...oh who am I kidding? I WANT MY LIGHTS ON NOW!!!!<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long long to come, I see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.</span>Danahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07257660639811126906noreply@blogger.com6