tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14099767071936495392024-03-19T01:12:47.457-07:00Obsessive Musings, Disambiguation & RetrospectMrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.comBlogger28125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-44914152351894033202013-03-12T14:08:00.001-07:002013-03-12T18:16:14.240-07:00There's no such thing as TOO busy<div style="text-align: justify;">
I decided about 2 weeks ago to restart my blog. I haven't written anything in ages. Parenthood tends to take up a bit of my time... One might wonder why I would add one more thing (writing in my blog) to my already busy and hectic schedule. I'm a Wife, a Mom, a Disciple, a full-time Legal Assistant, a part-time History major/Political Science minor, a Thirty-One Consultant, a blogger... and now a manufacturer of cloth diapers for my 10 1/2 month old son!</div>
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Yup! I decided that it wasn't enough to take on the challenge of having Rowen wear cloth diapers... I had to make them myself. Lets be honest. Those of you who know me, know that I have no concept of relaxation. The idea popped in my head and there was no stopping me.</div>
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I've heard so many positive things about cloth diapers, specifically that they help potty train early, and we have wanted to try them out for awhile. All of the cloth diapers that I have found run $12 + tax, shipping and handling. And that's if I can find them on sale. I've also bought a few and even though the size chart says they will fit, they didn't. To say the least, my cloth diaper trials have been frustrating.</div>
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I drove myself on over to JoAnn Fabrics last weekend and got to work. Luckily there was an amazing lady named Kate working that night and she introduced me to the Babyville Boutique collection that they carry. I bought myself a pattern, some adorable water resistant outer fabric, micro fleece inner fabric, terry cloth for the liners, fold over elastic, dual duty thread, and velcro. I finished my first full diaper last night and all-in-all, it took me about 1 hour to complete. Total cost: $7.50/diaper!</div>
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Check out my photos below to see my progress from start to finish:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNvQrA9cIos9t0_rSekgmWFOS0kJcF5hs9UHQ3Z5r6cnxEKs6s0mVUHSySPotQa1DlKMjAJWGAn6GlOuKGfn8x_S1sbURGhOCW9EB2qY4dgye_-0WPjJrlyovm-0rcrObC_Lpmy4_Hxw/s1600/602724_10151807779279478_1426328728_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsNvQrA9cIos9t0_rSekgmWFOS0kJcF5hs9UHQ3Z5r6cnxEKs6s0mVUHSySPotQa1DlKMjAJWGAn6GlOuKGfn8x_S1sbURGhOCW9EB2qY4dgye_-0WPjJrlyovm-0rcrObC_Lpmy4_Hxw/s1600/602724_10151807779279478_1426328728_n.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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Here are my liners. Four layers of terry cloth cut 4.5" x 10. I straight stitched around the edge first, then went over it with a zig zag stitch, then trimmed the frayed edges.</div>
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Here are my inner and outer layers with the velcro sewn on.</div>
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Here is my inner layer of micro fleece with the inner leg gussets sewn on with fold over elastic.</div>
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Finally, my finished diaper. The terry cloth liner fits nicely in between, with removal on the sides. I tried it on Rowen and it fits nicely! Now I just have 11 more to make in my first batch. Then we can try them out and see if I need to make more.</div>
Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-18613303488401059512011-11-11T07:22:00.000-08:002011-11-11T07:22:04.259-08:00Where did these emotions comes from?<div style="text-align: justify;">OK... yes, I'm pregnant. With that comes a flood of emotions never quite seen before by myself or my husband. But when I'm the one feeling like I'm getting a little too emotionally needy for my husband to handle, it must be pretty bad. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I cry about everything and anything. What's worse... it feels good. I get these little sinus headaches if I hold in tears. It's painful and makes me feel worse. So here I am feeling all emotional and I want to cry about everything that I just let it out instead of holding it in.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But my husband doesn't like it when I cry, so he tries to make me laugh or say things to cheer me up. This is so sweet and endearing. He is doing everything in his power to make me feel loved and beautiful and happy during this emotionally trying time. He is amazing! Which also makes me cry... out of happiness. Then he just hugs me real tight and tells me to knock it off.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wish that I could control this. It's pretty annoying. At first, it was just sad movie scenes that made me cry uncontrollably. Well... not even really sad ones. I cried at the end of Twilight the last time I watched it. For gosh sakes people, Bella was so worried that Edward would leave her in the hospital. How could you not feel for her?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So if any of you have any suggestions on how I can control these waterworks, please let me know. I'm running out of kleenex people!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-12138534905680017332011-11-03T10:33:00.000-07:002011-11-03T10:33:26.394-07:00There's something in the air...<div style="text-align: justify;">I had a moment today... one of those moments where you feel a spark in the air and the hair on your arms stands on end. It's that feeling of the holidays coming upon us. I look around and see the leaves changing colors and floating to the ground. The air is cool and crisp, just a little bit of bite so you know you need a coat. In the early morning hours there is that sparkly layer of frost on the ground that warns us of winter on its way.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I love this time of year. It seems to be the only time of year when people are truly and genuinely nice to one another. We all get this bug that infects us with love and compassion and kindness. People hold doors open for each other, and wave pedestrians across the crosswalk, and smile at passerby on the sidewalk. This doesn't happen year round, although that would be nice. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Holiday shopping begins and families are out and about celebrating and traipsing through the snow to peer in windows at beautiful decorations and listen to carolers. I realize we haven't even celebrated Thanksgiving yet, but if you walk into Walmart right now you will be overun by Christmas decorations. The sales are beginning and stores are preparing for the infamous Black Friday. Department stores are already running continuous tracks of holiday music over their loudspeakers. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I love walking through the mall, passing gift wrapping stations, and seeing kids bounce with excitement. I love being in the crowded lines waiting to purchase my well-planned and thought out gifts. I love spending an hour picking out gift wrap and bags and bows and ribbon. I love decorating the tree and then sitting with my husband on the couch to take it all in. I love watching him shake his head when I drag out all of the gifts that have to be wrapped and then obsessively wrap them as perfect as possible, only to watch them be ripped open weeks later. I love the smell of the pretty holiday candles that we will burn for the next two months.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I love that I can feel the excitement in the air that everyone else is feeling right now!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-26340695463787332412011-10-28T09:52:00.000-07:002011-10-28T09:52:37.362-07:00Faith<div style="text-align: justify;">I have been really overwhelmed lately and I just haven't found out how to stay calm and wait for everything to work itself out. As soon as we found out we were expecting, I became more and more anxious about our financial situation. While my husband tells me repeatedly that we will be perfectly fine, I still worry that we will bring home this new little baby and we won't be able to afford him/her. What if I can't breastfeed and we have to pay for formula? What if diapers cost us way more than we planned for? What if something has to be repaired at home and we can't afford to pay for it because the baby comes first?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">About a month ago, I had started to see some light at the end of the tunnel. We were budgeting and watching our finances... we even planned ahead for medical expenses and my income for maternity leave. I was feeling good. Then we encountered a plumbing disaster and piled up about $3,000 on our credit card (the one we had just paid off). Since then, it's been very stressful. I dread balancing the checkbook and looking at that credit card bill. I put it off, because I hate seeing that I can't pay it off right away and that we are that much farther behind on being debt free.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When I talk to my mom about this, she always says the most reassuring things. She tells me that her and dad are praying for us and that I just have to have faith that God will watch over us and take care of everything. To be honest, at first that didn't make me feel much better. I haven't been much of a religious person for years. When I was in grade school and junior high, I was very active in my church and youth group. At the time, I remember having faith. I don't know what happened along the way, but I apparently lost some of that faith. I can sometimes be easily discouraged and it's hard to turn to God when I don't understand why he would keep letting bad things happen to us.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then I realized that I have to look at the situation with a little bit of perspective. I recently watched the movie "Soul Surfer" and it opened up my eyes. This true story is about a young surfer who loses her arm to a shark bite. She couldn't understand why God let this happen to her, but others kept telling her that God had a plan for her. Here I am stressing out about money, getting upset that God isn't helping me with my leaking basement, when people are sick and dying, or homeless and starving, or getting bit by sharks. I have more than most, and I am very thankful for that. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So the other day I was driving home from school and I couldn't find anything on the radio. The first channel that I tuned into was a christian based radio station that had a speaker talking about prayer. I listened for awhile and it got me thinking. I have always had this narrow concept that praying occurred with your eyes closed, hands together, and you asked God for something. But as I listened, this speaker elaborated on that by saying that people need to just take the time to "talk" to God. Like he's a friend on the phone... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So that's what I did. I "prayed" for about the last 30 minutes of my drive home. As I talked about everything that was bothering me and everything that I felt was going wrong, I started crying. It wasn't really any different from talking to my mom or dad on the phone, but the result felt different. Maybe this new prayer venture will help me build up my faith again.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wasn't sure what my husband would think and I have no idea if he ever sits down and prays. But yesterday, I had a bad morning. I got some bad news on the phone and I just started crying. My first thought was "Don't get discouraged and think that your prayer was all for nothing." I didn't want to mentally scorn God because I had made this "leap of faith" and prayed, only to wake up the very next morning and have something else go wrong. So I called my husband. He calmed me down and, again, told me that we will be perfectly fine. Then, at the very end, he said "God will look out for us."</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-45542608100044734332011-10-18T09:25:00.000-07:002011-10-18T09:25:49.739-07:00Our little lime<div style="text-align: justify;">I read my cousin's blog today that she wrote to her 6 month old son Jon, and it was so sweet that it made me cry. It also inspired me to write about our little one... or to our little one.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is our first pregnancy and everything is changing. We found out we were pregnant 8 weeks ago and are so ecstatic! At the time, our baby was compared to a poppy seed. My pregnancy app compares the baby to fruit and vegetable every week. Now, our little one is the size of a lime. That's crazy! A lime is so tangible... so definitive. The one ultrasound that we had was at 8 weeks and our little one looked like a peanut, or a lima bean. No definite limbs, just a shape and a heartbeat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I wish I could see our little one now. Arms and legs are moving and flexible. Eyes are fluttering. My pregnancy app says that if I press on my belly, the baby will feel it and squirm. I love that! I love that I have this weird, little way of communicating with our little one.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So here is what I would say to our little one:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I love you so much, and you're not even here in our arms yet. Your Daddy is beyond in love with you. He looks at me differently now. With this sense of awe and love that I've never seen before. When I touch my stomach out of comfort, he gets this little smile on my face. If I seem to be in pain, he immediately asks if I'm okay. Always checking on me and keeping tabs on my condition.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">When we lay in bed at night, he rubs my belly and I know he is thinking about you. We talk about you a lot. What you are going through as you grow big and strong. What you will be like when you get here and what we will be like once we are parents. We talk about what to name you, and how excited we are to finish your nursery, and your Daddy keeps telling me to stop buying stuff for you because we don't know yet if you're going to be a boy or a girl. Mind filling me in so I can get back to Babies R Us?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We talk to your Grandparents about you and I'm always sending emails to your Grandma about what new fruit or vegetable we can compare you to. Your aunt is pregnant right now too and she is having a little girl, so you will have a cousin that is almost the same age as you! You're going to love everyone when you get here and everyone here already loves you.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I've been pretty emotional lately with all of the hormones surging through my system. I hope my constant crying and anxiety hasn't been taking too much of a toll on you. I'm trying really hard to take care of myself and you. I hope I'm doing a good job... I'm not supposed to be able to feel you moving around for another month or so, but anytime you feel like jabbing or kicking me, please feel free. I will relish in it like nothing else. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">We love you little one!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-78759046874963137412011-10-10T13:01:00.000-07:002011-10-10T13:01:33.723-07:00Baby. Baby. And more baby.<div style="text-align: justify;">I have had a one track mind lately. Baby. Getting the nursery ready for the baby. Getting the rest of the house ready for the baby. Setting up the baby registry. Thinking about baby names. Buying diapers... for the baby. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This is obviously normal. Every new Mom (and Dad) go through big life changes when they are getting ready to bring home a new member of their family. My problem is that I want it all done NOW. I have 6 months before we will bring home our little bundle of joy, but that is not enough time. No sir-ee Bob! My craziness has been driving my husband nuts. He told me the other day that I had to lay off the "Spring Cleaning" because he was running out of room in the back of his SUV to haul stuff to the dumpster.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm sure he gives me looks when my back is turned. You know... the ones that say "OMG... what is going to happen when the baby is actually here?" Or "I wish she would just stop moving, for one minute, and take a breath." I think I make him dizzy. Unfortunately, he knew this was coming. I knew this was coming.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Luckily, we have an amazing network of family and friends that have been super supportive. My Dad has been helping us every-which-way to get the house ready for the baby. Bathroom remodeling, attic insulation, fresh drywall, and landscaping. My best friend came over and spent hours helping me and my Dad, and I know that she is always there for me to lend a helping hand. My amazing cousin has set herself up so that she can provide us with the best daycare ever! We could not thank these people enough for what they have done for us already...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">People always say that RAISING a child takes a village. I say that GETTING READY FOR A CHILD and HAVING A CHILD takes a village as well. I'm very thankful that I have a village behind us!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-3724519505096385982011-09-28T19:27:00.000-07:002011-09-28T19:27:17.250-07:00Crazy pregnancy dreams: Blog #1<div style="text-align: justify;">My dreams of late have been very vivid and obscure... which should make for great blogging material! I thought I would start posting regular blogs about my most interesting dreams and my own personal interpretations of them. Then all of you can analyze them as well. Who knows what we will come up with!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For the last month, I can't remember a night that I've slept straight through. I get up about every 2-3 hours to go to the potty or to grab a glass of chocolate milk to fight heartburn. I've read that this frequent up-and-down action all night interrupts my dream-filled REM sleep, thus making my dreams for vivid. Also, since I'm awake so much during the night, I tend to retain more of my dream memories.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first pregnancy dream I would like to share with you is about our vast solar system. In this dream, I am in outer space. However, it's more of my presence than my physical body. Everything is very scaled down and close together, like I could reach out and touch all of the planets. I am traveling around to discover life on other planets, and find it on Neptune. Yeah! I'm so very excited that Earth has made a new friend in Neptune and my immediate thought is to "move" Neptune closer to Earth. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So I watch in my dream as the planet Neptune floats through the solar system, edging closer to Earth. However, Neptune goes a little bit too far and ends up next to Venus. Since it's too hot that close to the Sun, the planet starts to turn red. I, of course, freak out. I believe this is the point in the dream when my husband claims I was crying and moaning.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I convince Neptune to move back toward Earth, but Neptune has other plans. Neptune, while he is excited to be "friends" with Earth, has decided that he wants to check out Jupiter. I plead with him and explain that Jupiter is a big, gaseous giant and he will be swallowed up and destroyed if he goes anywhere near the planet. (I remember having a "memory" in my dream about a satellite that had been sucked into Jupiter's gravitational pull and it exploded.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So as Neptune starts bouncing closer to Jupiter, I start screaming "NEPTUNE!!!". At which point my husband wakes me up.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Interpretation:</b> I didn't personally decipher this dream, but my husband did. Neptune is my sister, who lives far away (only about an hour). I wish that she lived closer, but obviously not too close (as my dream implies). So Neptune heading toward Jupiter was like my dream subconscious warning me that while it would be great to have Neptune close, disaster may result. Neptune could also be a metaphor for my parents, who live in the same city as my sister.</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-32225039289286240052011-09-28T12:20:00.000-07:002011-09-28T12:20:59.288-07:00Nesting<div style="text-align: justify;">No... this isn't some new fangled thing like planking and owling where people go around contorting their bodies into the shape of bird nests. Although that would be pretty amusing... I'm talking nesting as in the instinct that pregnant women feel toward the end of their third trimester. The baby is coming and soon-to-be Mother's start feeling the urge and/or need to clean, sort, organize, reorganize, color coordinate, and generally prepare the home for their baby. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm not talking about installing a baby gate in the hallway and putting outlet protectors everywhere. I'm talking about pulling all of the clothes out of the dresser drawers and refolding and reorganizing them back in different places. I'm talking about going through that mish-mashed collection of toiletries and hygienic items stowed away in that tiny hallway closet, throwing out items you will never use, and then putting them all back together in order of height inside cute little boxes with cute little labels.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Nesting is a bitch of a symptom. So why am I, at a mere 9 weeks, feeling the nesting instinct? My theory is that I'm a ridiculous neat freak. Organization is my middle name. Perfectionism is my nickname. I can honestly see myself nesting for the duration of this pregnancy. In fact, I kind of nest on a regular basis. Most people just experience this in March or April and attribute it to Spring Cleaning. I "Spring Clean" about once a month. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So here is how my day went:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">First, I did the dishes. No big deal, right? Well that involved getting the Cascade dishwasher tablet out from under the sink. Once I was down there, I realized that the bottom of the cupboard, where we store our cleaning products, looked a little shabby. So I pulled everything out and cleaned the cupboard. Then I put it all back.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Next, I decided I was hungry and should maybe eat lunch. So I grabbed a paper plate and plastic fork out of the far right cupboard. But the odd assortment of plastic utensils floating around the cupboard in bags and boxes made me dizzy. So I organized that. Then I decided to take a look at the adjacent cupboards, just for fun. What's the harm in that?<br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So then I organized the spice cupboard and reorganized the cupboard where all of our coffee mugs are. While in that cupboard, I found a collection of empty spice bottles that I was saving for... who knows what. I probably had some ridiculous crafty idea and just couldn't let them go. Well, they are in the trash now!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">From there, it all went downhill. I ended up cleaning and reorganizing all of the kitchen cupboards. I moved things around and now my husband probably won't be able to find anything. But I'm happy! And isn't that what's important here people?</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-10759523195039534692011-09-23T11:36:00.000-07:002011-09-23T11:36:55.427-07:00Hormones<div style="text-align: justify;">Since I don't truly know who my audience is comprised of, I'm taking the risk that someone will read this blog that hasn't heard the news... We're expecting! My life will practically revolve around this pregnancy for the next few months, and then my child after she is born, so now is as good a time as any to begin blogging about it.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">To be honest with ya'll, I have been pretty miserable this last month. Once the symptoms finally hit me, I couldn't shake the fatigue, frequent urination, stomach cramps, and 24/7 queasiness. I've been emotional about everything from my much-to-early weight gain to the song playing on the radio. I really want to enjoy this pregnancy, so I've been trying to just shed off this funk and start being positive about everything.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">But today, I thought I had a breakthrough. As I drove to a seminar this morning, an old Backstreet Boys number 1 hit came on the radio. I found myself bouncing in my seat. My head started bobbing and my fingers tapped the steering wheel. As I picked up on those old familiar words, I started singing along softly. About halfway through the song, I was belting out that tune like I was trying out for American Idol.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em>Backstreet Boys</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Backstreet Boys</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Everybody (backstreet's back)</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Everybody</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Rock your body</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Everybody</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Rock your body right.</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Backsteet's back alright!</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Oh my god we're back again</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Brothers sisters everybody sing</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Gonna bring the flavor, s</em><em>how you how</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Gotta question for you, b</em><em>etter answer now</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Am I original? </em><em>Yeah!</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Am I the only one? </em><em>Yeah!</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Am I sexual? </em><em>Yeah!</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Am I everything you need?</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>You better rock your body now</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Now throw your hands up in the air</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>And wave 'em around like you just don't care</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>If you wanna party let me hear you yell</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Cuz we've got it going on again</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_XN3wB2PNnH5H69bURimtVQJ-C9WSilCgUfKZNNWthWAIBy_W_VQZHDrF3vjiAujroLZS3MeaTmsJ4GMKktzAWxrtxs7_8vpAg0KvGguwgT6VTgta2_O7n5Ex7wCBD1pNVKpHah4-l0/s1600/bsb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" hca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm_XN3wB2PNnH5H69bURimtVQJ-C9WSilCgUfKZNNWthWAIBy_W_VQZHDrF3vjiAujroLZS3MeaTmsJ4GMKktzAWxrtxs7_8vpAg0KvGguwgT6VTgta2_O7n5Ex7wCBD1pNVKpHah4-l0/s1600/bsb.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I was doing so well! And then... my hormones took over. The next song on the radio was the theme song to the movie Armageddon, "I don't want to miss a thing" by Aerosmith. So what do I start thinking about? Bruce Willis dying, of course! He takes A.J.'s place to save the world. He leaves his little girl behind so that she can be with A.J. and start a family. And then Liv Tyler puts her hand on the television screen as it goes to white noise and static... "Daddy? Daddy!" (I'm a daddy's girl, so that didn't help the situation.)</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/l9SDKt0yEEQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">I immediately start crying as I pull up to the next stop light. (I started crying again as I picked the clip above from You Tube and watched it.) I'm sure the guy in the truck next to me thought I was completely nuts. Nope. Sorry guy. Not nuts. Just pregnant.</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-2473716730517760142011-09-20T12:52:00.000-07:002011-09-20T12:52:34.468-07:00Personal Boundaries<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">What is the cure for a nosy person?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some people are so nosy, they don’t realize they are being rude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s in their nature to be that way and they don’t pick up on the subtle, and even not-so-subtle, hints that they are being rude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They lack basic social skills, have few friends, and seem to think that making themselves part of someone else’s business gives them a sense of belonging and acceptance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">But they always take it too far…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They have no concept of boundaries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have a coworker that is the epitome of nosiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I covered this a little bit in my recent etiquette blog, but this is more of a “vent” blog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I left early from work yesterday for a personal appointment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My boss informed me today that as soon as I walked out the door, said coworker was out of her seat and in his office (keep in mind that my boss is not her boss, so this was even more out of line).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She proceeded to ask him where I was going and why.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since my boss smartly knew my reason for being gone was (1) none of her business, (2) something I wasn’t sharing with the office, and (3) NONE OF HER DAMN BUSINESS, he lied to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I take a little bit of pride in the fact that he quickly conjured up a smart little lie!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, I will be gone for a lot of “personal appointments” in the next 6-7 months, one as soon as next Monday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since she is nosy, she is also naturally suspicious.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This means that she will probably accelerate to asking our other coworkers if they know why I’m leaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two of them do know, but they know better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They understand the obviously hard-to-grasp concept of personal boundaries.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I’m dreading the day when she confronts me personally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have this fabulous excuse now for chewing her out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hormones.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knows…?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe she will finally take the hint and stay out of everyone’s business.</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-317288801458631602011-09-19T08:04:00.000-07:002011-09-19T08:04:16.980-07:00Champagne anyone?<div style="text-align: justify;">I was looking through my computer files today and came across something interesting. I had written a toast for my sister's wedding, but I never had the opportunity to give it during the reception. We arrived a little bit late, and after talking with the DJ after dinner, my sister realized we were running out of time. So an executive decision was made to go straight to dancing and cake cutting. I was a little bummed at the time, but it wasn't a big deal. However, now that I have this blog as an outlet, I figured I would share the toast with all of you. Hopefully my sister enjoys it too!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Here goes...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">"Good evening and thank you all for coming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had hoped I could put together a simple little toast and memorize it, but when I sat down to start writing, I didn’t know where to start.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First and foremost, I want to tell you how much I love you both and how happy I am that you found each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You created this perfect little girl and we are all so lucky to have all three of you in our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If I could give you any advice, after being with Ryan for over 10 years, it would be that you should always be open with each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talk about your problems, pick your battles, and never fight over money.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Josh, I was trying to think of something to share with you about Melissa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A little memory about her that would really make you feel like a part of our silly family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had plenty to choose from, but for the sake of Melissa’s pride, I will share those stories in private when we can laugh for hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, I did think of something from our childhood that always makes her smile, so I’m going to pass this along to you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Melissa and I were young, I used to tell her silly stories at night to help her fall asleep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a little repertoire of characters that I would use and then I would ad lib the actual story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If she ever has a hard time falling asleep, please tell her a silly story about the chicken McNugget people that walk around in cowboy boots.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Melissa, we have been through a lot together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were so close when we were younger, playing kick the can in the alley and basketball at Danny’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom always made us come in at like 6:00 to go to bed, so we had loads of time together and we had to make our own fun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like… mattress surfing on the staircase.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know we drifted apart in my teenage years, but you were so little and dorky and I didn’t know any better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now that we are mature, responsible adults, I feel like we are right back to being those crazy, close sisters that had to sit in timeout together in the game closet.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Now you have a daughter and you’re married, and you’re not that dorky, little girl anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You are beautiful and strong, and you will make a great wife for Josh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wish you both all the happiness in the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To Melissa and Josh!"</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-41168099787948747142011-09-15T12:38:00.000-07:002011-09-15T12:38:03.284-07:00A birth like no other<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I’m not sure why I decided to write about this today…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I really enjoyed reminiscing the other day and I was trying to think of another fond memory to write about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since my little sister is expecting baby #2, I got to thinking about the day that my niece Emma was born.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">My sister was scheduled to be induced on Monday, February 16, 2009, so she arrived at the hospital about 8:00 p.m. the night before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took the 16<sup>th</sup> off work and planned to drive up first thing in the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My lack of experience with pregnancy and induction had me worried that she would give birth before I could drive the hour to the hospital that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boy was I wrong…</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I believe they broke her water that morning to see if she would start dilating, but that didn’t work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I arrived about 9:30, sweating and panting, expecting my niece to be crowning, but everyone was calm and collected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I presented my sister with a special “Mommy” charm bracelet as a gift and then we all proceeded to sit around… for hours and hours and hours.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Eventually they gave her Pitocin and that sped things up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The contractions were getting pretty bad, so she opted to get her epidural.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her boyfriend was a needle-phobe and couldn’t stand to watch it happen, so I stayed in the room and held her hand while the anesthesiologist stuck a huge needle in her back and she turned into a happy girl again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">By late afternoon, there was quite a crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Me, my Mom, my Dad, my sister’s boyfriend, his sister, and his Mom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around 6:30, me and my parents headed out to McDonald’s for dinner while my sister and her boyfriend had some alone time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Around 8:00 p.m., the doctor arrived and said it was time to start pushing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It didn’t seem so bad at first, but after awhile, I started pacing the halls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was a small hospital and there only seemed to be one other woman giving birth that night, so I wasn’t in anyone’s way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">At one point, my sister stopped panting like the doctor was ordering and started making funny moaning and screaming noises.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was all my Mom’s poor heart could take.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She took off down the hall to get away from the emotional stress of hearing her baby girl give birth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By now, I’m sitting in the hallway across from my sister’s room with my head in my hands.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Have I mentioned before now that I’m a very anxious person?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Finally, at 10:28 p.m., my beautiful niece Emma was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After another hour, we all got to go in and see them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s when I got really emotional… because my sister announced that her name was Emma Nicole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I started crying… because my middle name is Nicole too!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then my sister said that she chose that for her middle name because I meant so much to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cue: A ridiculous blubbering mess!</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">The End!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-74698753894657913892011-09-13T11:20:00.000-07:002011-09-13T11:20:29.206-07:00One simple reason why I'm a Daddy's Girl<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I love reminiscing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was eating apples with peanut butter earlier and I randomly remembered something from my childhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Give me about a paragraph to make the correlation to peanut butter before you give up and go read another blog.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">When my sister and I were growing up, our Dad worked nights.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was, and still is, a baker.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He would go to work about 8:00 or 9:00 o’clock and work until the wee hours of the morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every once in awhile, we would beg and beg to have a sleepover at the bakery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a little twin sized cot in the small room off of the bathroom and we would bring up our sleeping bags and pajamas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our initial intention was to help our Dad bake, eat yummy baked goods, and absolutely, positively stay awake until Dad was ready to go home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This, I’m sad to say, never happened.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At some point, whether due to exhaustion or a sugar coma, we always fell asleep before he was ready to leave.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">One specific memory of our little bakery sleepovers was making homemade chocolate peanut butter cups (see, there’s the correlation!).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would put liners in a cupcake pan and melt chocolate chips into the bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then we would scoop a little bit of peanut butter into the middle, and finally, smother the entire thing with more melted chocolate chips.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then, the whole concoction would sit in the freezer for a few hours to harden.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the meantime, I honestly can’t remember what we would do to pass the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hide-n-seek among 50 pound bags of flour?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or maybe we would squeeze ourselves into the little crawl space on the side of the huge, industrial sized oven?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I do remember that the homemade chocolate peanut butter cups were way too hard to eat straight out of the freezer, but we would just sit there and suck on them until they melted in our mouths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Imagine a Reese’s Peanut Butter cup the size of a jumbo muffin from Tim Horton’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes we had to use a fork…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I always loved our little sleepovers at the bakery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not so much because we got to eat sugary delights late at night or stay up past our bedtime, but because we got to enjoy that special time with our Dad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like our own special little “Take your daughter to work” day… or night.</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-32698613901799983382011-09-08T11:47:00.000-07:002011-09-08T11:47:47.752-07:00Can I turn off my anal-ness?<div style="text-align: justify;">Apparently I'm anal. To be quite honest, I knew this. I will admit this... no question. But I was never as anal as I am today. It has been like a creeping characteristic, edging its way into my being over the last ten years. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As a high school student, I could have cared less about my school work, grades, and punctuality. I graduated with a 2.9 GPA and barely scraped by with an ACT score that provided me with a one-time $250 scholarship, which I never even used. My bedroom was always a mess and I practically refused and/or avoided doing chores around the house by always being gone at work or out with friends. I held a job, but my work ethic was nothing like it is today. I had no qualms about lying to my boss and calling in "sick".</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Today, I work a full time job where I am very proud of what I've achieved and the work I produce. I landed a paralegal job with no experience and I've self taught myself almost everything that a paralegal gains during a two-year certificate program. I also work a part time job where I attained the status of "pet" after one night of work. Luckily, my coworkers are not annoyed by my organization, cleanliness, and overall anal nature. I rarely miss work and never call in to play hooky.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My home is not spotless, but I'm very proud to say that I could entertain company at any given time with minimal "picking up" needed. I tend to nest on a daily basis, constantly cleaning up and keeping things orderly. My husband and I have, over time, developed our own little set of chores around the house and we go about them easily and without complaint.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Finally, I am a very anal student. I have attained a 4.0 in all but two classes in 6 years of part time schooling. I will not speak of that darn pre-calculus class... I always arrive to class close to thirty minutes early and I rarely miss a class session. I take crazy notes and always do my homework way ahead of time. I tend to be the teacher's pet.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Now that I've appeared to brag about this great person I've become (which honestly doesn't make me blush because the only people that really read my blog are my Mom and my husband, and they both know all of this anyway) I have to explain why this came about.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm in an African American Art History class this semester and I have to drive quite a distance to get to class once a week. I have this concern that weather will interfere with my ability to get to class and the syllabus indicates that I'm only allowed one absence during the semester without it affecting my grade. After that, I'm docked one letter grade. In other words, if I work my ass off to get a 4.0, but miss more than one class session, I'm getting a 3.5. Three missed class sessions? 3.0... </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I decided to talk to my professor and see if there was any leeway. I hate asking for special treatment and can honestly say that I've never asked it of a professor. I understand that they have to have guidelines that apply to every student. At the same time, I honestly feel that my situation is unique. I'm driving 2 hours each way and winter is coming.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">As I was talking to my professor, she says to me: <i>"I've noticed that many non-traditional students are very anal about their schooling. They get ulcers and headaches and you don't want that. I mean no offense by this, but it is very true. So I want you to chill. Just relax. You need to focus on doing the work to get your 4.0 and nothing more. If you need to miss a second class period, we will talk about it when that time comes."</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Hmmm... Am I that transparent? Are non-traditional students all as anal as me? Maybe I do need to chill out a little... More importantly, what did she mean by this? Will she not dock my grade? Or is she just trying to get me to not think about it over the next 15 weeks? Gosh... now I'm just going to worry more. Dammit!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-6017518486682922232011-09-07T10:06:00.000-07:002011-09-07T16:38:42.797-07:00A slogan by any other name...<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I was driving to work today and found myself at a stop light behind a service van for “Trane”, the HVAC company. I got to thinking about their slogan “Nothing stops a Trane”. If nothing stops a Trane… why do they need service repairmen? Maybe their slogan should be “Nothing stops a Trane… permanently”? Does that mean that they don’t offer warranties because they claim their products never stop working?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">All of this got me thinking about product slogans and I did a little research. There are some odd ones out there that really don’t make a lot of sense.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><b>Nike:</b> <i>“Just Do It” </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Do what? Should we assume they mean “Just buy the Nike shoes”? Or are they implying that “it” means running, or walking, or playing sports… which is what most people do when they purchase $145 sneakers.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><b>State Farm:</b> <i>“Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there”</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I am a loyal State Farm customer, but I don’t get this. I only personally know one of our neighbors. They are nice, but I wouldn’t expect them to show up if I was in an accident. I’ve never even borrowed a cup of sugar from them. Maybe they should change it to “Like a nosy coworker every time you turn around, State Farm is there”.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><b>Lay’s:</b> <i> </i><i>“Betcha can’t eat just one” </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Well duh! If the serving size were one potato chip, I would consider that they were challenging us to stick to our nutritional guns. And they used a word in their slogan that isn’t even a word, “betcha”… although I’m sure that Webster’s will get right on that if they haven’t already. I believe my previously used “duh” is already in there.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><b>Camel:</b> <i> </i><i>“I’d walk a mile for a Camel” </i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">I doubt it. If you smoke Camel cigarettes, you probably can’t even walk from your car to the gas station clerk to buy another pack of smokes without getting out of breath. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><b>Taco Bell:</b> <i> </i><i>“Head for the Border”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">First of all, Taco Bell is a disgrace to Mexican food… and this slogan is racist. Am I to assume we can only eat Mexican food in Mexico? Should we assume that fried chicken is only made in the south where African Americans used to live as slaves? By this logic, the slogan for KFC should be “Head for Alabama”. I find this slogan offensive… ‘nuff said.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><b>Frosted Flakes: </b><i>"There G-G-Great!"</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">That took a lot of thinking. I mean A LOT! Was their marketing team sitting around one day in the conference room, just munching on frosted flakes, when one pimply faced intern blurts out "Gosh these are great!". And it just stuck?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: justify;">Maybe I should have gone into marketing...? I just don't understand where some of these companies come up with these slogans. </div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-32951744185900087952011-09-02T09:27:00.000-07:002011-09-02T09:27:24.833-07:00Heeere's your sign.... thanks Bill Engvall!<div style="text-align: justify;">Are you following the rules of workplace etiquette? Could you be missing the signs from your fellow coworkers that you're breaking these rules?<br />
<br />
If you're new to the field of general employment (i.e. you just turned 16, or you have been a bum for years and finally got off your butt and got a job) you may find this guide useful for your integration into the workplace social scene. If you're a workplace veteran, you might just need a refresher. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, the people that this blog is aimed toward (and yes, I wrote this blog in response to one particular coworker who constantly breaks the rules of workplace etiquette) are ignorant enough to not realize they're breaking these rules of etiquette and they will be unlikely to benefit from this useful information.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's get started!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>1. The fridge.</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It has been made abundantly clear, via numerous emails, that you have to write your name on anything you put in the fridge or it may be stolen or thrown away. We have scavengers in our office that are apparently under fed at home. Also, our fridge is cleaned out every Tuesday at 3:00 p.m. The office manager oversees the receptionist (because it's totally a two person job) to check expiration dates and anything that looks to be growing something bulbous or green.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, the 1st is obvious. <em>Write your name on your shit!</em> The 2nd rule should be obvious, but considering my experiences... <em>Don't eat shit that doesn't have your name on it! </em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>2. Privacy.</strong></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm going to go over two main scenarios here because it is, unfortunately, necessary.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Phone calls: </strong>If I am on the phone with someone and you are close enough to hear the conversation, that is not an implied invitation to take part in the conversation. There are two situations here and I'm honestly not sure which is more rude and annoying. The first occurs when someone is listening to your conversation and starts talking to you about it. Maybe a little "transcript" will help explain this better:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Me: "No ma'am, we do not handle divorce matters, but I would be happy to refer you to attorney Smith. Let me get his phone number for you." But before I can look it up, my cubicle neighbor is shouting it over the half wall that separates me from her insanity. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The second situation occurs when that same cubicle neighbor promptly skitters (and I use that term because it reminds me of a cockroach) over to me and strikes up a conversation about the conversation they just overheard. This could be a mish-mash of advice, comments, suggestions, questions, etc. This is especially bothersome when the call was personal and your cubicle neighbor starts asking why you have a doctor's appointment.<br />
<br />
So, the rule here? <em>Don't eavesdrop!</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>Private Conversations: </strong>I realize that it is difficult to have a private conversation in the middle of an office setting, especially one filled with women. But it is easy to look at two or more individuals, assessing posture, eye contact, voice loudness and tone, and determine whether they are having a private conversation. If you witness any signs of a private conversation (whispers, flitting eyes, a leaning gesture, etc.) keep on walking. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, the rule here? <em>Mind your own damn business!</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This can also be applied to any conversation, private or not. For example, I could be standing up talking to the receptionist about any number of topics, and that nosy cubicle neighbor will just walk up and stand there. She has effectively made herself a listener in the conversation, whether we like it or not, and then, since we haven't shooed her away, she will take her turn as a talker, interjecting that same combination of advice, comments, suggestions, and questions.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">__________________________________________________</div><br />
In conclusion, it is important to point out the signs that you might be breaking the rules of workplace etiquette. If you happen to notice any one of the following, you need to check yourself... before you wreck yourself!<br />
<br />
1. Evil glares from coworkers, especially if deadly lasers are shooting out of their eyeballs.<br />
<br />
2. Complete silence when you approach your coworkers, especially if they appeared to be holding a rather lively conversation just seconds before you arrived.<br />
<br />
3. Non responsive behavior. If you communicate, in any way, to a coworker and they blatantly ignore you, either verbally, physically, or via email, you have overstepped a boundary and your coworker is doing everything in their power to not rip off your head. Do not push for a response!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-62920106674001379582011-08-21T12:59:00.000-07:002011-08-21T12:59:39.529-07:00High school yearbook memories<div style="text-align: justify;">I redeveloped some old film from high school a few weeks ago in preparation for a get together with some old gal pals and my upcoming ten year class reunion. It was like an out-of-body experience seeing myself in these pictures. I honestly didn't recognize who I was looking at. I have changed so much since high school and I couldn't figure out how I went from point, or person, A to B.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">This got me thinking... What was I like in high school? What did people think of me? I decided to investigate, because to be honest, I was really curious. The first thing I did was Facebook message a few old friends. I knew they would be honest with me, and I got some great, albeit unexpected, feedback. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You were the best friend anyone could have asked for. I remember you ALWAYS being late in the mornings, but hey I was happy for the ride. Another thing I remember is how creative you were. You always made everything look so good."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You were a wanna be preppy who had only good intentions at heart. You were never the "rich" kid or "poor" kid. You were sweet, but if someone wasn't as popular as others, you probably second guessed yourself when it came to socializing with them. You could be jealous, but you loved those around you deeply. You were super smart and witty, and I am sure mostly everyone liked you. I know I liked you."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
"I remember you being like a lot of high school kids trying to fit in. I feel you tried to figure out your spot with each little group from athletics, to those who didn't give a damn about anything, to the in-crowd. I sometimes thought you just weren't sure who you wanted to be or whom you wanted to be around. Overall, I wouldn't say you weren't any different from lots of others in high school and I had the privilege of seeing the true you when we had our moments together. I always knew you were a beautiful person on the inside and out and always held you as a good friend."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________________</div><br />
I mentioned this whole matter to my Mom today and she thought of the clever idea of pulling out my old yearbooks. Gosh did that produce some interesting insight into the person I was. Or at least how others viewed me. So I thought I would share some interesting writings from my yearbooks.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Freshman year:</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You're a good person and I hope you never change."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I want our kids to grow up and be best friends like we are."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You are a good friend and we have a blast when we are together."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"We can never tell our kids what we've done, because we don't want them to turn out like us."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Sophomore year:</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You're a great girl and you will go far in whatever you do."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You are a very outgoing and friendly person and I admire that in you."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You are the coolest bitch I know!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I hope everything you want in life comes true."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><b>Junior year:</b></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You are my bestest friend in the whole wide world. No matter what, we have to stay friends forever."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You have such a wonderful personality."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"I hope you become a successful lawyer. Then we can meet for expensive lunches!"</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">"You've always helped me out whenever I needed it and I'll never forget you for that."</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">_______________________________________________________</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, we always received our yearbooks the following school year, so I didn't have a chance to have anyone sign my senior yearbook.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I highly recommend that each of you get out your old yearbooks and take a walk down memory lane. This was a lot of fun and helped remind me about the person that I used to be... the person that most of the people at my upcoming ten year class reunion remember me as. Hopefully they will not be disappointed...</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-64655774937612199302011-08-18T11:37:00.000-07:002011-08-18T11:37:28.942-07:00My bucket list<div style="text-align: center;"><em>"Every man dies - Not every man really lives.” ~ William Ross</em></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I LOVE to make lists. I'm absolutely ridiculous about it. I relish in the task of creating a fabulous list. A packing list for vacation. A honey-do list for Mr. H. Grocery shopping lists. I'm pretty anal about it...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">So creating my bucket list is a familiar and comforting task for me. Ah... the thrill of numbering a sheet of paper, with beautiful penmanship, and then carefully listing off the exciting goals I want to accomplish before I die. I get all tingly inside just thinking about it!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I decided that I would share my bucket list with you. Maybe it will encourage you to create your own bucket list... maybe even give you some ideas that you hadn't thought of.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>1. I want to visit all 50 states by the time I turn 50.</strong><em> </em> I've got a pretty good start... I have this "requirement" that I want to collect something from each state, or take a picture of myself in front of some famous monument in each state. I'm really being quite finicky about this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>2. I want to go skydiving.</strong> I'm afraid of heights, and falling, and flying, but I am bound and determined to strap myself into a parachute and jump willy-nilly out of a plane.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>3. I want to do the Labor Day Mackinac Bridge walk/run.</strong> Whether I walk or run will depend on how much I train. Since I'm also afraid of bridges, in addition to being afraid of heights, I think I might run so that I can get off the bridge quicker!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>4. I want to run a half marathon.</strong> I trained for and completed a 5k in the summer of 2010. I felt great afterwards... until I came down with a respiratory infection and couldn't run, or exercise, for three weeks. My intention was to train for a half marathon that October by training for and completing the 5k. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><strong>5. I want to see the ball drop in Times Square on New Year's Eve.</strong> It's not like I'm jonesing to see Dick Clark or Ryan Seacrest, I just feel like this is something that everyone should experience in their lifetime. The excitement, the craziness, and the confetti! </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: justify;"><strong>6. I want to travel to Rome.</strong> Or Europe in general. I want to see the Pantheon, the Colloseum, the Trevi Fountain, the Vatican archives, St. Peter's Square and Basilica, and all the other famous sculptures, fountains, and architecture. I also want to go to the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and see castles in Germany.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DdzBHBguEIv6wfViZc-Ow-iKHE5BmlU3QSb4uBlG8TLDt0waby0ghdC-ymJLkilw2W7zTVyD7qrDhYd4BsBvN2GISU5unp54dVvBOBENzAgu-7pPjLd0ExxZk67GnusBDI_LmhqvqkY/s1600/3-2049494-st_peters_basilica-rome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="137px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DdzBHBguEIv6wfViZc-Ow-iKHE5BmlU3QSb4uBlG8TLDt0waby0ghdC-ymJLkilw2W7zTVyD7qrDhYd4BsBvN2GISU5unp54dVvBOBENzAgu-7pPjLd0ExxZk67GnusBDI_LmhqvqkY/s200/3-2049494-st_peters_basilica-rome.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>7. I want to work at the Smithsonian. </strong> I would also settle for the Field Museum in Chicago, IL. I am a History major, with an Art History minor, and I would like to get my Masters Degree in Museum Studies. I don't necessarily want to be curator, but I wouldn't turn down the job if it was offered to me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUI2jwBjraMxyrsmJ3RVzwnq5DnAlcvAlQjD6KgucxZsdanXixWcBXg_GH2MICIQVaqviGqKkCYJ6gi2sKBfjPw1heCtoEIOQe0Ny_ygX1sJss0SxvhnSE6UGLqUxgBQ2zxQoulbneVo/s1600/smithsonian-museum-of-natural-history.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLUI2jwBjraMxyrsmJ3RVzwnq5DnAlcvAlQjD6KgucxZsdanXixWcBXg_GH2MICIQVaqviGqKkCYJ6gi2sKBfjPw1heCtoEIOQe0Ny_ygX1sJss0SxvhnSE6UGLqUxgBQ2zxQoulbneVo/s200/smithsonian-museum-of-natural-history.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>8. I want to go scuba diving on a tropical reef.</strong> When I was younger I wanted to be a marine biologist and I've always enjoyed watching beautiful fish in their natural habitats.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>9. I want to build my own home.</strong><em> </em> I have a "dream house" in my head. It's nothing extravagant... Just big enough for our family, a couple of guest rooms, nice open living spaces, an island in our kitchen, and a big yard with lots of trees and great landscaping. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>10. I want to volunteer/work for the Multiple Sclerosis Society.</strong> My brother-in-law was diagnosed with MS a few years back and we have been involved with the society ever since. Our local Michigan chapter is always in need of volunteers and people to work on committees to organize fundraisers and such. I don't have a lot of free time, but I want to make time for this.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>11. I want to see Katy Perry in concert. </strong> This may seem like an odd goal to put on a bucket list, but she is my favorite musician. And consider this. It's hard to get tickets to her concerts, they aren't cheap, and she won't be touring forever. Every musician has their era...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tZxa26TBwuZcwm9TD2T-_EFylOQGQTfJo_NvLAkTdrxzdLyKvWeNOfqdbLnvSo57VxxI5joOjffrsio-Ef5M09YmLJ5sz7Ph98wydcFS_qzenu19-NGN03kA-kT6vOIZkhAkAVDOnmY/s1600/Katy-Perry-katy-perry-6421521-900-675.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tZxa26TBwuZcwm9TD2T-_EFylOQGQTfJo_NvLAkTdrxzdLyKvWeNOfqdbLnvSo57VxxI5joOjffrsio-Ef5M09YmLJ5sz7Ph98wydcFS_qzenu19-NGN03kA-kT6vOIZkhAkAVDOnmY/s200/Katy-Perry-katy-perry-6421521-900-675.jpg" width="200px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>12. I want to become proficient in a second language.</strong> I have always thought it would be exciting to be able to speak another language. I have to be proficient in Spanish, up to a certain level, for my Bachelors Degree, so that's a start.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>13. I want to meet my goal weight.</strong> Preferably before I get pregnant... I have struggled with my weight for years, and I finally got things under control. Now it's a matter of toning up and trimming off some excess weight.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>14. I want to publish a children's book.</strong> I had to write, illustrate, and publish a children's book for one of my elementary education classes and I really enjoyed the whole process. And, if I may say so, the book was pretty darn snazzy!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>15. I want to backpack the Appalachian Trail with my hubby.</strong> This is really more of his goal, but I think the whole idea is fascinating and would love to accomplish this with him! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>16. I want to buy and restore an old car with my hubby.</strong> I haven't decided what type of car yet, but I think I want to paint it powder blue with cream leather interior. Beyond that, I haven't a clue!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>17. I want to get my phoenix tattoo.</strong> The phoenix is a symbol of rebirth. I went through a big life change when I got my act together and started taking care of myself and getting healthy. This tattoo would symbolize my transformation.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>18. I want to visit every one of the Disney World parks.</strong> This is cheesy, but I'm still a kid at heart! And I want a fast pass too!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVCMnWWVzmq9pw2EWW1J4f6jfvBw2jSJ6yUeBU157Ou8QlzYN0Tsti30YVgdKF1vT9P18qSxF-Or33s0z7QeJ0ID9h1ruhRBRJFgKH4AnyTq4TWbIJzythY2nE6xIDDcUPtfDfQiGT5Q/s1600/0.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwVCMnWWVzmq9pw2EWW1J4f6jfvBw2jSJ6yUeBU157Ou8QlzYN0Tsti30YVgdKF1vT9P18qSxF-Or33s0z7QeJ0ID9h1ruhRBRJFgKH4AnyTq4TWbIJzythY2nE6xIDDcUPtfDfQiGT5Q/s200/0.bmp" width="166px" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>19. I want to be the founder of a historical organization.</strong> Maybe something that raises money to restore historical artifacts?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>20. I want to get my Masters Degree.</strong> Whether it's in Museum Studies or not, I want to accomplish this at some point. Even if I have to write 60,000 word essays and spend months with my head in books at the library.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>21. I want to learn to drive a manual transmission.</strong> This is especially important because the car that my hubby and I buy and restore is most likely going to have a manual transmission. And I think it's cool to be able to drive a stick shift!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>22. I want to go for a hot air balloon ride.</strong> I realize this is, yet again, another ridiculous goal since I am so afraid of heights. But maybe I can wear a parachute...?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>23. I want to camp at a national park.</strong> Preferrably somewhere like Yellowstone, or even along the Appalachian Trail. I really want to experience the great outdoors.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>24. I want to be a contestant on Jeopardy.</strong> I love watching this show and my hubby and I used to actually compete against each other and keep score. I have gone to their web site to look at the sample tests they administer to determine eligibility to be a contestant, but the questions are random and ridiculously hard.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>25. I want to touch the Stanley Cup.</strong> I am a die hard Detroit Red Wings fan and I love hockey in general. I just want to be able to say that I was in the presence of and woman-handled the Stanley Cup. That's not too much to ask, is it? I might actually have to be dying for them to grant that wish...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_3qeN31_rY3zkB_LZ000ch8T9kuanqUOBT4aaXmG_PcF8cRKY75NkXT3AKQ_2BKVXCflBN671oEHKVKuc7l3PMuTGm6v1Z6xrE5p8wjp9KHAja5b3LN6HAhTowpqhTbJr6ZrpL6zy0Q/s1600/picture91.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt_3qeN31_rY3zkB_LZ000ch8T9kuanqUOBT4aaXmG_PcF8cRKY75NkXT3AKQ_2BKVXCflBN671oEHKVKuc7l3PMuTGm6v1Z6xrE5p8wjp9KHAja5b3LN6HAhTowpqhTbJr6ZrpL6zy0Q/s320/picture91.jpg" width="320px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><strong>26. I want to see Haley's Comet.</strong> I believe I will be in my early 80's when it comes back around again, so maybe my real goal here is to not kick the bucket before I'm 90?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">You can check out <a href="http://www.bucketlist.net/">this link</a> if you need a little help in putting together your bucket list.</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-54312283211709419722011-08-17T08:35:00.000-07:002011-08-17T08:35:30.835-07:00My Life... as directed by John Hughes<div style="text-align: center;"><em>"His name is Blane? That's not a name, that's a major appliance!"</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>"Bueller? Bueller? Bueller?"</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>"Relax, would you? We have seventy dollars and a pair of girls underwear. We're safe as kittens."</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">John Hughes, who was born right here in Lansing, Michigan, was an amazing director, producer and writer. He created icons, like Duckie, Ferris Bueller, and Sam Baker. I love his films and I've always wondered what it would be like to really live in the 80's. What would it be like to have John Hughes direct my life...?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Could I pull off the feathered bangs, funky jackets, big jewelry, and flowered clothes? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJlYcWwvTcMRdN21gTGLbTuELOv08Pz13lDQNjFk704pfqo37NGy1_wKApYBZlcEFJTNCYKBZEp5jxtAWjSHrwpvlbM7cr6z-hIj8DSthijcry6N5loMnJviT165OzKhk4TQu5HZv2v4/s1600/tumblr_lesl543yJD1qzj1g6o1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266px" naa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdJlYcWwvTcMRdN21gTGLbTuELOv08Pz13lDQNjFk704pfqo37NGy1_wKApYBZlcEFJTNCYKBZEp5jxtAWjSHrwpvlbM7cr6z-hIj8DSthijcry6N5loMnJviT165OzKhk4TQu5HZv2v4/s400/tumblr_lesl543yJD1qzj1g6o1_500.jpg" width="400px" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">My favorite John Hughes movie has to be Pretty in Pink. I love the scene where Duckie bursts into song at the record store!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/z727wXHEJMg?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Can you imagine if Jon Cryer spontaneously did this on an episode of Two and a Half Men? Charlie Sheen would lose his mind...</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">What else would life be like living in the 80's with Hughes at the helm? While his characters experienced a lot of drama, life seemed pretty simple. Obviously we're talking about movies here, but this is my fantasy and if I want to believe that life was really like that in the 80's, no one can stop me!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The 80's were filled with Nintendo and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Tight pants and leg warmers. Vanilla Ice and M.C. Hammer. The Wonder Years and Golden Girls.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">No Facebook. No smartphones. Things were more personal 30 years ago. "Fun" was bowling, listening to good music, painting your toe nails and gossiping with girlfriends, aerobics, and smoking pot. So much has changed since then...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Maybe I can bring back leg warmers... Wouldn't that be totally bodacious?</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-36239071505334131912011-08-12T08:08:00.000-07:002011-08-12T08:08:43.447-07:00Just another sparkly vampire<div style="text-align: justify;">I’m going to sound like a complete hypocrite writing this blog, but that’s okay. I know that I am addicted to vampire novels and I also recognize how ridiculous and repetitious they all are.<br />
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For example...<br />
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Teenage girl meets sparkly “teenage” boy.<br />
Girl falls madly in love with sparkly boy after two days.<br />
Boy exhibits super human abilities while saving girls’ life.<br />
Girl is oblivious.<br />
Girl meets boys family.<br />
Girls finds out sparkly boy is a vampire.<br />
Girl immediately wants to be a vampire too.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Danger.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Drama.</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Lots of heavy petting.<br />
Girl becomes vampire.<br />
The end.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYnWVl_zIFXhQd5w5SfVoO2Xt2fi3whmejQ55x9Bhe7RGRjTYXuBJfiAlKdJ8r_QmzoJwgOke7qaQ_cmpxrznJ7BLbc-_a5q4166SUtoMz_sxpHnOAyPxW2w3sZhfykmkIYiR5vdpynM/s1600/new-moon-movie-posters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxYnWVl_zIFXhQd5w5SfVoO2Xt2fi3whmejQ55x9Bhe7RGRjTYXuBJfiAlKdJ8r_QmzoJwgOke7qaQ_cmpxrznJ7BLbc-_a5q4166SUtoMz_sxpHnOAyPxW2w3sZhfykmkIYiR5vdpynM/s1600/new-moon-movie-posters.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Everyone assumes that <a href="http://www.stepheniemeyer.com/twilight.html">Twilight</a> was the original teenage vamp series and every other author just copied Stephanie Meyer. Unfortunately, this is wrong. Twilight was just the first to hit Hollywood. in a big way I have read vamp novels by other authors that seem to have very similar plots and sequences of events, however, the copyright is years before Twilight was even published. And at first I thought I wouldn’t enjoy these books because they seem so similar, but I’m obviously just addicted to vamp novels... as I previously stated.<br />
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I just recently finished reading the <a href="http://www.lynsaysands.net/books/index.html#argeneau">Argeneau series by Lynsay Sands</a>, courtesy of my best friend’s library, and I loved every book. Right now, I’m reading the <a href="http://amandahocking.blogspot.com/">My Blood Approves series by Amanda Hocking</a>. Just when I get to a point and think “Gosh, this is just like what happened to Edward and Bella!” the author twists the plot just enough and I get engrossed once again.<br />
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I don’t really understand the fascination with vamp novels. There are 40 year old women that have fallen in love with Jacob Black and Edward Cullen. These teens, and I emphasize TEENS, strut out on the screen with no shirt on and the women in the audience shriek like they just won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse sweepstakes. <br />
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And I also don’t understand why we so easily accept these silly female characters. These girls are clumsy and ridiculous, and then they just decide after meeting a new sparkly boy that they want to be bitten and then drink blood forever. Why aren’t these girls afraid? Didn’t their parents ever teach them not to talk to strangers? Or not to walk down those dark alley ways alone? Or to RUN away when someone is chasing them?!?!<br />
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Regardless, I will continue to read these vamp novels and I will continue to go see their Hollywood adaptations in the theater... even when I’m 40 and shrieking at the 17 year old hearthrob that is playing the sparkly vamp boy!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/PkdpYgV10Xk?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-71272000101101852622011-08-11T19:48:00.000-07:002011-08-11T19:48:31.870-07:00Vacation etiquette<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">At some point during this blogging hobby of mine, I will have the uncontrollable and undeniable urge to spew forth advice concerning any number of subjects or situations. As some of you read through this, you may think this sounds a lot like complaining. And to you, I say begone! If you can't read this and mistakenly see it for the fake advice that it is, you won't genuinely appreciate it as such. <br />
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Since I'm here in our nation's capital, an enormous melting pot of both residents and tourists, I decided to take this opportunity to slowly stick my big toe in and test the water. This will be my trial run at giving "advice".<br />
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<b>Picture ruiners: </b> This city is filled with national museums, historical sites, amazing architecture, and beautiful landscaping. Everyone has crazy ridiculous cameras and 12 pound lenses nowadays, so we take pictures of everything! It's like we all suffer from short term memory loss and we can't remember things we have seen unless we capture physical proof. Let’s try to follow a few simple rules of etiquette when taking pictures and/or are in the vicinity of others taking pictures. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMEf4WJxUPaRfYXtiD-RP4gJ3DdPnxi_6eJsT_kuJEjffNCP12LpUZQs6_d_ebwB8FnC3DEOUMtbTLTwwJaM00cTJoHDTSB1ZKfS8wdqkS8Fjc_-VEkb_nclydsSx0pMf1HIy8k_MBVU/s1600/IMG_0411.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMEf4WJxUPaRfYXtiD-RP4gJ3DdPnxi_6eJsT_kuJEjffNCP12LpUZQs6_d_ebwB8FnC3DEOUMtbTLTwwJaM00cTJoHDTSB1ZKfS8wdqkS8Fjc_-VEkb_nclydsSx0pMf1HIy8k_MBVU/s320/IMG_0411.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<b>1. </b> Don’t stand 2 inches in front of the statute or painting you are photographing thus eliminating any possibility that others can also take a picture as well. Also, I’m sure your 12 pound lens has 10 x zoom on it, so you don’t really need to be that close.<br />
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<b>2. </b> Don’t spend 5 minutes staring at and photographing said statute or painting, which also eliminates any possibility that others can take a picture and enjoy the statute or painting. No one needs 43 pictures of the giant sloth skeleton at the Natural History Museum.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">On a similar note, don’t decide that the best place for you to stop and take a rest is right in front of one of these statutes or paintings. You are ruining the whole experience for all of us.<br />
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<b>3. </b> Watch where you are walking! No one wants you strolling into their family picture in front of the Lincoln Memorial or a blurry image of your arm in front of their sepia toned picture of the National Gallery of Art fountain.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYeb4LE31L3iYp2CgFTKqJye83XJgzfV9pL7sSAP4H5ovx-fbjRlpFJ_2xRUVd340VnB51tyzvBYoUe2_bA9-3-okWAxaspWC8WkaXyx7cDOdgjATsaPkb14s5MWRgcRLWkmgdNjZ9aFw/s1600/IMG_0556.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYeb4LE31L3iYp2CgFTKqJye83XJgzfV9pL7sSAP4H5ovx-fbjRlpFJ_2xRUVd340VnB51tyzvBYoUe2_bA9-3-okWAxaspWC8WkaXyx7cDOdgjATsaPkb14s5MWRgcRLWkmgdNjZ9aFw/s320/IMG_0556.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<b>Walkers:</b> This may sound odd... right? How could I possibly complain... err, give advice... about people walking? The way I see it, you should walk on the sidewalk the same way you drive on the road. And don’t stroll down the middle of the sidewalk making others walk in the grass or the street. <br />
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<b>Sign disobeyers: </b> Even though you may not speak or have the ability to read English, there is no excuse for this behavior. Most of the public places we visited had very simple signs with symbols telling everyone not to touch things or not to use photography. You may not be able to read “Do Not Touch!” or “No Photography”, but a picture of a camera with a red slash through it is a universal symbol. Don’t play dumb with the “foreign” card. <br />
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<b>Unruly children: </b> Oh yes... you know who you are. Did you really think that your children would behave in the middle of a museum gift shop or near the fountain at the World War II Memorial when they clearly don’t listen to a word you are saying? There are signs at these sites requesting quiet, respectful behavior for a reason. Your child throwing a temper tantrum ruins the experience for me and everyone else there trying to relish in the moment.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEq5NxZQI0AGfBu77vPcIzxOzkPOKDwM3QIZ72aSOC2K2imYnsUZurL5yJTeQDq4KK-XqCgzthrDPTaC12Gi5_Dmuw9zve-8w1PUQpwlTCGt0Qwc8Qit2L6bwLmk9mUIzef4neaylTBY/s1600/IMG_0550.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitEq5NxZQI0AGfBu77vPcIzxOzkPOKDwM3QIZ72aSOC2K2imYnsUZurL5yJTeQDq4KK-XqCgzthrDPTaC12Gi5_Dmuw9zve-8w1PUQpwlTCGt0Qwc8Qit2L6bwLmk9mUIzef4neaylTBY/s320/IMG_0550.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">If your child cannot behave, and you are incapable of quieting them, remove them from the environment. This is plain and simple. I realize that you and your children would also like to play the tourist role and see the sites, but it’s completely unfair for you to ruin everyone else’s vacation. My only request is that you respect your fellow tourists.<br />
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Now that I have provided you with some simple rules of vacation etiquette, please feel free to share your most ridiculous vacation stories! </div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-66161838077621401782011-08-09T12:29:00.000-07:002011-08-09T12:29:41.870-07:00A recipe for disaster...<div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Disclaimer: I am not an artist in the kitchen. I have a few things that I make exceptionally well, like lasagna and meatloaf. And I’m capable of reading a recipe and making chocolate chip cookies and pecan pie. Quite the opposite, I’m also capable of destroying the most simple edible concoctions. For instance, I almost burned down the kitchen making microwave popcorn. </i><br />
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I gave you that disclaimer so that you don’t go and take my blog seriously and then sue me later when you either burn down your house (you should always have a fire extinguisher in your kitchen) or singe off your eyebrows. I know a good lawyer and I know how to use him!<br />
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While it is a little bit early in the year for this, I’m going to share with you my Thanksgiving Day recipes. When we are done today, you will have made turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, green bean casserole, dinner rolls, and pie. I’m not getting fancy with yams and cranberry sauce. You should NEVER put marshmallows on anything but a graham cracker with a Hershey’s chocolate bar square!<br />
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<i>Step 1: </i> Prep your turkey for the roaster. Make sure you buy the kind with the pop up timer because, if you’re like me, you will either undercook your turkey and give your family food poisoning, or overcook it and make your Mother-in-Law give you THAT look. <br />
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Remove the turkey from the packaging and rinse it thoroughly. There should be a little baggy of crap stuck up the turkey’s hind end. Holler at your husband to come in the kitchen and ask him to politely remove it for you. Then baste the turkey with olive oil and butter and sprinkle it with seasonings. I usually use thyme, rosemary, salt and pepper. Roast on 350 for approximately 1 hour/10 pounds.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
<i>Step 2: </i> Prep your green bean casserole. Buy frozen green beans, Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, and French’s fried onions. Now, this is really simple... follow the recipe on the back of the Campbell’s soup can. <br />
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<i>Step 3:</i> Prep your potatoes. Wash them., peel them, cut them into manageable chunks, put them in a pot with water, and boil them until tender. Once you have drained off the water, mash them with butter, sour cream, and a little bit of milk. Always sniff the milk first, just in case...<br />
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<i>Step 4: </i> Gravy. Yeah... I’m not even going to go there. Your best bet is to make sure you invite your Mom to dinner. When she comes in the kitchen to ask if you need help (and she will if she is a self-respecting Mom), say casually “Sure! I was just getting ready to make the gravy.” When you hand her the packet of powder gravy and a measuring cup for the water, she will scowl at you. Then she will proceed to make fabulous homemade gravy from the turkey drippings and starch. THIS IS WHY YOU ALWAYS INVITE YOUR MOTHER TO THANKSGIVING DINNER!<br />
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<i>Step 5:</i> Dinner rolls. Well, that one is easy! Call Dad! Did I forget to mention that my parents own a bakery? Dad always brings his delicious dinner rolls for every holiday meal. All you have to do is warm them up in the microwave so they are piping hot.<br />
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<i>Step 6: </i> Pie. I could also call Dad for this one, especially for the pumpkin pie. But since my husband likes Pecan Pie, we are going old school on this one. You could always Google a recipe, or look on the backs of cans in the baking aisle. You are bound to come up with one eventually. Just look for the Karo corn syrup bottle. I’m going to share with you a recipe I found online:</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><i>What you need:</i><br />
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1 pre-made pie crust<br />
1/3 of a cup of packed brown sugar<br />
1 1/2 teaspoons of all-purpose flour<br />
1 1/4 cups of light corn syrup<br />
1 1/4 teaspoons of vanilla<br />
3 eggs<br />
1 1/2 cups of chopped pecan halves<br />
2 tablespoons of melted butter or margarine<br />
<br />
Heat your oven to 375.<br />
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In a large bowl, mix together the brown sugar, flour, light corn syrup, vanilla and eggs. Stir in pecans and butter. Pour into pie crust (oh yeah, you should probably have already had the pie crust out and in a pie pan). Bake for 40-50 minutes. <br />
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Cool and enjoy!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</i></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">For more great cooking experiences, check out “<a href="http://www.hartoandco.com/my-drunk-kitchen.com">My Drunk Kitchen</a>” episodes or watch a great holiday episode below. I absolutely love this girl!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/cKf0GirR0-A?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-51771902886880560622011-08-08T18:06:00.000-07:002011-08-08T18:06:22.140-07:00That really grinds my gears!<div style="text-align: justify;">Side note: For those of you that don’t know me, I have a part time job at an auto parts store. This extra money was originally meant to pay for the two weddings I was involved in this year, and then some “fun” money. I also bought a new car in February, so this extra money was also covering my car payment. So, unless I want to sell my car and take the bus, (and I don’t wish that on anyone) I do kind of need this job...<br />
<br />
When I started this job, I knew some of the basics about cars. For instance, I knew how to check fluids, tire pressure, and blown fuses. I knew the basic parts that a car has, like a battery, starter, alternator, and spark plugs. I knew that leaving your lights on overnight would kill your battery, and you need to get an oil change every 3,000 miles, and that you can put goopy stuff in your gas tank to clean it out and get better gas mileage.<br />
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Now first, let me say that after almost 1 year, there are still people who come into the store that know less than I did when I started this job. And that’s okay. Not everyone knows, or needs to know, the intricate inner workings of their vehicle. That’s why we have mechanics, like my husband. But, if YOU come into MY store looking for parts and advice, don’t you dare ask to speak to a MAN because you ASSume he knows more about your car than either of the two of us. The same goes for calling me up on the phone. On the flip side, don’t ASSume that I know EVERYTHING about cars because I work at an auto parts store. I can’t read your mind, and I can’t identify one of the 50+ sensors every car has (unless it’s an oxygen sensor, but I’m still not going to know if it’s the one that’s before or after the catalytic converter).<br />
<br />
Our sign out front does not state that we have certified mechanics on staff, so it’s touch and go whether you can walk in the door and get some hardcore advice. A couple of the people I work with have done a lot of work on cars, so their experience makes them the go-to person when a customer has a question I can’t answer. However, I do know a lot more than I did when I first started working their. <br />
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It’s always amusing when I’m working a night shift with another girl (our store happens to have the highest number of female employees in our district) and someone comes in with an uber-technical question, like “What type of transmission fluid does my car take?” or “I need a new battery installed, can someone here do that for me?” They kind of look around to see if some guy will magically pop out from the back room at the first sign of a problem (the problem obviously being that I couldn’t possibly know how to install a battery, let alone know where it’s even located). There’s this slightly perceptible look of fear on their face when I offer to take care of it for them.<br />
<br />
I also love when a guy comes in needing wiper blades and asks me to install them... in the pouring rain. And then he and I stand out their getting drenched while his girlfriend sits in the front seat. Yeah sweetie, your boyfriend can’t even change his own wiper blades. Good luck getting the lid off the pickle jar!<br />
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The misconception that women know nothing about cars has to stop. I can install your battery. I can even carry the old one inside after I’m done. Dude... it only weighs like 50 pounds. I won’t cry if I get grease on my soft delicate hands from your starter as I test it for you. We do have this new-fangled thing called soap. I know that if you have a 2WD Chevy Silverado older than 1999, it’s actually a C1500 and it probably has a 350 engine. What I don’t know is why it’s making that weird rattling sound when you accelerate. <br />
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Bottom line... I wouldn’t STILL be working in an auto parts store if I didn’t know what I’m doing. Next time you come through those doors, think twice before you look at me in a condescending way, because that really grinds my gears!</div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-18194997706122561252011-08-03T19:43:00.000-07:002011-08-03T19:43:18.107-07:00Let's meet at the big inflatable SnoopyHow many of you can say that you've lost your parents? I was about 15 when I lost mine... It happened on a sunny day at Cedar Point. <br />
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Now before some of you get all teary eyed, let me explain. Some of you may be thinking that I "lost" my parents because they died a tragic death riding the bumper cars, or they fell out of that freaky pirate boat ride that swings past vertical. When I say "lost", I mean missing, misplaced, whereabouts unknown. This isn't like misplacing your car keys and finding them in the fridge behind the gallon of milk. I lost my parents in a 364 acre theme park at the age of 15 while acting as guardian for my then 11 year old little sister. <br />
<br />
I had to clarify my age with my Mom just now on the phone, and so I also asked her why they allowed their 15 and 11 year old daughters to gallivant around Cedar Point unattended by mature, responsible adults. Her explanation? We begged. Considering that my sister and I were, and still are, Daddy's girls, I'm not surprised that we managed that one...<br />
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So here's how I remember it... with embellishments for your entertainment and amusement, of course! Sometime after lunch at the disco themed cafe, we split up. Mom and Dad wanted to take in a show, cause they were old and couldn't handle the heart pounding thrills of the log water ride that tells the story of that cute fluffy bunny going on a journey through the forest. We WANTED to ride the log water ride that tells the story of that cute fluffy bunny going on a journey through the forest, AND we wanted to pretend that we were going to build up the courage to ride the Iron Mountain coaster and the Power Tower.<br />
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Here is where the first problem arises. We had traveled North away from the disco themed cafe, paralleling the Power Tower and encroaching upon the big inflatable Snoopy. We were trying to settle on a designated meeting place... like, the house is on fire and everyone meets at the fire hydrant after they climb down the window ladder, stop, drop and roll. I don't know how the designated meeting place got so screwed up, but I do remember that we thoroughly discussed two options. The disco themed cafe, or the big inflatable Snoopy. <br />
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So my sister and I proceeded to walk to the back of the park to brave the harrowing log water ride while Mom and Dad settled in for a titillating Charlie Brown Funtime show. I don't remember how long we were allotted for unparented fun time, but I do know that I was worried that we were going to be late getting back to our designated meeting place. I don't know why I was so worried about getting in trouble. What did they expect was going to happen letting a 15 and 11 year old run free in a theme park? Oh no... we're going to get grounded for losing track of time while having fun! Or maybe I had a crazy notion that they would leave us in the park and just head home. Cause, ya know, our parents were those type of people. "Well gee Rick, they didn't make it back to the Snoopy on time. I guess we better jet. That'll teach em'."<br />
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So at this point, I became very much the 15 year old adult I thought I was. I sternly told my little sister that it was time to head back... to the disco themed cafe. Which is precisely what we did. And then we sat there and waited. And waited. And waited. Now, keep in mind that we were sitting outdoors at the cafe on the (I'm guessing) East side of the building. After sitting with a whiny 11 year old, in a fabulously fun theme park for close to thirty minutes without any sign of our parents, said whiny 11 year old pestered me until I agreed that Mom and Dad were gallivanting around the park themselves, probably engrossed in a Peanuts sequel, and had lost track of time. Thus, we departed the East side of the disco themed cafe and went back for another rendition of the cute fluffy bunny and his woodland journey. <br />
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Unfortunately, my gut instincts got the better of me after one ride and I started freaking out. We had lost our parents and were never going to see them again! I promise you there is no exaggeration in that statement. I literally freaked out! My sister can attest to this. So the first thing I did was put an end to the debauchery and dragged my sister to the nearest INFORMATION/HELP station. I then proceeded to inform the nice brunette in her cute little Cedar Point shirt that we lost our parents and wanted to report them to the "system". Said "system" was broadcast throughout the park to other stations in the event that our parents might simultaneously report us MIA. After being looked at like I was growing antlers and a tail, she instructed us to head back to our designated meeting place. Thanks lady. Because I couldn't have thought of that on my own. I was here for HELP, as your sign clearly advertises.<br />
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So my sister and I headed back to the disco themed cafe. As we passed the corkscrew, I remembered that we had also contemplated meeting at the big inflatable Snoopy. So I devised a clever, albeit absolutely useless plan. Since I could see Snoopy from the disco themed cafe, I was going patrolling. My now utterly pissed off 11 year old sister was instructed to plant herself firmly on the sidewalk in front of the Snoopy as I patrolled the expanse of pavement looking for our parents. <br />
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What I didn't mention earlier was that I had opted to wear my brand new, white Walmart brand canvas shoes, with no socks. After numerous water rides, my shoes were soaked and chafing my feet. All the patrolling cut into my Achilles heel and I was left bloodied and limping. My mood was not much better.<br />
<br />
At some point, probably close to two hours after our originally designated meeting time, I was taking a break in front of the Snoopy with my sister pouting and fuming at my side, when my Mom pops into my peripherals and says "Here they are Rick." She had this ridiculous smile on her face, like "Oops! Silly me. That's where I left my keys." <br />
<br />
Come to find out, they had been at the disco themed cafe at our originally designated meeting time on the WEST side of the building. They assumed we were having so much fun that we lost track of time. So they took off again to check out some other geriatric Cedar Point attraction and decided to check back again in an hour... on the WEST side of the building. At some point, they remembered that we had also suggested the Snoopy and headed in that direction. You know the rest...<br />
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I was livid. I'm pretty sure that was the first time I cursed out loud at my Mom. Then, being the Daddy's girl that I am, I saw my Dad and immediately turned into a blubbering mess of tears and snot. He consoled me and told me everything was going to be okay. I think both my Mom and my Dad took one look at my little sister and knew that she needed her distance. If looks could kill...<br />
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Now that we had found our lost parents and we weren't going to be left in Sandusky to fend for ourselves indefinitely, we tried to have fun before the park closed. We rode the corkscrew once, but my emotions left me spent and I was done. As we walked back to the parking lot, we all agreed that if we ever went to a theme park again, we were investing in mini walkie-talkie's.<br />
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I hope you enjoy this story... even though it's long. It's one of my favorites to share!Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1409976707193649539.post-41508971266074622612011-08-01T19:08:00.000-07:002011-08-01T19:08:20.178-07:00Are you suggesting that coconuts migrate?<i>King Arthur: </i> Not at all. They could be carried.<br />
<i>Soldier:</i> What? A swallow carrying a coconut?<br />
<i>King Arthur: </i> It could grip it by the husk.<br />
<i>Soldier: </i> It's not a question of where he grips it. It's a simple question of weight ratios. A 5 ounce bird could not carry a 1 pound coconut.<br />
<i>King Arthur: </i> Well, it doesn't matter. Will you go and tell your master that Arthur from the Court of Camelot is here?<br />
<i>Soldier:</i> Listen, in order to maintain air-speed velocity, a swallow needs to beat its wings 43 times per second.<br />
<i>King Arthur:</i> Please.<br />
<i>Soldier: </i> Am I right?<br />
<i>King Arthur:</i> I'm not interested.<br />
<i>Soldier #2:</i> It could be carried by an African swallow.<br />
<i>Soldier: </i> Oh yeah, an African swallow maybe, but not a European swallow. That's my point.<br />
<i>Soldier #2: </i> Oh yeah, I agree with that.<br />
<i>King Arthur: </i> Will you ask your master if he wants to join my Court at Camelot?<br />
<i>Soldier:</i> But then of course... African swallows are non-migratory.<br />
<i>Soldier #2:</i> Oh yeah...<br />
<i>Soldier: </i> So they couldn't bring a coconut back anyway.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">***********************************************************************************</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">First of all, why coconuts? Why not bang two pieces of wood together? The monks had plenty of planks of wood to bang themselves in the head with... I assume the logic was based upon the necessity for a hollow sound to replicate a horse's hoof. However, nothing in this movie is logical. It would be more aptly titled "Monty Python and the Quest for Logic". Regardless, I love this movie! I make it my goal each time I watch it to memorize another ridiculous quote.<br />
<br />
While we are on the subject of all things illogical, I've been curiously pondering the automation that is seen everywhere nowadays... particularly in the loo. I noticed the other day that the bathrooms on campus have automated soap dispensers, but you have to turn the water on yourself and get your own paper towels. Don't get me wrong... I understand that there are probably hygienic reasons for making bathroom fixtures automated, and I'm in no way lazy enough to argue that these automated devices are necessary for our generation, but there needs to be some consistency. </div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">For instance, why is the soap dispenser automated but not the water? Aren't we trying to avoid touching the soap dispenser for fear that germs will jump ship and hitch a ride on our epidermis? So is the logic that once the soap, which is hopefully antibacterial, is on our hands, touching the faucet is inconsequential? Or, is the soap dispenser automated because people are abusing and overusing soap, thus bankrupting some companies? If that's the case, why not make the water automated as well. Companies can control the water pressure and the length of time that the water stays on. <br />
<br />
This also explains the automated paper towel dispensers. Personally, I know I use too many paper towels. I like dry hands. End of story. The damn paper towel dispensers at the movie theater never give you enough though. I always have to sit there and wave my hands like a mad woman. There's some exact method to setting off the motion detector in the machine. It's like morse code. You have to make two quick passes at a 90 degree angle, then one long pause at a slightly more vertical angle. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"> </div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unfortunately, this logic is still lost on me. So, once you have escaped the evil soap dispenser germs and washed your hands, you now have to push down the little lever to get your paper towels. Apparently germs are selective and refuse to migrate to the paper towel dispenser. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
Although... I guess if they were African germs, they would be non-migratory anyway and we wouldn't need automated paper towel dispensers. </div>Mrs. Hhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16761712453758933803noreply@blogger.com0