tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44088465287319176082024-03-05T03:42:19.148-07:00I AM . . .Our lives are a little bit touched, our home is a little bit chaotic, our tempers are a little bit tested, our furniture is a little bit shabby and our wallets are a little bit empty but our hearts are in the right place and our laughter is genuine. Come join us "just this side of crazy." Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-54979123306512620312012-12-19T04:23:00.000-07:002015-06-29T07:40:08.180-06:00Wondering, Ranting and Giving My Two Cents About School Shootings<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Sandy Hook Elementary School. Like many others, I spent the the last several days reading and watching news reports about the tragedy in Connecticut. Wiping the tears off my face, I finally had to shut off the t.v., push away the computer and spend time or rather distract myself with other things... like dragging out the Christmas decorations, trying to make joy happen in my home. I also silently watched for signs of distress...and signs of violence in my 26-year-old son. I said a quiet prayer of thanks that all seemed well in his world and yet, stupidly, I continued carrying on about the mother of the Connecticut murderer. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Sometimes he seems so normal, so much like his old self that I'll forget schizophrenia is a minute-by-minute illness. Yesterday morning, in the middle of another soap-box rant, I glanced over and saw the dismay on my son's face. Stopping dead in my lecturing tracks, I asked him, "Too much?" Forever the little boy that wants to please me, he just nodded his head. "I am so sorry hon. I'll shut up about it around you." The relief that flooded his face made my guilt meter shoot to new heights. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I told myself, "Go rant on your blog if you feel the need to be heard." So here I am, spilling out my heart, wondering if anyone will ever read this but oh how I want to shout at the world sometimes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Six years ago, I might have been Adam Lanza's mother. Like her, I didn't want my
child to be sick. Not the kind of sick that is
forever. I understand the refusal to believe and the wanting so much to blame adolescence as the cause of vaguely alarming behavior. As the teen years came to a close and vagueness became certainty, I continued to swim down the river of denial. I hoped, I prayed, I bargained with God but deep down I knew that something was very wrong with my baby. Lack of insurance made our situation as scary as you can imagine. Mental health clinics had waiting lists that were months away from an initial intake. So I made choices while I silently watched and waited. Adam's mother also made choices and once again our nation mourns the loss of our children. It didn't have to
be that way. </span>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">My son is also a gun enthusiast who used to go to the shooting range with his friends at least a couple of times a month. Oh how he loved shooting those guns and he was so good at it. Unfortunately, he found this hobby around the time that I was seeing symptoms that gave me pause. Incidents of delusion and increasing isolation had begun appearing, increasing in frequency over a period of about three years. All the while, he kept insisting that he needed his own gun and when the day came that he wanted to go buy a gun, I knew that it would be a mistake to give him</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> unsupervised access to guns. Manipulating the situation, </span>I used my own bouts of depression, telling my son that those with any mental illness are not allowed to buy or possess firearms. Not even knowing if it was true or not, I stood my ground and refused to allow a gun to brought into my home. He looked so sad and it broke my heart to have to take that joy away from him. My point is that even before my son's actual psychotic break and subsequent diagnosis of schizophrenia and even though much of my mind was in denial about the aberrant behavior I was witnessing, my instincts as a mother were dead on when it came to guns in the home.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As a nation, we are failing our children. We believe the inaccurate portrayals of mental illness by well meaning but uneducated Hollywood writers and producers. We listen to rantings of right-wing conservatives who continue their relentless attacks on the most vulnerable in our society all the while refusing to see the long-term consequences of cutting funds to the poor, the disabled and the aged. The vulnerable have become more vulnerable and those who desperately need access to help have become pawns in political games of politicians who know nothing about what it means to be vulnerable to the decisions of the Washington D.C. elite. It's sickening. How many more tragedies before the politicians stop using us to rally people for their vote? Our children need help, not rhetoric. We need beds in psychiatric units, not speeches. We need immediate access to mental health services, not waiting lists because the government has pulled funding. America's policies toward the mentally ill are a national disgrace. Those who keep hounding people for having to enroll in the "entitlement" programs are truly ignorant of the facts. It's really easy to attack people when they are already down and when did we become a nation that condones those kind of bullying tactics?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A year or so after my son's psychotic break and diagnosis of schizophrenia, we were still battling extreme auditory and visual hallucinations. Contrary to what you hear on the news or watch on the latest movie-of-the-week about mental illness, patients with schizophrenia are almost always only a danger to themselves, not others. Not only do the voices keep a constant barrage of demands to hurt himself but the severe depression that accompanies schizophrenia makes him vulnerable to suicidal thoughts. I was never afraid for myself around him but was in constant fear that he would hurt himself permanently before we hit on the right meds to get some degree of control of his hallucinations. During a particularly bad week, on a very hot summer night, my son's worst fear happened as the voices almost became more than he could handle. That night my son grabbed my bedroom door and shut it, crying for me to lock it and not unlock it no matter what. For over an hour we sat on either side of a locked bedroom door while he wrestled demons in his mind who demanded violence against him...and against me. As his symptoms subsided, he cried and I cried but I also felt extreme relief that there were no guns in my home. Let me be clear - although it took many more months to hit on just the right combination of medications to get my son's symptoms under better control, I have never not felt safe in my home. Still, every once in awhile, when I allow myself to think about it, I wonder if I'm in denial about that night and I let it pass as I hear my son's voice. I'm his mother. . .I have to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">While we'll never know if the rampage in Connecticut was the psychotic break of a young man with undiagnosed schizophrenia, I will always wonder what was going on in the mind of Adam's mother as she witnessed behaviors that should have set off red flags. I keep going back to those guns... in that house... with a young man showing signs of mental illness... and policies that allow killing-machines to get in the hands of sick young men. Go ahead and ask me what I think about gun control. What was Adam's mother thinking? As a nation, what are we thinking?</span>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #073763;"> </span></span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85824/bjc1958/a460a3eba6239fff149b00c965109614.png" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>
Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-84280924087590617192011-01-30T12:25:00.002-07:002013-05-20T02:07:00.378-06:00Back! . . . Notes From the Other Side of CrazyI haven't written on this blog for quite some time. I think it was in October....before my mother died. My beloved mother is gone and I remain heartsick and grief-stricken. <br />
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I loved my mother but for all of my young years, I lived in fear of her. I adored her but resented her inability to show affection. I was my mother's favorite child but even I could never quite get past that early sixties atmosphere of cold that my parents created for their first four offspring. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Children should be seen and only heard sometimes. If you don't stop crying, I'll give you something to cry about. Adults were always right and authority figures were never questioned. Slight misbehaviors were punished with over-reacted restrictions. Talking back earned a slap, if you were lucky. A lie was grounds for blood. No one questioned the bruises and I discovered drugs in the 7th grade..the same year Janis Joplin died.<br />
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My abused past died suddenly in October and now some issues will never be settled. I am who I am because I lived just on the other side of crazy for most of my life. I know because Mom told me I was crazy for the first time when I 13.<br />
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So, I am going to try to write in this blog. Who knows, maybe it will become a habit. Maybe I'll even get a following some day.<br />
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I miss writing. Most of the time.<br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/85824/bjc1958/a460a3eba6239fff149b00c965109614.png" style="background: none repeat scroll 0% 0% transparent; border: 0pt none ! important;" /></a>Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-60179938152430214142010-10-15T06:38:00.011-06:002015-02-13T19:56:41.275-07:00IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FIRESTORM<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<i>This week, as the web came alive with a firestorm of accusations against the banks for causing the current mortgage crises, I had been mentally writing this posting for several days. When the banks began declaring moratoriums on foreclosures, I was no longer satisfied with just commenting on news forums and blogs. I wanted to crucify U.S. banks for the effect they were having on my life and I wanted vindication. Excited and ready to tell my story through this blog, I had been pulling thoughts together all morning. Determined to jump onto my keyboard after picking my son up from his appointment, I was still writing in my head while driving the few miles to his clinic. </i><br />
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<i>That is until I saw my 24-year-old son standing outside at the Intensive Care Clinic. There he stood, alone outside of an old red brick building, his head down but the look on his face causing the collapse of the soapbox I'd mentally been standing on. As tears began to well in my eyes, I fought against the overwhelming grief that threatened my ability to be his safe haven. Struggling with unbearable sadness, I looked into the face of my son and gave him a smile -- hoping to erase the look that no parent should ever have to see. The face of severe mental illness. </i></div>
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<i>Stopping the car, I rolled down the window and croaked out a hello while screaming inside at the loneliness that darkens his sad blue eyes. Remembering the moment as I type these words, the tears have begun to fall down my cheeks -- again. My child is broken. His world is a never-ending nightmare that starts within minutes of opening his eyes every morning. The fear that has taken over his life as the voices took over his inner mind is now showing across his once beautiful face. </i></div>
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<i>Turning out onto the roadway, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, I asked him how the visit went and apologized for being a couple minutes late. Listening to his one-word answers, I silently prayed to hear something different than the usual drug-induced monotone. I raged inside at a God who could allow this suffering to happen to a future that had once been bright. Glancing over to see his reaction to the offer of a milkshake, my heart grabbed at the tiny smile that appeared on his face. Like someone lost in the desert for hours without water, I desperately searched for something else to slake my thirst for my lost little boy. </i><br />
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<i>My desperation turned into a shake and a hamburger and fries, along with a DVD that we'd seen a hundred times before. Home and Dane Cook - his two ports in the storm. Grateful to hear him laughing, I silently wondered what else would ease his mind as my eyes took inventory of a home that becomes a of house of horrors when the voices take over. Quietly tip-toeing into another room, I reviewed the strategy list and suggestions from his counselors. Reading through the many pamphlets and handouts, I listened to a growing silence from the living room. Fighting a surge of anxiety, I stepped into my bedroom to calm a rising panic attack. Several minutes later, attacked abated, I gathered my courage to face whatever was waiting for me. Walking down the hallway, I made a silent promise that together we would face his demons and banish the voices that continued to promise him harm.</i></div>
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<i>There he lay, fast asleep on the couch, the white color had faded from his face. The medications and exhaustion, from a night of voices commanding him to slit his own throat, allowed him to slip into the only thing that gives him an hour of peace. Although I worried about a nap interfering with a for-his-own-good schedule that he needs to adhere to, I had neither the heart nor the energy to take that away from him. I turned to head to my room for some much needed rest when I heard him whisper, "Mom." Turning around, I looked at his sleepy face and for a moment I saw my little boy as I listened to him say, "Thanks for taking some of the alone away today." Smiling and assuring him that my old bones needed a nap too, I headed back to my room to rest and to wait. The next storm is never far away.</i></div>
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<i>And so my friends, my posting is not the one I was composing in my head for the last few days. As the firestorm of the mortgage and foreclosure crises continues to grow unabated, leaving so many of us wondering if we'll have our homes in six months, I fight another war that has interrupted the life of my family. </i><i>Tomorrow is another day to take on the narcissistic greed that has infected our country and </i><i>continues to wreak havoc as I struggle to save my own home. Today, for as long as I am able, I fight an unseen enemy for the life of my son. I will put out the fires of mental illness for as long as I can and bring comfort and peace to a lonely young man...to take some of the alone away. </i><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="body">We have much to be judged on when he comes, slums and battlefields and insane asylums, but these are the symptoms of our illness and the result of our failures in love.</span></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> Madeleine L'Engle</span></div>
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Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-57721318204048703242010-10-06T09:25:00.002-06:002010-10-06T09:28:06.284-06:00Sharing the HumorAnd just when I thought things couldn't get any worse....they did. I am not going to discuss the soap opera that is my life at the moment and instead, share the funniest cartoon that was emailed to me. It just struck me as so funny so I knew I had to pass it along:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRT1lP0FipwaXJ54xaeo6A1Bt61RCvQ4a-VEcAonNxp7u8cJKhnM9Szt5KtbGkdzMiy4GVoQtbjm8l4xDJ5rmn2TQC6j1fwwqQYIW6TTcrPFLVnhkiDhilf4n4yHuoaQTiUV5t3-4Zqpk/s1600/ATT0002828.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRT1lP0FipwaXJ54xaeo6A1Bt61RCvQ4a-VEcAonNxp7u8cJKhnM9Szt5KtbGkdzMiy4GVoQtbjm8l4xDJ5rmn2TQC6j1fwwqQYIW6TTcrPFLVnhkiDhilf4n4yHuoaQTiUV5t3-4Zqpk/s320/ATT0002828.JPG" width="287" /></a></div><br />
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Have a Happy Day!!Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-5196443523517581932010-09-27T15:53:00.003-06:002012-12-20T05:00:03.695-07:00Looking For My Sense of Humor<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>I used to be so funny. I mean funny to the point where people told me that I could make a living at it. I found humor in everything and an amazing ability to help other people see humor in most anything. Even the terrible and tragic. Yet my humor was human humor. I never made fun but just pointed out the obviously absurd or silly. I never hurt another person with my silliness. My only goal was to see people smile. Oh how I loved the sound of laughter. Even more so, I loved the sound of laughter coming from someone who realized I had just hit the nail on the head and there was humor it that rusty old piece of metal.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>I am trying to find that part of me again. Admittedly, I am a little too paralyzed at the moment to be too effective, but I am trying. I miss that girl and I love the laugh lines around my mouth. I earned each and every one of them. This whole foreclosure business has completely robbed me of my sense of humor, except those few moments when I allow myself to fantasize about mean and horrific ways to torture corporate executives.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>So in my quest to find my sense of humor and find the motivation to finish makeover projects (foreclosure or not) - here are a few conversations I had with myself over the last few days while I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling:</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Yellow and black spiders the shape of black widows are not big enough to eat process servers. Move it along or kill it. It's not nice to put a dead spider on a string to drop down into someone's face when they ring the doorbell.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Spray painting and putting a frame around a spider web will not catch on as a new art form.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Putting a basket of oranges in front of the cabinet door will not hide the fact that the paint job is half done.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Blood that dripped onto the sheer drapes from a finger cut does not look like candy stripes.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>After painting all the bedroom furniture white and then spend hours<span style="color: #073763;"> --</span> correction - days upon days <span style="color: #073763;">-- </span>finding just the right color of blue and white comforters, sheets, drapes, knick knacks and flowers does not get me out of painting the walls just because the bank might take my house. My stubborn refusal to paint just calls into question my taste - or color blindness. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>You can't run around in the dark all the time. Replacing light bulbs gives light to the room, they are not gifts to blood sucking bankers.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>The sound of a dripping faucet will make you nuts long before it would fill up the condo and flood the place.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Strangling a grown man with a doily is too silly to dream about.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Always leave a place with a smile and your dignity intact. You can key their car doors when you get into your car heading out of town.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Anyone need a motivational speaker?</i></span></span></div>
Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-12188208658435364082010-09-20T03:45:00.000-06:002014-12-05T22:38:36.386-07:00Frightened By Recent Decisions and Circumstances, parts 3 & 4; Update 2012<br />
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><u><span style="color: #073763;">Part 3 - Life Changes Forever</span></u></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>On
October 31, when my son had his first psychotic break, it was the
beginning of the end of my son's days of employment. Ever optimistic
and in a state of denial about the severity of his illness, we did not
file for disability for him. The doctors had high hopes for a better
recovery for quite awhile and I followed along with their predictions
and prognosis. In fact, many schizophrenics are able to manag<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">e some sort<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> of employment with<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> the p</span></span></span></span></span></span>roper medications and support. This has<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">n't</span></span> been the
case for my little boy. My son is still very sick, unable to care for
himself, unable to be left alone and arrangements are in the works for a
day treatment program due to the severity of his illness. Everyday my
heart just breaks all over again for the child I have lost to mental
illness. </i></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>In June, his doctors told me that it was time
to apply for disability. That process continues and we are months away
from approval and financial assistance. In the meantime, he has to have
weekly therapy, several medications and recurrent hospitalizations
when he becomes a danger to himself. His credit -- before he ever
actually had credit - is destroyed and the bill collectors are baying
at the door.</i></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><u><span style="color: #073763;">Part 4 - The Last Straw Finale</span></u></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>In
February, I got my tax bill and discovered that my condo is now worth
less than half of what I owe on it. Uh oh. </i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>In March, thinking that maybe I should just sell the darn thing, I called my original realtor. Her response to my inquiry was that as much as she wanted to help, she can't sell a
condo in my suburb to save her life. Overbuilt with thousands of condos and townhouses, we have been hit hard by the real estate meltdown. Everyday we see another moving van and a new for sale/foreclosure sign goes up. \an exodus of people
leaving for areas where the rent hasn't skyrocketed and the cost of basic living isn't as high as it is here. </i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>In
April, after reviewing my finances and realizing that I would not be
able to afford the current mortgage payments by the end of summer, I
started the process for help by applying to the Making Homes Affordable
Program. Without going into details that are a whole other column,
let's just say that the process did not work as it should have and the due diligence that should have been in process by the bank
(mortgage holder) was not in place. After jumping through one too many
hoops, I had to enlist the help of a government sponsored financial
counseling corporation to run interference -- more than once. </i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>In July,
the bank finally informed us they had all the documents they needed and I
would hear something by August 20.</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i> </i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i> </i></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>As I noticed the first signs of Fall last week, that old familiar feeling of panic set in. For two weeks, I had been hounding the bank without response. Knowing that my bank account was dwindling, I again had the counseling corporation run interference. Time was up and I needed information. </i></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br /></i></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>Finally,
someone at the bank made a decision. I was denied the program. I do not have a
high enough income to qualify. Let me repeat that: They cannot lower
my mortgage payments to something I can afford because I do not make
enough money to qualify for the program. Wait, isn't that what the program is for?</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>It was worst possible of news. My fear of homelessness is becoming closer to reality. Upon hearing the news, I broke
down. It is now the end of summer and I can no
longer afford the full mortgage payment. At the beginning of next month,
I will be over $1200.00 behind and the number will grow every
month until foreclosure proceedings start. By
my figures, the possibility of homelessness by Christmas is very real.
The bank said they are looking into other programs. They were vague and
secretive in their explanations of these "other programs." I suspect they were just trying to get me off the phone.</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>If
I could run away, I would already be packing. If I could live in my
car, I would be heading for a warmer climate. My son is in treatment, I
am in treatment -- we cannot run away. Tears have become my night time
companion.</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>Remember
when I typed earlier that it was my superstition that kept me from
saying much about it? It was just a silly little thought I had that if I
talked about it, I would jinx the process. How precious are those
childhood tactics that we go back to when faced with a consequence we
can't deal with? Today, I am motionless with shock and paralyzed with indecision.</i></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>I can't think anymore about homelessness with my schizophrenic son. For
just right now, it is just too much. Tomorrow is another day to burn up the phone lines.</i></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><u><span style="color: #073763;">Update 2012</span></u></span></b></i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: #20124d;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">We won our modification. It took almost 3 years from beginning to end. Thinking about the process: over 100 hours on the phone, two consumer groups, one state and one county agency, 3 federal agencies, 11 Bank of America customer assistants, about a thousand tears, many tantrums, countless failed promises and bottles of anti-anxiety meds boggles the mind. In December 2012, tentative approval was given and after a few smaller hoops, final modifications were granted. Hip Hip Hooray. </span></i></span></span></span></span></div>
Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-74907059858282082242010-09-18T13:12:00.011-06:002014-12-05T20:35:20.458-07:00Frightened By Recent Decisions and Circumstances, Parts 1 & 2<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><u><span style="color: #073763;">Part 1 - The Days Before</span></u></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>Since the start of this blog, I haven't divulged much <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">about</span> the what, why and how of the situation regarding the possible loss of my home. It was just plain ole superstition and anxiety that has kept me quiet. Circumstances changed on Thursday and the the clock has started ticking again. I truly believed our chances were good.....but now..... fear kept me awake most of the night.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>When I bought my condominium a few years ago, I was healthy -- financially and physically. I did my homework, hired a reputable mortgage broker and real estate agent, spent several weeks reviewing properties and got pre-approved for a mortgage loan at a set 6½%. I utilized a city program to help with first-time buyers closing costs, reviewed my financial situation with an adviser, put away four months of funds for emergencies and bought a condominium well within my budget. In other words, I had all my ducks in a row. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>Except for one thing - Total and permanent disability. I was still in my forties, in good health and of the belief that I would work at least until age 65. <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">L</span>ike most other Americans working for small businesses, my employers didn't offer short term or long term disability insurance. <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">B</span>uying that type of insurance was so cost prohibitive that I had talked myself into believing it was an unnecessary expense for someone so young. </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>I was wrong.</i></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><u><span style="color: #073763;">Part 2 - The Hits Begin</span></u></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>I
became permanently disabled three and half years ago. <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I</span>t took 18 months to get
through the Social Security Disability program - forms filled out,
records retrieved, files reviewed, independent medical exams, etc. --
all take time. Even after approval, there is another 5 months before <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">the</span> first check arrives. Additionally, <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">it's </span>another 24 months before you are eligible for
Medicare. As a result, my savings and retirement monies are gone. With
absolutely no money coming in for over two years, my retirement and savings accounts were wiped out faster than I could have imagined. </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i>During a
time when the U.S. economy tanked, living expenses spiraled out of
reach. We cut back on food, took light bulbs out of lamps and shut down
the heater as often as we could. Physician copayments and medications
in the range of $200 - $400 a month caused my checking account to tap
into in overdraft account that was only meant for emergencies.
Unprepared, I became a virtual medical bankruptcy much faster than I
believed it could happen. </i></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span data-mce-style="color: #073763;" style="color: #073763;"><span data-mce-style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">With some creative juggling, things settled down for awhile. With my SSDI income and my son's paycheck, we weren't living as before but we were making it. </span></span></i></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #073763;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"> [ <span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To be continued...]</span></span> </i></span></span>
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<span style="color: #073763;"><br /></span></div>
Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-50262643648720914362010-09-16T09:59:00.004-06:002012-12-20T05:08:02.328-07:00Auction Bound<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
Another great auction is scheduled soon and I, of course, will be there. I don't mean getting in my car and driving out to some warehouse in the middle of the state....entering a building that could have been a barn at one time -- but now has a green neon sign across the rooftop proclaiming to have unbeatable prices.... sitting on chairs that have to be tested for weight bearing..... and listening to some skeletor-looking guy (normally I would cross the street to avoid).... bark out sentences that could resemble a price......<br />
<br />
I'm too intimidated to raise my hand and ask questions, let alone bid on something. God forbid, I accidentally buy the hood ornament to a 60-year old Chevy. </div>
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No, I'm talking about attending auctions from the comfort of my computer room (read bedroom) with a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin to nibble. The net has changed everything and much to the relief of this agoraphobic, for the better. They have made it so easy, almost to the point of too easy. You have to learn discipline -- find your item, pick a price and stick with it. Bidding wars are fun .... until you realize you just bid 35 bucks for a Pez dispenser. </div>
<br />
For $2.50, this is what I won at the last auction I "attended":<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></i>T</span>his awesome little wicker table and.....<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TJI6Jh3RYzI/AAAAAAAAAmM/UtYi6prfOpI/s1600/DSCN0746.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TJI6Jh3RYzI/AAAAAAAAAmM/UtYi6prfOpI/s320/DSCN0746.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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this iron!! <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TJI6OUTU_xI/AAAAAAAAAmc/ncq9uvQWAiY/s1600/DSCN0744.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TJI6OUTU_xI/AAAAAAAAAmc/ncq9uvQWAiY/s320/DSCN0744.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I put the little wicker table in the corner of my bedroom with my beloved blue pitcher and a vase of silk flowers that match the colors of my room. It's in a spot that I see when I wake up or when I am working on my computer and it never fails to bring a smile to my face. It truly is the little things.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="color: #073763;"><b>"Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and <br />
realize they were the big things." <br />
Author Unknown</b></span></span></span></div>
Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-1191547779937391142010-09-11T09:55:00.005-06:002014-10-28T07:14:59.702-06:00The Keeper of Childhood Secrets<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<i>Over the years I've heard most of the secrets of the childhoods of my friends. The good, the bad and the ugly, I have always been interested. The following story appeared in my old blog and I still get emails about it to this day. Thinking that it contains good insight and a lesson or two, I have decided to re-post it here today. </i></div>
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*******************************************<br />
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<i>I've been thinking a lot about a story I heard that happened over 40 years ago. A young girl, around 13 years old and just this side of puberty, was shopping in one of the local discount stores with her father. She was a pretty little thing with blue eyes, blond hair and a long-held secret of extreme shyness. While her father wandered off to whatever it is that dads wander off to, this young girl was trying on shoes for her first day of school. She was alone on a shoe aisle when a man came up to her and stating chatting with her about the shoes.</i></div>
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<i>
</i></div>
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<i>The young girl heard the alarm bells in her mind the minute the man started talking to her. The conversation was innocent but it did not sway the fear that was slamming her into almost breathlessness. There was something wrong with the man. She continued to try to ignore him but he kept up his barrage of compliments and encouragements to leave the store with him. She tried to tell the man that her father was in the store. The man paid no attention and pushed the conversation further, asking the girl to go have coffee with him. Assuring the girl that it would just be for a few minutes, he placed his hand on her arm and started herding her towards the front door. As the alarm bells got louder in her head, the girl began to cry -- with panic sending her right to the edge of hysteria. Heads started to turn, conversations stopped, people began looking around and the man quickly left the store.</i></div>
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<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<i>The girl's father hurried over to the girl, demanding to know what was going on with his young daughter. As that young girl turned toward the sound of the man who should have been her hero, trembling with fear and tears streaming down her face, her father began to get that look on his face. The look that said she was making a scene. As she tried to explain to her father the unimaginable that had almost happened, he just got angry. He wanted to know what all the crying was about. His response to her after she managed to get the whole story out was to tell her to stop crying, to stop over-reacting. </i><br />
<br />
<i>No reassurance, no comfort, not even a hug. Just a father curiously infuriated at his frightened child. </i></div>
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<i>I wonder if my friend's father ever knew what he did to his daughter that day? In telling me the story, I knew that was the day that her feelings, fragile as they were, finally shattered as she became aware that Cinderella was just a fairy tale and there was no white knight coming to the rescue. Growing up in a home where discipline was handed out with slaps and belts and even moments when things went way too far, I knew she battled depression long into her adult years. I thought about the men she dated and even the man she married, realizing that in her search for Prince Charming, she was actually replaying that young girl over and over. Where was her hero?</i><br />
<br />
<i>This woman of delightful laugh lines on her face and a touch of gray in her hair believes that if that man had gotten her out the door that day when she was so young, she wouldn't be here today. She wonders out loud if her perception was off and perhaps she was being too dramatic. I don't think she is being melodramatic -- I believe very much it was an attempt by a pedophile to snatch her. I am grateful her intuition is so sensitive. I am grateful she is here. </i></div>
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<i>My friend's father is much older now, in failing health and memory. There can be no attempts at coming to terms with a traumas of long ago between this father and child. She can only try to get on the other side of her fear and anxiety with a therapist that has finally heard this secret. I will continue to hold her hand and listen whenever that young girl needs to cry. I hear as the keeper of her childhood secrets. </i></div>
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<i>I am here my friend. I am listening. Are you?</i></div>
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In every man there is something wherein I may learn of him, and in that I am his pupil.<br />
<a href="http://www.famous-quotes.com/author.php?aid=2296" title="1803-1882, American Poet, Essayist">Ralph Waldo Emerson</a></div>
<i> </i>***********************************************************************************************************************************Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-44133407226685810492010-09-05T05:56:00.005-06:002010-09-11T08:28:00.983-06:00Sweet on Sopapillas<div style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I first discovered sopapillas during a visit to a themed Mexican restaurant with a group of friends when I was much younger than I am now. A ridiculousy picky eater during my youth, I was unusually enchanted during my first encounter with these heavenly pillows of delight. Already loving anything that has honey dripped over it, no convincing was needed to try one or two or twelve. Since then, I have been collecting recipes of sopapillas, always striving for to find the perfect one. After reviewing the dozen or so recipes that I have from the Internet, I realized that they really don't vary all that much in ingredients and that there are 2 basic recipes - one that uses yeast and one that doesn't. A version of each recipe is below:</div><br />
SOPAPILLAS RECIPE #1<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TGXf6KUOrII/AAAAAAAAAf8/O7D3rnwGB4g/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TGXf6KUOrII/AAAAAAAAAf8/O7D3rnwGB4g/s320/images.jpeg" /></a></div><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span>1 package active dry yeast<br />
1 1/2 cups warm water<br />
1 tablespoon of butter, melted<br />
1 tablespoon of sugar<br />
4 cups all-purpose flour<br />
1 teaspoon salt<br />
vegetable oil<br />
sugar<br />
cinnamon<br />
honey<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Mix the yeast with the warm water and let it sit for five minutes. </span><br />
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Combine the flour and salt.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Add the butter and sugar to the yeast/water mixture and then slowly add to the flour and salt.<br />
Knead for two minutes, until dough is smooth and elastic.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Rise in a covered, greased bowl for one hour or until dough is doubled in size.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Punch down risen dough on a floured surface then roll it out until dough is 1/4 inch rectangle.<br />
Cut dough into inch squares the cut each square in half to make diagnal piece.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Heat up three inches of oil in a big pot to 375 degrees. Fry two triangles of dough at a time in the oil for one minute on each side. The dough should puff when it hits the oil.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Drain and put on paper towels to absorb any extra oil.<br />
Mix together equal parts cinnamon and sugar (to your taste) and lightly coat each sopapilla.<br />
Serve hot with honey.<br />
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SOPAPILLAS RECIPE #2<br />
4 cups all purpose flour<br />
2 tsp. baking powder<br />
1 tsp. salt<br />
4 Tbsp. shortening<br />
1 1/2 quarts oil for frying<br />
Honey<span class="plaincharacterwrap break"> </span><br />
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<span class="plaincharacterwrap break">In a large bowl, stir together flour, baking powder, salt and shortening. Stir in water; mix until dough is smooth. Cover and let stand for 20 minutes.</span><br />
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<span class="plaincharacterwrap break">Roll out on floured board until 1/8 to 1/4 inch thick. Cut into 3 inch squares. Heat oil in deep-fryer to 375 degrees F (190 degrees C). Fry until golden brown on both sides. Drain on paper towels, and serve hot with honey.</span><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><i><span class="plaincharacterwrap break">My own version: I coat each sopapilla with sugar and cinnamon, then put several on an individual plate, drizzle raspberry syrup over the top, drizzle honey over the top then add a dollop of whipped cream. </span></i></div><br />
<span class="plaincharacterwrap break">Ready, Set, Fry!</span><br />
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<span class="plaincharacterwrap break">And feel free to let me know which recipe you prefer. </span> </div>Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-65915740988348404702010-08-24T16:17:00.014-06:002014-10-28T01:30:01.552-06:00Sharing Trees<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">As a transplant to Colorado, I am admittedly partial to the trees of my home state of California. I have, nonetheless, always enjoyed the Fall in Colorado; its mountains filled with lodgepole pine trees and aspen trees -- painting the hills beautiful shades of yellow and orange. </span></div>
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Over the last few years, whether traveling by air or driving along Interstates, I have been watching the epidemic of a failing forest devastating the beauty of the Colorado mountains. I had heard the stories on the evening newscasts and picked up an article or two about it but I had paid very little attention to the articles. Some might find this incredible but I had never been a fan of the mountains (or the cold and snow). To me, they were just another annoying barrier that I had to go through to get to my beloved beach and desert. It wasn't until last year, on a drive on Interstate 70 headed west, that I really noticed the total devastation. It is now undeniable and enough to melt the heart of this die-hard-hot-weather beach babe. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Mountains that I had lived by for many years and had come to take for granted</b></span></span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Now entire areas of the forests in Colorado are almost gone.</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">A phenomenon of rising regional temperatures, drought, forest fires and
insect infestations (pine and twig beetles), it is predicted that the
lodgepole pine tree will be completely wiped out within the next few
years (an area the size of Rhode Island).</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">The aspen trees will be gone before the new century is over if the course continues unheeded.</span></b><br />
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The Colorado Rocky Mountains are changing forever in our life time and I wonder about the implication of this in our childrens' life times. </div>
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Nothing ever happens in a vacuum.</div>
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Take a good look around you as you drive through your neighborhood. Learn the names and the history of the towering green giants that are shading your home and giving your children something to climb. Check out those scenic overlooks on your next road trip. Get a window seat on your next trip on a plane and leave the shade up. Try to see the world and the gifts that mother nature has given us through new eyes. It's just one more lesson that I've learned as I get older -- never-ever-never take something (or someone for granted.) Gone is sometimes forever.</div>
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Look deep into nature, <br />
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<i>~ Albert Einstein ~</i><br />
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Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-56753795365697945252010-08-13T02:36:00.007-06:002013-05-20T03:39:36.774-06:00Invisible<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i>As I continued makeover work on the master bedroom, a old feeling penetrated its way into my subconscious. Like buried thoughts and messy memories cluttering my mind, the room had also been neglected over time and other projects.</i></div>
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<i>Instead of feeling the usual enthusiasm and inspiration, I felt...<br />
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Snubbed...ignored...minimized. Little words that can invoke powerful feelings.</i></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TGT6gNGZpWI/AAAAAAAAAdo/YK54A_YsFYk/s1600/My+bedroom+plus+black+lamp+makeover+003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TGT6gNGZpWI/AAAAAAAAAdo/YK54A_YsFYk/s200/My+bedroom+plus+black+lamp+makeover+003.jpg" width="200" /></a><i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Growing up a military brat, it was a feeling I was all too familiar with. I</i><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">t wasn't until high school that I felt like I belonged. I was 15 when I discovered I could move people with words. I had been writing as long as I could remember but it was a high school creative writing teacher who read my words out loud. It seems funny to me, and almost a little bit precious, when I remember those first weeks of having my secret exposed. She was a tough educator and I was a broken child. Writing wasn't something to be embarrassed about, it was a gift to be cherished.</span></i><br />
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<i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Finding my place in the writing world gave me the time to discover intelligence and wit. Two attributes I was going to need during some very tough years. Like those who can decorate without a second thought, I can paint a picture with words alone.</i><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
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<i>As I started the final coat of paint on the dresser, I thought about how much time I put into each and every posting.</i><i> I wondered if those who beautify see an empty room the way I see a blank piece of paper. It occurred to me that a makeover of a piece of furniture and a makeover of a paragraph are more similar than they are different. Each of us strives to find perfection.</i></div>
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<i>Varying items and varying topics, staying with the familiar, as well as the interesting.</i><br />
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<i>Trying to stay original, I look for new and different things for my stories and my home.</i><br />
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<i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The words can come as easily as the drapes that were given to me by a neighbor. Yet other times, it winds up costing me more than I expected to pay...like having to add sheers from the dollar store to complete my window dressing.</i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Although decorating is fun to me, it does not come naturally. So I try to read other blogs faithfully everyday. I am always looking for ideas and opinions from those whose style I admire. </span> </i><br />
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<i>Reviewing and learning, I had hoped to gain the easy camaraderie that flows between those with so much talent. It saddened and frustrated me when I realized this hurdle remains stubbornly in place.</i></div>
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<i>Writers are mostly a solitary bunch, living inside their minds and a wall of unwelcome shyness. The simple act of asking for an idea or opinion always gives me hesitation. It is not done easily nor without moments of second guessing myself. How much of my darker side will appear and will they dismiss when they realize that light and breezy is a look I'm trying to achieve through eyes that view the world as a not-so-friendly place? A heart that never quite recovered and a restless soul that longs for safety.</i></div>
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<i>Finishing the dresser and thoughtfully trying to add just the right pieces on the dresser, that old feeling begins to recede. I look at the results and smile -- making over a room can make over your mood. </i></div>
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<i>Reminding myself that I write for me and I write for my friend, I pick up the phone to let her know the new posting is going up. As I hang up the phone and nudge the dresser back into place, I smile at her enthusiasm and delight. I think of the second sentence in the serenity prayer and nod at its undeniable wisdom. I make a mental note to ignore things I cannot control and look over at a blank computer screen next to an unmade bed. There's always a new thought to write and a bed that might need a makeover. Thanks goodness for decorators...and writers. We are not so different after all. </i><br />
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<i><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. </span></b></i></div>
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Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-8517373665570666862010-08-03T21:12:00.003-06:002014-10-20T19:53:53.255-06:00Smarty Pants<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
Due to pain issues and because I'm feeling a little bit like a smarty <strike>pants</strike> socks, I just have one little before and after picture to share with you.</div>
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<i>Laundry room before - where the orphan socks were.</i></div>
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<i>Laundry room after - May I present - The Sock Drawer!</i></div>
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This was a little brown wood and wicker drawer shelf that I picked up at Goodwill on sale day: Total cost of drawer and white paint on hand: $1.00</div>
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I haven't even begun tackling the extremely limited space in the laundry room. It sorely needs much work but I very easily pretend I don't see it. Wink.</div>
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For now, I leave you with one of my favorite quotes:</div>
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<dt class="quote" style="color: black;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt within the heart. </span></i></dt>
<dt class="quote"><i style="color: #351c75;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: black;"> Helen Keller</span> </span></i></dt>
<dt class="quote" style="color: #351c75;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"> </i></span></dt>
<dt class="quote" style="color: #351c75;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">P.S. I was thinking about stenciling " THE SOCK DRAWER" across the top of the drawer. What do you think??<br />
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Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-60140350681222257072010-08-02T14:32:00.007-06:002010-08-06T04:18:57.560-06:00Decorating With One Eye Open<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">I was absolutely thrilled to finally get some comments and advice on my redecoration education . Living with a schizophrenic son --whose condition hasn't been stabilized yet --has caused an additional strain on our emotional budgets. He simply cannot tolerate very much intrusion into his world and that includes company --- even family. So I am out here all alone, trying to find my decorator way. All things considered, we are okay. The biggest bother being that I have to rely on the good folks out there reading my blog for advice and opinions. A big highlight of my day is checking the blog for comments. Thank you so much to each and every one of you who take the time to read my postings and an additional thank you for those who take time to comment. </span> </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Last night, the consensus seemed to be that there are a lot of things scattered about in my bathroom. Hugz for being so gentle. I got the message loud and clear -- there needs to less, instead of more. Thanks for the restraint in not saying, "Lady, how many friggin candles do you need in that tiny bathroom?" After I got over the 25 seconds of bristling, I took another look. I stood in the bathroom and tried to see what you see.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">After a few minutes, it became clear to me what the problem is. Take a look at this picture.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fPHmZl9XZPLUG4O2DmpOXf1OjAv5DVOGeFMldp0xVm0NQb6kisfxAUp0cjyFxmMz5WiS8ZDwHjtxezFRUuVIGQbXixZ2rnIvLL-d2juecpP3kE1ewyc9pE5FBnpYxcTVUHfY6Grdrl4/s1600/exref3.gif" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4fPHmZl9XZPLUG4O2DmpOXf1OjAv5DVOGeFMldp0xVm0NQb6kisfxAUp0cjyFxmMz5WiS8ZDwHjtxezFRUuVIGQbXixZ2rnIvLL-d2juecpP3kE1ewyc9pE5FBnpYxcTVUHfY6Grdrl4/s200/exref3.gif" width="146" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">And now take a look at the picture as seen by those of us who are nearsighted:</div><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">That is what one of my eyes sees without my glasses.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Now this is what the the <i>other eye</i> sees<i>:<span style="background-color: black; color: #444444;"></span></i></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphenBwh2hyphenhyphenyAM96p3Yaw5K0OUQWtkHm1ueugfTm701USfcMyETam3Om87HyN3oe4m4RHQprywS5zu8za1gFFCUskMU5RefYYBHo36QltA9leTEOc_4NMJIVmU1S23WzyUfbyoYz31JvpVo/s1600/exrefr2damage.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;"></span><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhyphenhyphenBwh2hyphenhyphenyAM96p3Yaw5K0OUQWtkHm1ueugfTm701USfcMyETam3Om87HyN3oe4m4RHQprywS5zu8za1gFFCUskMU5RefYYBHo36QltA9leTEOc_4NMJIVmU1S23WzyUfbyoYz31JvpVo/s320/exrefr2damage.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Retinal artery stroke about six years ago left me with one eye that is almost useless. I have no central vision in the eye and damaged peripheral vision. In fact, where you see dots, I see dots in motion due to varying degrees of damage.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">As a result, my brain tends to ignore completely what is coming from that eye. Consequently, I tend to see rooms in blocks of vision as opposed to the whole room. I see the left upper, the left middle, the right lower, the middle, etc. It is how my brain has adjusted to the loss of vision and the loss of depth perception. </div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFcquiVGsxI/AAAAAAAAAVI/QqGlrp9xIK0/s1600/pirate.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFcquiVGsxI/AAAAAAAAAVI/QqGlrp9xIK0/s320/pirate.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Arrrrr, thee be saucy wenches!)</td></tr>
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sorry, I couldn't resist.<br />
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I stood in the bathroom for 5 minutes trying to get a better whole picture. No dice. My brain has adjusted in order to help me walk without tripping, drive within the line and go down stairs without falling. Depth perception correction has its own problems. Even looking at a picture of the room isn't much help as my brain still cuts the picture into blocks.<br />
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This all goes on in the matter of a second or two. It's difficult to explain -- It's like looking into a room through a very lacy curtain for a split second, then more of a tunnel vision view.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
I asked my son to take a look. He stood there for a couple of minutes and then said, "Mom, she's talking again. The voice is telling me to cut myself." Sigh. SIGH! "Well, tell her to shut up unless she has a decorator degree." Ignoring the bitchy voice, I kept pointing out things to him. "Mom, if it makes you happy, then leave the things where they are, do you know where the Ativan its?" All in one breath. Small sigh. Son wanders off.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">After awhile, and because Leverage was about to start, I gave up looking and headed for the kitchen. One must have a snack when one watches Timothy Hutton for a whole hour across the small screen. For the rest of the night, I considered the issue but didn't take another look.</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">This morning the situation remains the same. Because of the "blocking" going on, it is difficult for me to see that a room is "busy" or cluttered. Due to the same depth perception issues, it's why I have less white and more blue than I really want. It's why I switched to silver accessories from gold before everyone else did - silver catches the light and lets you know it's there. It's why there are necklaces in my bathroom and not in my jewelry box. </div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">For now, I can only take your word for it. And compromise. The shelf stays up but knickknacks will be minimized a little. The yellowing paint will be painted over with as bright a white as I can acquire and the cabinet will be painted the same color. </div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">After I paint the walls and cabinet, I will retake the photos and ask for your thoughts again. Now that you know the problem, it may make it easier to voice your ideas and suggestions. I have a tough skin and my feathers only ruffle for a few seconds so feel free to suggest away. </div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I have a brother-in-law who is a true hoarder. In fact, his hoarding is so extreme, their house was considered for that show on A&E. Every time I go to their house, I come home and start putting things away, while chanting the two rules I used to live by: If it can be replaced for under ten dollars, throw it out <i style="color: #783f04;">and</i> if you can't pack your two bedroom condo in one day, then you have too much stuff.<br />
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Maybe it's time for a trip over there...</div>Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-56556300700648654312010-07-28T19:21:00.009-06:002010-08-06T04:54:36.771-06:00Of Karma, Temper Tantrums, Southern Gentlewomen and Smileys<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">We have been hit by the karma fairy over the last couple of weeks and evidently, judging by the number of things that went wrong or broke, I am currently paying back wrongdoings over the past two or three lives. </span> <br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">It started with the air conditioner shutting down on one of the hottest days of the year, continued with toilets that made your heart stop when flushed....<br />
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....kept going with a faucet that leaks water from the hot side handle ... and sending my irritation to new levels was my old Sonic toothbrush with a new mind of its own motor.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE2DxLcdiZI/AAAAAAAAARQ/enFzB6QM3WE/s1600/no.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE2DxLcdiZI/AAAAAAAAARQ/enFzB6QM3WE/s320/no.gif" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The breakdown train rolled on with never-seen-before error messages from the digital camera and I felt my stomach turn over after biting into a pear resulted in a tooth breaking off.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE0PMdzqiAI/AAAAAAAAAQo/IlXqqGkBQNU/s1600/cry.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE0PMdzqiAI/AAAAAAAAAQo/IlXqqGkBQNU/s320/cry.gif" /></a></div><br />
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It truly hit a high point when it was discovered during a weatherization check-up that my furnace is showing signs of a carbon monoxide leak . . .</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE0RijONitI/AAAAAAAAARA/n27XhE_NCcA/s1600/ohmy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE0RijONitI/AAAAAAAAARA/n27XhE_NCcA/s320/ohmy.gif" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I won't even go into the little things that happened in between the big things...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE2IbpC4OzI/AAAAAAAAARo/Zmaj_UGb_uY/s1600/echo2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE2IbpC4OzI/AAAAAAAAARo/Zmaj_UGb_uY/s320/echo2.gif" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Like the lettuce and tomato planter mysteriously being toppled off my patio ledge, destroying most of the plants. . .</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE-RujM-tvI/AAAAAAAAASA/g_O1SmJkYLs/s1600/facepalm2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE-RujM-tvI/AAAAAAAAASA/g_O1SmJkYLs/s320/facepalm2.gif" /></a></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">BY YESTERDAY MORNING, I'D HAD IT!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Now, I admit to having my moments throughout my life and I've never claimed to be an angel but the problems, breakdowns and possible hazard to my health was making me reconsider the pitchfork and horns approach. </div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE2HlvttIBI/AAAAAAAAARg/RpJkCJPirE8/s1600/demon_and_angel.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TE2HlvttIBI/AAAAAAAAARg/RpJkCJPirE8/s320/demon_and_angel.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">(Of course I would look just like her - wink, wink)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Foul of mind and mood, I headed out to my car. At least the air conditioning isn't broken in the grocery store and I was out of milk. Pulling into a parking spot, I was mulling over how much food I could buy without overdrawing my account when I saw a small sedan clip the side of a grocery cart and send it sailing into the side of my car. Grabbing my purse and my temper, I hopped out of my car, ready to do battle with the owner of the car.</div><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The car's door opened and out came this teeny tiny woman of indiscriminate age with an obvious hunch and almost translucent skin---she reminded me of my grandmother in her failing years. She turned toward me and smiled. And like a cheerleader facing the losing home crowd, her bright and happy face took the anger wind right out of my sails.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDMTt0tP8I/AAAAAAAAASg/lYL8RFOXPPY/s1600/cheerleader_2_1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDMTt0tP8I/AAAAAAAAASg/lYL8RFOXPPY/s320/cheerleader_2_1.gif" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Smiling back at her, I found myself following her into the store. She had me the moment I heard that sweet southern accent ask me to help her with the electric cart. Her name was Rose, she was a widow living with her busybody son and still missed her truck driver husband -- passed on some years ago</span>. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDOF6t8zbI/AAAAAAAAASo/4qOhBjnWXnI/s1600/ooer.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDOF6t8zbI/AAAAAAAAASo/4qOhBjnWXnI/s320/ooer.gif" /></a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For the next hour and a half, I listened to stories of this couples' adventures on the highways and roads of this U.S.A. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDWVZuKc7I/AAAAAAAAAUI/uJBO-EU1Yhk/s1600/usa.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDWVZuKc7I/AAAAAAAAAUI/uJBO-EU1Yhk/s320/usa.gif" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">I became lost in her tales and adventures and enamored of her life. Forgotten were the battles of the last few days, replaced by visions of endless countryside, snow mountain peaks, out-of-the-way diners with fabulous pies, and homes filled with people who still didn't lock their doors at night. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDWnh8a2nI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/ZQfLJOqYCH4/s1600/4tknkw.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDWnh8a2nI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/ZQfLJOqYCH4/s320/4tknkw.gif" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">It was a country I had dreamed of discovering and a secret I kept mostly deep down inside.</div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDSSTd89fI/AAAAAAAAAS4/X9BzVss28hY/s1600/wolfman.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDSSTd89fI/AAAAAAAAAS4/X9BzVss28hY/s320/wolfman.gif" /></a></div></div></div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Finishing up her shopping, we grabbed my milk and cereal and headed to the check-out stands. Standing silently beside her, I felt an overwhelming rush of thankfulness for a wayward grocery cart and a woman whose vision probably should have kept her out of the driver's seat. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDSp7Ut5tI/AAAAAAAAATA/anMMGmZX7fY/s1600/shh.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDSp7Ut5tI/AAAAAAAAATA/anMMGmZX7fY/s320/shh.gif" /></a></div><br />
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I turned to tell her of my gratitude and humbleness but she grabbed my hand and squeezed. It seems she saw the look on my face after the cart had careened into the side of my car and knew that I was a woman on my last nerve. Experienced with a life that had thrown some lemons -- and some days, an entire orchard of 'em -- she had sidetracked my day and reminded me of the good things that are still out there, waiting to be rediscovered. I hugged her and we headed for our cars, knowing that life had put us together that day.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDXGz9ScxI/AAAAAAAAAUY/6OeSFgu4r6w/s1600/kissing2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDXGz9ScxI/AAAAAAAAAUY/6OeSFgu4r6w/s320/kissing2.gif" /></a></div><br />
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I watched as she disappeared inside her car and smiled just a little at the image of the driverless car heading out of the parking lot. Gosh, she sure was tiny.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDTAcCX-iI/AAAAAAAAATI/tdBKVMsY6D0/s1600/gosh.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDTAcCX-iI/AAAAAAAAATI/tdBKVMsY6D0/s320/gosh.gif" /></a></div><br />
Sighing to myself, I started the engine of my car, ready once again to take on the little battles waiting for me at home.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDUBHx6AWI/AAAAAAAAATg/ltloV63M4-0/s1600/tantrum.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDUBHx6AWI/AAAAAAAAATg/ltloV63M4-0/s320/tantrum.gif" /></a></div><br />
As I opened the front door to my condo, I felt strength and obstinacy return to my soul. Turning to face life once again, I held out my hands, turned my palms up and said to an empty room, "Bring it on Karma Fairy, bring it on."</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDTcRjjNWI/AAAAAAAAATY/dWHpZu1_5yA/s1600/6EqtkT4RFQkH3EQGwAGyFf5vQr0_.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDTcRjjNWI/AAAAAAAAATY/dWHpZu1_5yA/s320/6EqtkT4RFQkH3EQGwAGyFf5vQr0_.gif" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Sometimes you just have to blast back at life with guns a-blazin....</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDTTBnmTKI/AAAAAAAAATQ/ccPN29hKHsQ/s1600/guns.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDTTBnmTKI/AAAAAAAAATQ/ccPN29hKHsQ/s320/guns.gif" /></a></div><br />
Why are the clothes still damp in the dryer?<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">And sometimes, you just call your best friend and say, "Sandy, I'm feeling a need for a happy hour beverage and my friend. How fast can you get dressed?"</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDUmEFoTsI/AAAAAAAAATo/1ruINeb0xWc/s1600/drunk.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDUmEFoTsI/AAAAAAAAATo/1ruINeb0xWc/s320/drunk.gif" /></a></div></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDVA0NCugI/AAAAAAAAATw/RM8uRa4zRo0/s1600/snap.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDVA0NCugI/AAAAAAAAATw/RM8uRa4zRo0/s320/snap.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hopefully, the camera will be fixed in a couple of days.</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDVLSGK5kI/AAAAAAAAAT4/tAc0W1eRUXQ/s1600/tease.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDVLSGK5kI/AAAAAAAAAT4/tAc0W1eRUXQ/s320/tease.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aren't you glad this posting is over?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDViRh4g8I/AAAAAAAAAUA/8DTpZioL_0Q/s1600/w00t.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TFDViRh4g8I/AAAAAAAAAUA/8DTpZioL_0Q/s320/w00t.gif" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">So we can go back to regular pictures and makeovers?</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
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</div>Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-71699414847515913592010-07-22T09:36:00.009-06:002014-10-28T07:35:01.935-06:00BLUE<div style="color: #0b5394; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>B<span style="font-size: small;">lue is my favorite color. You can probably tell that from all the pictures I've posted on this blog. Funny thing is that purple was my favorite color for more years than I care to admit to (don't even try to guess my age!). My closet is filled with clothes in every imaginable shade of purple and my favorite jewelry was of course, amethyst. I even painted the walls of my room a fuchsia-leaning purple (what was I thinking??!!). </span>It was only after shopping at sales for new sheets and curtains and scouring craigslist for free paint that I noticed I was picking out shades of <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Color" rel="wikipedia" title="Color">blue</a>.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>My yearning to get back to the ocean? Perhaps. Blue is the color of my eyes so maybe it's a familiarity thing. Or maybe because it truly is a soothing color and these days, I hold on for dear life to anything that soothes the soul. Whatever the cause for the change, it looks like blue is my new signature color. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Blue was my mood last night and </i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>all day yesterday. All because of the cutest little thing I've EVER found on craigslist:</i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6yDwbJHzeO7TCenZwZt77CI1WEyBAOywOv7MrQuuic8gOtGhehQhE04eEw3LzTi-XD4Lo5nA8sJT-XZ595691mya22FSrDXj__Uv9Zwv_gHZ5bPpk2kgbLn3-RfC5W5_FQP_DqJpUXw/s1600/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC6yDwbJHzeO7TCenZwZt77CI1WEyBAOywOv7MrQuuic8gOtGhehQhE04eEw3LzTi-XD4Lo5nA8sJT-XZ595691mya22FSrDXj__Uv9Zwv_gHZ5bPpk2kgbLn3-RfC5W5_FQP_DqJpUXw/s320/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+033.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>We rescued this little angel from a person who posted an ad that read, "7-Week old female kittens, litter box trained, weaned from mother and ready to be adopted for a 'rehoming' fee of $40." Feeling my B.S. meter rising, I donned my supergirl attitude, grabbed my keys and iced tea, yelled "let's go" to my teenage son and flew out the front door. I could hardly drive fast enough to get to the tiny kittens listed on craigslist for a "minor re-homing fee." I've heard stories about scams involving stolen felines being stolen and then sold for medical research. I'd recently read a story about kittens grabbed from the large colonies of <a class="zem_slink" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Feral_cat" rel="wikipedia" title="Feral cat">feral cats</a> that we have roaming around our city. Evidently the dregs of society have found a new way to make money: Grab a litter of feral kittens, acclimate them to people for a couple of weeks and sell them on craigslist. Shameless bastards.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">Do you think that people scanning the ads on</span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> Craigslist really believed the nonsense that this was a 7-week old kitten? Surely they must see what was so obvious to me. Were h</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">ustlers truly going to look me in the eye and try to sell me too-young kittens? Boy, where they in for a surprise. I hoped.</span></i></span><br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhdl18FdHI/AAAAAAAAAP4/e17c1-NNNgg/s1600/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhdl18FdHI/AAAAAAAAAP4/e17c1-NNNgg/s320/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+037.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Arriving at the evildoer's home, there was just one kitten left. Dirty but adorable, I took the kitten from the arms of a man while assessing his gullibility and whether or not a kitty-nap would be dangerous to my son and I. Thankfully gifted with the ability to distract with fast talk, I volunteered to give the kitten the best home. Smiling, complimenting, asking question after question as I walked out the front door with the kitten in my arms. Almost sprinting to my car, I kept them talking"Thank you so much" -- opening the car door --"she is just so adorable" -- handing kitty to son -- "You did the best job raising such a cute thing" -- starting the engine -- "I have your email, I'll send pictures" -- put the car in drive -- "Gotta run to beat the rush hour traffic" -- go, go, go!! </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Sixty seconds later the guy was calling my phone, reminding me that I forgot to pay the fee for the kitten. Hahaha. I laughed and hung up. Better pay the fee or else. Sure, sure. I'll be right over. Better yet, consider it a donation to my own kitty rescue from jerks like you.</i></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhc3z4rNrI/AAAAAAAAAPg/UMHWjmkjN1Q/s1600/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhc3z4rNrI/AAAAAAAAAPg/UMHWjmkjN1Q/s320/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+026.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">For the next four hours, the SOB had the audacity to threaten me with all kinds of things, including the police. As we arrived at the vet's office, the threats continued but we let every call go to voicemail. Explaining the situation to the veterinarian, he graciously waived his fee while assessing the condition of our kitten that he now held in his arms.</span></i></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #3d85c6;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Three weeks old, malnourished, not litter box
trained, not enough teeth to eat dry food and a little boy - there was
not one true thing in the craigslist ad. The vet was almost as shocked
as I was by the audacity. </i></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #3d85c6;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhg2rxHnDI/AAAAAAAAAQA/2U9WLGd6YB8/s1600/smiley_emoticons_fluch3.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="background-color: #0b5394;"></span><span style="background-color: #eeeeee;"></span><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhg2rxHnDI/AAAAAAAAAQA/2U9WLGd6YB8/s320/smiley_emoticons_fluch3.gif" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Three weeks old, malnourished, not litter box trained, not enough teeth to eat dry food and a little boy - there was not one true thing in the craigslist ad. The vet was almost as shocked as I was by the audacity. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>And it so happened that there was a couple in the vet office who had lost their beloved kitty a month ago.....they fell in love with my "Lil Kitty" .... but I had grown so attached to the darling little boy over 48 hours. </i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>I bathed him (normally you don't bathe a kitten this young but we had to get the dirt and grime off), dribbled kitty formula down "Lil Kitty's" mouth, pulverized dry food in the coffee bean grinder, mixed it into wet food and coaxed him to eat, slept with him in my lap and laughed because he kept trying to sleep next to my bottom. We played "I'm a ferocious tiger" as he pounced on my hand, snooped through everything, including the bird cage, followed my feet everywhere. The vet vouched for this couple who would devote the 24-hour-round-the-clock care that "Lil Kitty" would need for awhile. I listened to the woman story and felt my heart giving in as the woman's eyes welled up with tears over her beloved lost cat. I kissed his little face and handed Lil Kitty over. Silently willing myself to show strength, I got to the car before the kitten's new owner could see my own tears. Bye little kitty.</i></span></div>
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhdHWzZN9I/AAAAAAAAAPo/VtcAgfUo34g/s1600/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhdHWzZN9I/AAAAAAAAAPo/VtcAgfUo34g/s320/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+039.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i>So I am blue and sad and missing that sweet little face. </i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>I still hear that mew --- not even a whole meow. </i></span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Doing the right thing is hard sometimes. </i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><i style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"> See how his eyes are blue? </span></i></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhcjUibw3I/AAAAAAAAAPY/FFDKjUWlaBQ/s1600/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+019.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhcjUibw3I/AAAAAAAAAPY/FFDKjUWlaBQ/s320/Bathroom+before+and+after+two+plus+kitty+019.jpg" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhhALUV7BI/AAAAAAAAAQI/im5qWGkE5EI/s1600/tgXLbB8fcf96ksaubDg0G5yoKG0_.gif" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEhhALUV7BI/AAAAAAAAAQI/im5qWGkE5EI/s320/tgXLbB8fcf96ksaubDg0G5yoKG0_.gif" /></a></div>
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Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-38759527824762256642010-07-21T00:13:00.044-06:002012-12-20T11:29:49.668-07:00Proud to Present - My Almost Finished Bathroom<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">BEFORE</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TEcf8o1e0DI/AAAAAAAAAOA/n-cFepxaVio/s320/Bathroom+before+and+after+004.jpg" /></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In my previous apartment, I did not have a linen closet so I bought this glass shelving that fit over the toilet and gave me a place to put my towels, etc. After I bought my condo, I not only had built in shelving inside the bathroom but also discovered this big ole thing would not fit in the same spot as it had previously. So I put it over the hamper and haphazardly decorated it. This "Before" picture is how it looked for almost three years. </span></div>
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And as they say, out with the old and in with the new.....oh...that doesn't really apply..... this is all from garage and church sales and Goodwill. Okay, out with the stuff you were given as a secret santa gift, a present from an aunt you haven't seen since you were 5 and your first attempt at decorating a wicker basket. In with the square wicker baskets, seashells, pitchers, flowers, more flowers, a seashell picture frame with the best beach picture you've ever taken, chimes, shampoos, conditioners and lotions from your favorite vacation hotels and any other treasure you've dug out of your "loot box." Without being too graphic, sitting on my throne will make you smile, if you know what I mean. Teehee.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictures of Carmel, California</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shampoo & conditioners from hotels everywhere.</td></tr>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The pictures below are of the opposite wall in the bathroom - the wall with the throne and sink.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>BEFORE:</b></span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">How to hide messed up mirror - tiles and glue</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Putting up shelf over towels.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Small blue tiles hot glued to mirror to hide flaws.</td></tr>
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<b><span style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> TA DAH......UHHH...... EXCEPT</span></span></b><b style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">......</span></b><br />
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">What should I do with the cabinet? Paint it white, paint it a different color or leave it alone? And how about the walls? Sea blue or bright white? Let me know what you think. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">As always, thank you for spending time reading my blog and please vote on the poll shown on the side of this posting.</span></div>
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Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-976982785171051572010-07-13T23:34:00.003-06:002010-07-14T11:11:51.963-06:00Trying New Things - The Lamp<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TD0_6qtm0zI/AAAAAAAAAGY/pavQSvyP4pw/s1600/DSCN0143.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TD0_6qtm0zI/AAAAAAAAAGY/pavQSvyP4pw/s320/DSCN0143.JPG" /></a></div><br />
This is a table lamp that I picked up at a church rummage sale -- a sale in which the ladies running the show would not allow me to spend a dime. This lamp was the first thing that we got into my car. At the end of the hour at that church, I had a bunch of new things for the "loot box."<br />
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I couldn't wait to get home and show my son his new bedside table. I knew he would scrunch up his face at the brass coloring but I had plans for that table. Yes indeedy. I shall show no fear at brass and metal. That lamp was getting a makeover. <br />
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Now where is my paint?<br />
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I had heard stories about how difficult it is to change anything brass and in fact, I had noticed that Goodwill is just overrun with anything that has a gold or brass tint. I was determined that this lamp was going to be a glossy black. The colors of my son's room are blue and black with a smattering of silver and red. Silver might have been an easier color to spray over the brass but black was what I saw in my head.<br />
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White, red, more white, grey, silver, primer white, more primer white, lite blue, dark blue. All those cans of spray paint and no black? *&*#%*#$ Curse, bad word, curse. Hmmm. Okay, well it needs to be primed anyway. Carefully taping up the glass table and the lamp socket, off I went outside with the lamp, newspaper and spray can of Kilz. Half hour later, the brass lamp was now white.<br />
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After ten days, it was time to make that lamp a shiny black. I had read somewhere that if you are painting a metal object, the longer you let the primer sit, the better the final coat of paint will go on to the lamp. I figured ten days was good. Believing I had just overlooked the black spray paint, I pulled out all the cans again. Nope. No black. Uh oh. Three little cans of brush on black glossy but no spray.......Dare I?? Brush black paint on a metal lamp? Hmmmm. Brush marks, dripping, uneven....surely this is not going to work.<br />
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Well, I swore not to buy any paint so out came my little brush - an artist's brush and a little foam brush. First coat -- looks okay to me. That little brush sure came in handy as I discovered there are teeny tiny places to paint on a lamp. Second coat - here goes nothing....<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TD1J46lV0JI/AAAAAAAAAGg/js8lu-HecXQ/s1600/DSCN0297.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TD1J46lV0JI/AAAAAAAAAGg/js8lu-HecXQ/s400/DSCN0297.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">TA DAH!!</span></div><br />
Look how black and shiny. Fits perfectly with the color scheme in my son's room. It's perfect....well.... wonder how he would feel about a silver chain around the lampshade. Just a little bit of glue....Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-6608195340858028802010-07-10T06:22:00.004-06:002010-09-19T00:50:09.935-06:00Beautiful<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Yesterday was a beautiful day. You ever have one of those days where everything comes out just right - your makeup, your hair, even the clothes you picked out for the day? Keeping the mood going, I skipped out to my car to meet a woman -- Melissa -- who had just posted on Craigslist that she had a bunch of things to give away. Fortunately she was less than 5 minutes away from me.</span></div><br />
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<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This was the first thing that I saw in a garage filled almost to the rafters with things. Couches, a hutch, clothes, knickknacks, boxes, a piano, everything a baby would need for the first six months and even a soda pop machine filled my visual field. In in an earlier time that machine would have popped out a can for 50 cents. Sigh..... Incredulous at the sight in front of me, I asked Melissa if she was giving everything away. I was relieved (and maybe secretly a tad disappointed) when she showed me a smaller corner of the garage that held the giveaway things. Whew! I was worried she was giving away that soda pop machine. Seriously, who doesn't want one in their garage?</span></div><br />
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<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">This pretty little set of champagne glasses was in the box of knickknacks - see how they sparkle?!!. As I started packing them away for the ride in my car, another car drove up with a man and his very pregnant wife, along with a shy little toddler. It seems the man and his family had just returned from New Zealand after the man's employer called him home. Not too long after stepping off the plane and showing up for his first day at work back in the states, the employer informed the man that he no longer had a job. Just like that. Several years of hard work and dedication to the company, moving his family to wherever in the world the company needed him, returning home on a moment's notice without their worldly goods and this was his reward for loyalty. Sad to say that in my travels of garage sales and church rummage sales, this is not that unusual of a story. Melissa handed over all the baby things to this family. Asked if they needed anything else, they laughed and said "everything." But this day was for the baby and they were determined to have the baby's room ready within a couple of days. In the midst of hardship and fear, they could still smile and show such graciousness. Just beautiful. </span></div><div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TDc04CwGcEI/AAAAAAAAAFw/o9bXUPIr7rY/s1600/DSCN0220.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TDc04CwGcEI/AAAAAAAAAFw/o9bXUPIr7rY/s200/DSCN0220.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TDc0sjxSjII/AAAAAAAAAFo/Isxf-wLakTg/s1600/DSCN0214.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TDc0sjxSjII/AAAAAAAAAFo/Isxf-wLakTg/s200/DSCN0214.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Also in the box of knickknacks, these two beautiful glass pieces that had been sitting in a box in Melissa's basement, covered in dust and cobwebs. The fan is now on my antique table and the other has found a place on my dining room table. If it sparkles or shines, it has a home with me.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Another car drove up and parked. Out popped a man and woman who headed straight for Melissa and said they were there for the large size men's clothing. I raised my eyebrows a bit at that moment as I was also trying to gather clothing for my son whose anti-psychotic medications had put over 50 pounds on him in a very short time--a very common side effect I have been told. Melissa thoughtfully told the couple and I that we would go through the clothing together. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">As the woman began pulling the clothes out of the bag, I asked her if they were having hard times too. She replied that her and her two children had just arrived here with barely the clothes on their back. Her man - fiance? boyfriend? - she didn't say- worked contract jobs in construction and he had not been able to find work in awhile. The woman and her two kids had made the decision to leave New Orleans and join up with the man to start a new life. This man from her younger years. I listened politely while quieting the questions that were piling up in my mind. She abruptly ended her story after a side glance from her man and I wished them well. Inside I hoped she was following her dream to be with the love of her life. Silently I wished a beautiful road for them to follow as we distributed clothes between us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TDc3FhYBTEI/AAAAAAAAAGA/vicxhh6_Vl4/s1600/DSCN0224.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TDc3FhYBTEI/AAAAAAAAAGA/vicxhh6_Vl4/s320/DSCN0224.JPG" /></a></div><br />
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Along with six black stoneware desert cups and two goblets, this was the last item I pulled out of the knickknack box. Beautiful colors and made in Japan, I carefully wrapped it up for the bedside table in my son's room. Loving all things Japanese, I just knew he would be happy to have it in his room. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">As I walked to my car, Melissa told me about her reasons for giving things away. She had years of accumulation of just things, in-laws who had moved to Arizona who had dropped off many of their things, two teenagers who were outgrowing clothing and toys, a toddler and a baby who no longer needed so many things and a leg cast in a lovely shade of pink that was slowing her down. Melissa and her husband determined they really didn't need the couple hundred dollars they would make from a garage sale and decided to give to those in need instead. So Melissa posted an ad on craigslist and then gave out the address by email to those she thought were truly in need. Beautiful.</span></div><br />
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">As I got in my car and drove away, I thanked Melissa one last time as she headed inside to rest her leg. Driving home, I noticed the cooler temperature outside after a string of very hot days. I watched an older couple taking a walk holding hands. I saw two kids setting up a corner lemonade stand and then delighted in the tiny baby rabbit sitting next to his mother in a field filled with flowers and green by the side of the road. </span></div><div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #20124d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Beautiful.</span></div>Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-58977178141789433572010-07-03T20:58:00.021-06:002010-08-06T04:46:11.592-06:00Almost Finished With the Dining Room - First Makeover pictures<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Here's my first set of before and after pictures. The dining room, table and chairs.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: #20124d;">BEFORE</span></b>:</span></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC-5g0WxduI/AAAAAAAAAEA/QDrGMe3G-9g/s1600/DSCN0173.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC-5g0WxduI/AAAAAAAAAEA/QDrGMe3G-9g/s320/DSCN0173.JPG" /></a> To be completely accurate, imagine for a moment that the antique table isn't there. That would be the most accurate before picture.<br />
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The side table is a recent addition that I got at a church rummage sale. Noting the tag marked $80 and the fact that they were closing up, I offered the girl whatever was in my wallet. After a couple of moments of thought, she agreed -- especially since all their leftovers were being donated to Goodwill anyway. It turned out there was $5 in my wallet. Whew! That was a bit risky on my part since I wasn't sure what was in my wallet. I brought the table home and decided to leave it as is for the moment.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
The other table in the room, the wood/tile table and 4 chairs were given to me about ten years ago. Although I always loved the tile and the way each square shined, I was ready for something different. I have been watching for a table since the start of my home do-over but had not found one that spoke to me yet. I came very close to finding the perfect chairs a couple of weeks ago but was stopped by the size of the chairs or - cough, cough - the size of my butt in the the chairs. The hunt continues and in the meantime...<br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The china on the side table was my grandmother's china. The vase, creamer and little glass basket with flowers (which I know are difficult to see in the picture) were picked up at Goodwill on sale day for a quarter each. The bud vase is a particular favorite of mine because it has a blue tint to it and the actual glass blower signed his name on the bottom - Joe. In cursive. I love it.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">While I kept an eye on the craigslist free postings on my computer screen, I dragged out my box of "loot" from garage sales, along with cans of spray paint from the local used paint and chemical storage facility. Note the masking tape on the gold mirrored tray as I readied it for spray painting. Very few pieces of furniture cross my threshold that aren't painted or changed in someway afterwards.</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">DURING:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC9lk4IrgCI/AAAAAAAAADw/-TqDZduedAw/s1600/DSCN0195.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC9lk4IrgCI/AAAAAAAAADw/-TqDZduedAw/s400/DSCN0195.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">The tablecloth and vases came from a church rummage sale that I happened upon that was ending for the day. Avery enthusiastic church lady and I went from table to table in the church annex and I walked away with a box of things to add to my "loot box." Hesitant at first to just start taking things, I kept asking if they were sure someone else didn't need the things. It was an eye-opener to say the least. And every time I ooohed and ahhed over something, the ladies would shout out their encouragement. Oh, the fun I had that day! I found two frames that I still can't believe my good fortune to find and I will show pictures in a later posting. <br />
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Keep an eye out for the lace around the tablecloth in the next few pictures. It was what caught my eye when I looking at a large box overflowing with bedroom linens. All the silk and plastic flowers came from this church except the flowers in the tallest vase on the table. The tray, previously gold and now spray painted silver, came from another church sale - 50 cents. The plates came from Goodwill on sale day when all dishes and glassware are 25 cents each as was the little vase. The creamer (small glass item on table tray with flowers) was 50 cents.</div><br />
<div style="color: #20124d; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;">DURING:</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC-6lzC5OVI/AAAAAAAAAEI/qqmnW1BCxmE/s1600/DSCN0198.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC-6lzC5OVI/AAAAAAAAAEI/qqmnW1BCxmE/s200/DSCN0198.JPG" width="150" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_Wqt7gFPI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/ky2McEZGNFg/s1600/DSCN0199.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_Wqt7gFPI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/ky2McEZGNFg/s200/DSCN0199.JPG" width="200" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_iQGKmmhI/AAAAAAAAAFI/yLmeCuJBMiQ/s1600/DSCN0201.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_iQGKmmhI/AAAAAAAAAFI/yLmeCuJBMiQ/s200/DSCN0201.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"></div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">I picked up two of these chairs at a Free - Everything Must Go sale. that popped up on craigslist while I was spray painting the tray. T I spied these wood chairs from the car, as the color of the wood was unusually orange. I knew I had the perfect fabric at home for the cushion makeover.<br />
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Along with the chairs, I also picked up a very beat-up piano bench and two vases filled with potpourri. The bonus was that when I got home and began to pour out the potpourri, I discovered blue glass gems mixed in. Hooray, hooray. Just what I needed as I had been trying to fill the vase in the middle of the table with blue and white glass gems/rocks. That vase needs a lot of rocks to fill it up. As for the chairs, I was ready with white spray paint and fabulous blue striped fabric piece I had picked up at a church sale...errr...should I say church gifting event. </div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><div style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>AFTER - THE CHAIRS:</b></span></div><br />
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<div style="color: #20124d;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>AFTER: THE DINING ROOM, TABLE AND CHAIRS</b></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_YNGmC-5I/AAAAAAAAAE4/ESf-fOvUPi4/s1600/DSCN0209.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_YNGmC-5I/AAAAAAAAAE4/ESf-fOvUPi4/s320/DSCN0209.JPG" width="320" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_YXeklb9I/AAAAAAAAAFA/MDXe-LbCkuQ/s1600/DSCN0208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ECvvXlOsSRI/TC_YXeklb9I/AAAAAAAAAFA/MDXe-LbCkuQ/s200/DSCN0208.JPG" width="200" /></a></div><br />
So, what do you think of my first before and after posting? I was so happy with how the chairs came out that I couldn't wait to write this post. (I know the new chair padding looks violet in the pictures but it is a deep dark blue). Every other day, in some way, I am learning that I have a good eye. I can pick the beauty out of the rubble and I am finding I can imagine a color an item should be, no matter what color it was originally. And look where the piano bench ended up -- perfect fit for one side of the table.<br />
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The final touches - the wine glasses came from my cabinet, the water glasses for 50 cents from Goodwill and the flatware from rummaging through a kitchen drawer. I am still working on some cloth napkins that I created from pillowcases but they are a work-in-progress so the napkin holder remains empty. I was just too excited to wait.<br />
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<b>Before </b> <b>After</b><br />
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</div><div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">You know that acquaintance whose home you had - at one party or another - admired. They sweep into the room, look around and holding their arm as if waving a magic wand, pronounce that your living room could be fabulous with just a "couple of changes." I have always admired their ability to transform a room in their mind's eye. I never realized I was able to do it too. All I had to do was find my look and style. Sigh -- all those years of hand-me-down knickknacks...</div><div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">My budget remains very tight and yet, this has not slowed me down one bit in the last two months. I am She-ra of the price conscious consumer - hear me roar. I look at corporations and think how much we are influenced by others telling us what we should want and need in our home. I have found that with a little bit of patience, most of the things that can decorate your life are already out there looking for a new home. A treasure to be discovered at the nearest thrift store. A table left at the curb. A lamp that just needs a fresh coat of paint. It certainly has given me such more satisfaction. In the end, my goal is to redo my home with second hand stuff and spend as little money as possible. Back in the days when I had a very comfortable middle-class life, I wouldn't have dreamed of using my creative side. I didn't think I had one and I was too tired to consider it. Necessity and change born of poverty and illness. </div></div><br />
<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; text-align: justify;">Soooo, along the way I have taken a few "before" pictures. I had no idea I was going to do a blog on my progress so I didn't take nearly enough. Then my computer crashed and I lost all of the pictures that were stored. Still, I am still going to try to recreate the "before" so I can show you the "after". It just seems to make more of an impact. With some rooms, like my adult son's bedroom, I'm going to try to describe how it looked before and try to not bore with details that you can't picture in your mind. I am also going to tell the how, what, where and when each item was replaced. Hidden in my recollections and musings, you'll find tips, hints and lessons learned.<br />
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Although I had originally planned to stick with black, white, silver and shades of denim blue as the theme colors for my home, it has turned out to be many shades of blue. When you are filling your loot box with free items, a specific shade of blue would take too long and be next to impossible to fulfill.<br />
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Shades of blue....hmmm....might make a catchy title for a blog too.</div>Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4408846528731917608.post-65106274260378612862010-06-26T22:19:00.006-06:002014-10-22T05:11:29.580-06:00GOODWILL HUNTING<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: justify;">
<i>I have deleted everything on my blog and started over. My old blog served me well for the two years I wrote on it. Then I noticed over time that it had become a chore and I no longer looked forward to writing on it. Oh it helped me to keep my sanity through some very dark days after being struck down by a severe pain disorder but constantly writing about the struggle was no longer helping. I know there are others who were fighting right along with me as I heard from so many of them. I like to think we helped each other, I wish them well and I continue to pray for their daily struggles. But now, as I begin my fight to save my home, I think I'd like to write of different things. </i></div>
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<i>Also in the middle of being a voice for the victims of pain, my son became seriously mentally ill. On Halloween night, my son began a 24-hour nightmare that started with scratching. Take your hand and scratch across the nearest surface made of cloth. Hear that sound? My son hears that in his head almost non-stop. He also hears a woman in there. She asks him who he is a lot. She tells him to cut himself and to end it all. The bitch! In his better moments, he says he "kinda" knows she isn't real but one look at his face and you'll know he isn't convinced of what he's saying. <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">(Update:August 1 - a male voice has now joined the female voice but the male voice is not mean, so far.)</span> And remember those scary sillohouttes from the movie Ghost? Imagine if you were seeing something similar many times during the day. While you are watching your favorite t.v. show or chatting online with a friend, bizarre shadows dance in and out of your line of vision. This is part of his daily life.</i></div>
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<i>I have lost my son and found myself with a grown man who, in many ways, reminds me of the small child he used to be. Schizophrenia. I hate the sound of the word. His struggle and the lessons I am learning continue everyday. I may write of his life now and how we adjust to changes. I may even throw in a comment or two about the pain battle...it's hard to stay away from something that effects you all day long. I will explain more about the financial battle as we wade the river of of information and bureaucracy. </i></div>
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<i>I am learning to decorate. Let me rephrase that. I have absolutely no money and must have been out of my mind when I decided to change my home, but I am redecorating my condo. It happened after I ran into a blog one day and became enchanted with the style of the couple renovating their home. I was a goner after reading the first entry I ran into on the The Lettered Cottage blog. I looked around my condo and saw my mother. And my grandmother. And other relatives and friends who have given me home decor gifts over the years. Bless their hearts and their wallets but geez, when did I lose touch with my own style?</i></div>
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<i>My heart is at the beach. Oh, I may live in a landlocked state but my soul screams for the sound of the ocean waves hitting the shoreline and the feel of hot sand under my toes. During times of extreme stress, I have run home to California and its beaches. Every vacation that I could afford to, I ran home to the beach. During moments of crises, I close my eyes and transport myself back to a time and place that brings me joy and comfort. The beach is like Valium to me, only better.</i></div>
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<i>So how does one decorate their landlocked condo into a cozy home reminiscent of those days? How do you completely redecorate with very little money? Goodwill, garage sales, church rummage sales, the dollar store and the free column on craigslist.com. Yes, I know you see shabby and worn down stuff in your mind. I used to too. I was wrong and I decided to decorate and then blab about it on a blog. Oh joy of joys! It is possible to find beauty and simplicity, lace and crystal, silk flowers and china, all in a place mixed in with the tired and the should-have-been-thrown-in-the-trash-five-years-ago on every shelf. Bless the hearts of everyone who donates their treasures.</i></div>
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<i>So stay tuned as I get pictures up and gather my thoughts together... </i></div>
Barbarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08148146985086013758noreply@blogger.com2