tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-41077376235145185952024-03-13T07:02:51.401-07:00trailer park girlValerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.comBlogger187125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-88920642835764995612014-12-14T17:16:00.001-08:002014-12-15T06:43:54.616-08:00"You Go to Heaven, Mama!"<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Children are no different than adults. Really.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When exhausted, hungry or jealous both kids and grown-ups seem to explode into a variety of complex, and often times, unacceptable moods that can only be viewed as eye-rolling.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Cousin has a grandpa in Sonora, CA and she and 'Lil Sis, along with their parentals, spent the Thanksgiving holiday there. On the long drive home, laden with exhaustion and out of her routine, I'm told she played a little "test" on her mom.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>"Please stop squeezing that toy."</i> Her mother politely asked, showing a great deal of restraint even though the high-pitched squeaky sound was ear piercing.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(If you want to really annoy your friends who have young children, give their kids loud and obnoxious toys during this holiday season.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Cousin continues to squeeze the toy, offering up full-on eye contact while doing so.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">"I said, I need you to stop squeezing that. It's hurting mommy's ears."</span></i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i><br /></i>
Ignoring someone's words is such a fantastic weapon. It's strong, forceful and gets instant results.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Cousin continues. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Her</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> mom then reaches over and grabs the damn toy right out of her hands!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Cousin bursts into a loud and uncontrollable cry that bounces off the walls of their vehicle. The tears flow like a mighty rain and the screaming is almost as bad as the squeaky toy.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">With a beet red, puffed out face and an index finger shaking straight at her mother's nose, The Cousin responds like any of us would...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"YOU...YOU GO TO HEAVEN, MAMA!"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When my friend, Barbara Tieken, first visited us in Monterey, I hosted a small gathering of whimsical and free-thinking women folk at our cozy abode on Hermann St and Barbara analyzed all of our handwriting.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It was quite interesting and made for some good laughs. My pal, Angela and I were told, due to the loop in the top half and the intentional line in the bottom, that we had the "Go to Hell K" in our writings. She then asked us if that rang true to form. I can't speak for Ange, but as for me, well, if the shoe fits, proudly wear it.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The Cousin, in all her innocence, and thanks to her wonderful parents, has never heard the saying </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"go to hell" but she has heard that her great grandmother now resides in heaven. Evidently, she wished her mama would join her.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I love this kid so much. Her little sister "Ginger" also. And for those of you who have been long-term, faithful followers, Sweet Pea is equally forever etched into my heart. There's a new one too. Sweet Pea's mom gave birth 3 days ago to a stocky little boy named Will who I have yet to meet...</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Life, as they know it and as we know it, is changing. And isn't that really the only thing we can be certain of? Change. Impermanence. Yet, though even when expected, it's not always easily accepted. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Perhaps this is why it is somewhat difficult to inform y'all of the change that is upon us.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As of this writing, the nanny gig comes to an end, at least in the form that we have all come to </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">know and love.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Since many of you have followed this blog from its trailer park beginnings to the 3 girls, whom many you have told me you feel as if you've grown up with them, this is a closure that might be as sad for you as it is for me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The news had been coming for sometime, so it wasn't a shock. But even when things of importance are "known" they still tug hard at your heartstrings. Not surprising, I burst into tears when The Cousin's mom told me they found a nanny who can work at least 3 days a week, comes highly recommended, lives up the street and, the most knife-stabbing, The Cousin instantly bonded with her! F*#@k! Is she the true Mary Poppins reincarnated?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I began taking care of Sweet Pea when she was 4 months old. She was rough and tough from the very day she shot out of the womb. I recall having to firmly lay my left forearm across her chest while I changed her diaper so that she wouldn't kick me in the face or fly off the changing table. The high chair was a scene as well with food flying every which way and laughter flying with it. The nanny cleaned up everything from squash to applesauce off floors, chairs and hair. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Bursting with personality from day one, Sweet Pea strengthened my patience, provided me the stamina to deal with the smelliest of green poops, prepped me for becoming an RN if I ever choose to take that route one day and basically captured my heart so snugly and tightly. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I knew from the start, I would never be able to let go...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">The Cousin was skeptical of me from the start and insisted grandma come to our first few "sessions.</span>"
She was the polar opposite of Sweet Pea, timid, cautious, reserved. I
won her over with my dance moves, storytelling and infamous "project
time" where we would create with play-doh, paints, paper mache, and
other various artist tools. She and I soon became the best of pals. She
endured my singing, humored me by drawing on sidewalks and enjoyed our
routine trips to "our" coffee shop for hot cocoa and cinnamon cookies.<br />
Her
love for literature, music, art and conversation (and cookies) made us
the best of friends. It's a seal that can't be broken. (Not even by the
new "Ms. Perfect" nanny. ;) <br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zu8hTtyDYIo/VI29USlKibI/AAAAAAAADB4/15MA712zmPI/s1600/IMG_3835.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zu8hTtyDYIo/VI29USlKibI/AAAAAAAADB4/15MA712zmPI/s1600/IMG_3835.jpg" height="200" width="140" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M9TZD8n-YwU/VI3BLaPuMYI/AAAAAAAADCY/lfhtkkEmKnc/s1600/IMG_2667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-M9TZD8n-YwU/VI3BLaPuMYI/AAAAAAAADCY/lfhtkkEmKnc/s1600/IMG_2667.jpg" height="200" width="150" /></a>When 'Lil Sis arrived on the scene, I thought I had enough
training under my belt. Clearly, I live in a dream world. She was a red hot
firecracker from day 1 and I almost threw in the towel in the first
hour. Armed with piss and vinegar and a very high pitched scream, she
made it clear at the early age of 3 months, that I was <b>not</b> her mommy,
that she <b>hated </b>that cage we grown-ups refer to as a crib and if my
boobs didn't have milk, she wanted <b>nothing</b> to do with the fake rubbery
nipple of a bottle. I have never sang a song, especially one as sweet as
<i> Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, </i>with so much tension in my jaw that it
actually throbbed. She and I battled. Duked it out. But, then as if magic does exist, I learned to listen to her in a different way. I learned that if I take her outside, that she loved the cool
breeze on her face. I learned that she enjoyed the birds chirping and
the grass beneath her bare feet. I learned that my chest, though it was
not a meal ticket, was an awesome and comfortable mattress for her at
nap time. "Ginger", as she will always be to me, etched her way into my
heart and it is there she will always remain. After months of sad, pout-face
greetings, I am now greeted with a huge smile. She's walking now. And
that, my friends, sets her free!</div>
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And Will makes 4. Four small beings on this planet; small beings with big ideas. Four little humans full of wonder, curiosity, laughter, love. Four people who hold no prejudices or hate. I think these traits are why I love young children so much. That hippie song, "Teach Your Children Well" resonates because we big folks have the power to make or break kids. But we also have the opportunity to teach them about honoring and respecting differences, about compassion and kindness. We hold so many keys for them if we don't mess it up.<br />
As my role changes with these children from nanny to friend, I feel so hopeful because they have such wonderful parents and role models in their lives. Indeed. And I feel very fortunate to know them and their families.<br />
I'd like to take this moment to thank you all for your following of this blog over the years. It's been a fun ride, hasn't it? From trailer park to nanny...What's next? you might ask.<br />
Well, a haiku/photo book is in the works for me and it will be hot off of some damn press, hopefully, in January 2015! There is a website that I am building as we speak and on that website, though a whole different feel, will be (of course) a blog.<br />
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Stay tuned. Be well. Walk in joy. And GO TO HEAVEN, Y'ALL!<br />
~tpg<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X5Vl6fa6cmA/VI41jWC7GMI/AAAAAAAADDM/GXE33hbY_FY/s1600/3%2Bgirls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-X5Vl6fa6cmA/VI41jWC7GMI/AAAAAAAADDM/GXE33hbY_FY/s1600/3%2Bgirls.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"No, I don't have a penis. I just need a diaper change." said 'Lil Sis</td></tr>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-59330335856224309162014-11-09T07:07:00.000-08:002014-11-09T07:07:16.058-08:00The Cousin Runs a Tight ShipThe Cousin is more mature than most adults. She sails this weekly ship single-handedly with Ginger and I sniffling and whining down in the hole.<br />
She's in charge and that leadership goes into full force every Wednesday at 8:00 a.m. Using well-derived sentences that begin with words like "Actually, Val..." and "First of all..." and "Well, this is how it works..." We begin our day.<br />
My name has evolved over the last 1.5 years too.<br />
First came "Wallery" which, over time, formed into "Valerie."<br />
Now, she's taken a more direct usage. I'm simply "Val." <br />
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<i>"Val, you need to remove your shoes before you rest on the couch."</i><br />
Duh.<br />
<i>"Val, actually, my sister doesn't like spinach and rice baby food anymore. She eats people food but you have to break it into small pieces."</i><br />
Another duh.<br />
There are commands that are truly helpful though.<br />
<i>"Val, do you need me to make her laugh so her crying doesn't bother you?"</i><br />
Ahh, that would be an affirmative.<br />
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And now she's in school. That has lifted her confidence and strengthened her forte in dictatorship to a whole new level.<br />
<i>"Val, you sit over there and criss-cross applesauce your legs." </i>(My teacher pals know this lingo, eh?)<br />
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So, as I mentioned, The Cousin goes to preschool.<br />
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Her mom gets her ready in the morning and Ginger and I pick her up at noon. She even directs while she's getting ready...<br />
<i>"Don't let her put the toys in her mouth today, Val." </i>And she questions <i>everything... "What are you going to do when I'm at school?" "Val, you need to wait for me to do projects, okay?"</i><br />
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Oh, I don't know what we'll do without you, but somehow we'll try to survive. It'll be tough.<br />
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And we <i>do </i>survive while The Cousin is<i> </i>learning how to gain her confidence and use her words, learn her numbers, criss- cross applesauce on the carpet for calendar and circle time, etc...<br />
We do more than survive. The bonding is getting thick and we're becoming quite close. It's a cool connection really except for at nap time, which is a full-on 30 minute screaming session until she wears herself, and me, out.<br />
But except for "n-time," this is one happy kid!<br />
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And the kid has a tongue-thing going on. It's in every picture I take, as if she has a mouth full of novocaine and her tongue becomes too big to fit. She and I have some good times when The Cousin is at school, truth be known, but I dare not tell The Cousin because there is a jealousy thing slightly brewing. When she needs my attention now, she crawls or whimpers like her little sister. And when Sweet Pea hangs out with us, it's even more amplified. I suppose y'all are wondering how Sweet Pea is doing? Well, she's got the personality of rock star and the guts of a US Marine. Here's some rock star action...<br />
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I'm gonna tell you something. Sweet Pea's mom will give birth (again) in 4 weeks and for the life of me, I don't know how she's going to manage two. Hell, really it's going to be 4 all under the age of 3 for this tight-knit family. What the hell were they thinking?! Certainly not birth control.<br />
Okay, I get it. They're young. They've got stamina, but it's their damn conscientious way of parenting that gets me. I mean, of course, they're "all natural" moms and they breast feed. But that equates to zero wine for the 9 months preceding the grand entrance of the kid <i>and </i>for an additional year or so after!!! Their wine well is dry for almost two fucking years!! No can do. Though Sweet Pea's mom <i>did</i> inform me recently that there can be some pumping during that year, that often times, gives way to a glass every now and then. I guess it's all about the pumping and the timing. That exhausts me just thinking about it.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I got your number, Val."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I can do it myself. Back off."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Watch out, cuz this red hair means business."</td></tr>
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So, we made it through Halloween. You'd think a girl like me would be aware of implementing only age-appropriate activities, and yet, I ended up carving the whole damn pumpkin sola. <i> "It's taking too long to become a jack-o-lantern, Val."</i><br />
I know because you're 3 and you can't use knives or matches, says the ex school teacher who appears to be suffering memory loss. In addition, The Cousin hates to get her hands sticky/dirty. What the hell kind of artist are you, sister!?<br />
<i>"Val, it's too yucky inside the pumpkin. I'm done."</i><br />
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Yea, of course you're done. And I've got a screaming baby on the floor and slimey seeds and pulp all over the damn kitchen.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lLL-MvmEnjA/VF5MemoY3EI/AAAAAAAAC9A/NJiXqsA_vjE/s1600/IMG_3804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-lLL-MvmEnjA/VF5MemoY3EI/AAAAAAAAC9A/NJiXqsA_vjE/s1600/IMG_3804.jpg" height="320" width="276" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I've had it."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gUUQEpwn3GU/VF5M5WJtNbI/AAAAAAAAC9Q/Wk72L8DZFq0/s1600/IMG_3878.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gUUQEpwn3GU/VF5M5WJtNbI/AAAAAAAAC9Q/Wk72L8DZFq0/s1600/IMG_3878.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ok, I'll smile for the pic and then I'm getting my hand the hell out of this."</td></tr>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NNULXMwW2LM/VF5Mz0Op7lI/AAAAAAAAC9I/crPj1oFjE9o/s1600/IMG_3892.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NNULXMwW2LM/VF5Mz0Op7lI/AAAAAAAAC9I/crPj1oFjE9o/s1600/IMG_3892.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A little Himalayan Pink Salt and we're good to go."</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Sweet Pea changed her mind a dozen times as to what she would be for Halloween; a princess, Curious George, and finally, a dolphin. But The Cousin never deviated. It was always the Wicked Witch of the West. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8QTv5hYJjkw/VF5Ym1tZYLI/AAAAAAAAC9g/bhedf_SgraY/s1600/witch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8QTv5hYJjkw/VF5Ym1tZYLI/AAAAAAAAC9g/bhedf_SgraY/s1600/witch.jpg" height="320" width="240" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ah, my pretty! I'll get you and your little dog Toto too!"</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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She digs the story too and has me tell it to her, over and over and all the while, I must act out every damn turn on the yellow brick road before she'll take her nap. And if I leave out any detail, she makes me go back and start over.<br />
At the end of the day, when my feet are up and my right hand grips the stem of a glass and brings it habitually to my mouth, I must admit these 3 are worth every second of being pee'd on, pooped on, cried at and bossed around. There's a smirk at the corner of my smile right now, like there is on yours, because the truth is, they rock my world, once in week, in such an awesome way.<br />
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~tpg<br />
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<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-5078733246859923652014-09-29T06:47:00.001-07:002014-09-29T06:49:16.565-07:00I Miss You, Leonilda, When You Don't Call<br />
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This was written in March of 2011, when we were trailer park managers in Prunedale, CA...</div>
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I think I “get” Leonilda at unit 18.</div>
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She reminds me of one of my long lost relations from the hills of Sweetwater, Tennessee.</div>
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Perhaps one that would likely slam the cellar door when she saw me comin!</div>
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At times, she reminds me of one of the women on the television series, <i>Big Love.</i></div>
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One of the sister-wives that lives out on the compound, wears her hair long, her bonnet tight and has her hands elbow-deep in cannin' apples before winter done hits.</div>
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Leonilda doesn’t like me and I understand that.</div>
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Last spring, when she called to let me know “someone” was shooting at her because the side of her 1979 mobile had fresh bullet holes in the skirting, I <i>did</i> in fact burst out laughing.</div>
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I didn’t mean to.</div>
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I was just lacking in the self-control department in that moment.</div>
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Then there was the time she called to let me know “someone” had been trespassing in her carport and left a cherry pit in the crack of asphalt near her back door.</div>
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She informed me she hadn’t eaten cherries since high school when she got sick on ‘em, so therefore, she knew it had to be a trespasser.</div>
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I sent my partner to investigate that situation and she did in fact locate a single cherry pit in the exact location as Leonilda stated it was.</div>
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As a trained professional, I know that I need to show restraint, as well as, compassion but as the years roll on, I find it a bit of a challenge.</div>
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And Leonilda knows it. She ain’t no dummie.</div>
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She can hear it in my voice, see it in my eyes and that’s exactly why the other night when she phoned and I answered, she immediately asked for my partner. She don't want to talk with me anymore!</div>
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I put on my sweet, soft-toned, sympathetic voice and offered my assistance and willingness</div>
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to meet her every need. After all, isn't that what I get paid for?</div>
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She asks if we had received a package in the mail that belonged to her.</div>
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I told her that I hadn’t checked the mail today but I would go right out, check and bring any mail that belonged to her, right down. Mind you, Leonilda and her brother, Leo (No lie, that's his real name) don’t live next door to us. They actually live on the other side of the park, so why we'd have her mail is beyond me, but I question nothing.</div>
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She informs me that it wouldn’t have been in today’s mail. “Someone” took it a month ago.</div>
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(RIGHT, LEONILDA! LIKE I HAVE BEEN HOARDING A PACKAGE OF YOURS FOR 30 ‘EFFIN DAYS! OR THIS "MYSTERY SOMEONE" IS OUT TO GET YOU, YOU PARANOID WEIRDO!)</div>
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Breathe in. Breathe out.</div>
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After a mini-Zen-breathing exercise, I find my polite button, press it, and tell her that I haven’t seen any mail of hers, but if there was a tracking number, perhaps the post office could attempt to locate it for her. But Leonilda feels quite strongly that our postal service does not lose packages and that “someone” either stole it or is holding it.</div>
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Hostage I suppose.</div>
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Holding it hostage for some kind of trailer treasure ransom that I’m sure will allow us all to buy Boardwalk <i>AND </i>Park Avenue, maybe even all four railroads.</div>
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My partner’s jaw never clinches like mine in these situations.</div>
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I remember one late afternoon last summer, I phoned Leonilda because I received a call from one of her neighbors reporting she was getting ready to spray paint her mobile with a small hand-held sprayer, not an industrial. The neighbor was concerned the paint would get on his unit.</div>
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Before I could explain the rules with regard to painting the trailers at our park, she asked me this, <i>“Can you please call back later… I’m drunk right now.”</i></div>
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That's when I "got" Leonilda.</div>
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I actually clung to a tiny, thin thread of commonality in that moment.</div>
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I wished her a relaxing afternoon, hung up the phone and poured myself a strong one.</div>
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It doesn’t get any better than this, people.</div>
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-tpg</div>
Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-64692257795236254632014-08-28T09:39:00.000-07:002014-08-29T06:30:50.930-07:00I Fell in Love Today<b>I haven't written a blog in quite sometime; been testing the waters of other genres a bit, but I'm returning here this morning, not by choice, but by an excruciating and forceful pull that has made it impossible not to share the details with y'all...</b><br />
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<b>I fell in love today. Deeply in love.</b><br />
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<b>The story is a simple one that began several months ago. </b><br />
<b>I didn't care for her at first.</b><br />
<b>The feeling was mutual for her. She was set in her ways and I in mine.</b><br />
<b>I'd arrive, once a week, at 8:00 a.m. She'd see me and instantly, like some sort of flammable combustion, burst into tears. The tears would lead to notable sobbing, which would later, as the 9 hours dragged on, become high-pitched screams. </b><br />
<b>True, there were small windows of silence. During those times, I'd throw myself on the couch and down bourbon shots and hope the duct tape would stay on a few more minutes.</b><br />
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<b>She disliked me and I think it's fair to say, I didn't particularly see any positive traits.</b><br />
<b>Her sissy, you might recall, would say, "<i>Don't worry, Valerie. She just has to get used to you.</i>" </b><br />
<b>(I can't really argue with that. I've heard that from friends, lovers, family members before;</b><br />
<b>that I take some getting used to.)</b><br />
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<b>Then something happened. Something unexpected and</b><b> quite magical if you believe in that kind of stuff...</b><br />
<b>I took a long vacation. She came to her senses.</b><br />
<b>And today, we fell in love. Big time.</b><br />
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<b>Love's a phenomenal thing. It's thick like cake batter. It strengthens and connects like Gorilla Glue. </b><b>It's flexible like Silly Putty. It surprises you.</b><br />
<b>It tugs at your heartstrings and even when you want to shrug it off, your attempts are futile because once true love takes hold of you, it never ever lets go.</b><br />
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<b>I know this because it happened to me today. And to her too.</b><br />
<b>Her name is 'Lil Sis, but I call her Ginger. We spent 3 hours alone today, because if you can believe how rapidly time flies by, The Cousin is now in pre-school!</b><br />
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<b>Here's what I want to tell about her. Here's what I love about Ginger:</b><br />
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<b>She's domestic.</b><br />
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<b>She likes owls.</b><br />
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<b>She has a mischievous streak.</b><br />
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<b>She's a hippie, nature-lovin mama.</b><br />
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<b>She likes to break a few rules now and then.</b><br />
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<b>Perhaps the sweetest thing about this "burst of spunk" is her babbling. Her language is a blender filled with a mish mash of sounds, syllables, garble and breaths that say more to me than any adult of late. She "talks" non-stop and laughs at her own conclusions. Everything is something and something is everywhere! She's always up for a discussion. </b><br />
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<b>We took a spin in the stroller yesterday. The sun was out. The birds too. As I pushed her across the street, a woman rolled down her car window and pointed at the stroller. I couldn't quite understand what she was telling me, so when I reached the sidewalk, I stopped and looked in on Ginger. She was babbling away, carefree and pleased with herself; tugging and tickling both of her feet, laughing at the sky. </b><br />
<b>I looked back at the woman in the car, <i>"Life is good.</i>" I said.</b><br />
<b><i>"Yes, it is."</i> she replied with a smile.</b><br />
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<b>Take care, good people. It's nice to be with y'all here again.</b><br />
<b>This blog is brought to you, in part, by the folks (and the children) who remind us, on a daily basis, that life is blessed and good.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>~tpg</b><br />
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<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-38067473857053548882014-06-13T12:18:00.000-07:002014-06-13T12:18:45.811-07:00Musings of a Pragmatic Nanny<i><br /></i>
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<i>"Valerie?" </i><br />
<i>"Yes."</i><br />
<i>"You be Mary Poppins and I'll be Jane. Michael is living in the green house across the street."</i><br />
<i>"Ok, Jane. What do you want to do now?"</i><br />
<i>"Well, we have to clean our room and we have to snap fingers and sing A Spoon Full of Sugar."</i><br />
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And so our day begins.<br />
I start singing the infamous A Spoon Full of Sugar, while snapping the fingers of my right hand, holding 'Lil Sis on my left hip and tossing toys in the toy basket with each snap.<br />
<i>"Pretend sissy isn't here because she's too little to be Michael."</i><br />
<br />
Sure, that'll be easy.<br />
<br />
I can do this for hours. I know I can.<br />
I'm confident. Pragmatic. I know that this is the kind of thing the child needs.<br />
I know imaginative play is developmentally correct and healthy. She's happy. And when she's happy, I'm happy. Yet, there comes a point when it just becomes slightly annoying. It's when I mess up and don't change characters fast enough for her liking. Granted, I do my best. But I screw up sometimes and she gets quite irritated with me!<br />
<br />
<i>"No, Valerie! You aren't Mary any more!"</i><br />
<i>"I'm not?"</i><br />
<i>"No. Valerie, don't you know? You're now Valerie and I need to go poop and you have to wipe me." </i><br />
<i>"Gotcha."</i><br />
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I presume Mary Poppins is too high-class to wipes asses. I presume she also keeps her composure.<br />
<br />
I need to get with the program. I suppose I've struggled all my life with what's reality and what's fantasy...<br />
She's in the zone:<br />
<i>"Ok. Ok. Valerie. Now, I'm Chrissy and you're Pooh."</i><br />
<i>"Sounds good. I love honey! Where's my pot of honey?"</i><br />
<i>"No. No. You can't eat honey now. We are going on an expedition right now."</i><br />
<i>"Ok. Where are we going?"</i><br />
<i>"Well, we're going across the street to visit Michael."</i><br />
<br />
Seems she has pint-size amount of "fantasy confusion." Mary Poppins meets Winnie Pooh is totally normal for her and I am left standing at the peripheral asking, "WTF?"<br />
<br />
And then the fantasy, as all good fantasies do, comes to a screeching halt when this one awakens:<br />
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<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/-u6kuTVC9tTc/U5sUFrZWX6I/AAAAAAAACx4/-63NA7Lsd1k/s1600/IMG_3042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-u6kuTVC9tTc/U5sUFrZWX6I/AAAAAAAACx4/-63NA7Lsd1k/s1600/IMG_3042.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"If she thinks she can contain me in this plastic prison, she's got another thing coming."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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The laundry basket serves many purposes for a pragmatic nanny. 'Lil Sis actually likes it, to a point, and she remains entertained for awhile. I like the fact that there's no real escape route either, however, there <i>will</i> be in due time.<br />
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<div>
'Lil Sis and I made some breakthroughs this week. She's giving me an inch or two and I'm catching glimpses of her gingerly beauty. The meltdowns are less. The smiles are more. Do I dare say we might be bonding a bit?</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Thanks for the bags under my eyes, friend." "Don't mention it."</td></tr>
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It's a love thing in the making. I know it is. And now both The Cousin and I have to make those certain adjustments. The brutal, cruel fact is, The Cousin has to share Mary Poppins each week and this is cause for her to act out. She's become a hint more bossy and clingy and uses baby talk to get my attention. You parentals are shaking your heads in agreement. You understand. But all the baby talk, all the bossiness, all the "I can't be in two places at once, girls, but I know I have to" is beginning to take a toll on the nanny! And...</div>
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'Lil Sis is starting to talk! Soon she'll be barking out the orders at me as well. <br />
Here's some of her "first barks":<br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ReTkRGRkIXo&feature=youtu.be">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ReTkRGRkIXo&feature=youtu.be</a><br />
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They're opposite birds, these two. One is the dreamer, the artist, the reader of great works, the author. The other, the nature kid, (give her a good walk and some fresh air over a stuffed toy or book any day), the observer, the voice of contentment and discontentment, the new kid on the block.<br />
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The artist:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jv3pWofUO5A/U5sohyYg3II/AAAAAAAACyY/RbSrmgl1J3E/s1600/IMG_3043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Jv3pWofUO5A/U5sohyYg3II/AAAAAAAACyY/RbSrmgl1J3E/s1600/IMG_3043.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Valerie! We made orange from yellow and red!"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L7oa38IBPcI/U5spnhiCerI/AAAAAAAACy8/rgUancvy-1M/s1600/IMG_3057.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-L7oa38IBPcI/U5spnhiCerI/AAAAAAAACy8/rgUancvy-1M/s1600/IMG_3057.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This is my pink M."</td></tr>
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The dreamer:<br />
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<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/-vsr_E5KM3DY/U5spfjqZsYI/AAAAAAAACyw/BUtI8WgrJxc/s1600/IMG_3067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vsr_E5KM3DY/U5spfjqZsYI/AAAAAAAACyw/BUtI8WgrJxc/s1600/IMG_3067.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"How many bites of my sandwich before I get my favorite thing: yogurt chips?"</td></tr>
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<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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ref59AbSRGE/U5spsYWNJVI/AAAAAAAACzI/VwJ3X3JfP1Q/s1600/IMG_3069.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ref59AbSRGE/U5spsYWNJVI/AAAAAAAACzI/VwJ3X3JfP1Q/s1600/IMG_3069.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dreaming with Leo (who used to be Sweet Pea)</td></tr>
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The nature kid:</div>
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<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/-As_oz90bvzk/U5soznsqmrI/AAAAAAAACyo/JwEqlhXi2u8/s1600/IMG_3051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-As_oz90bvzk/U5soznsqmrI/AAAAAAAACyo/JwEqlhXi2u8/s1600/IMG_3051.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ahhhh! The great outdoors!"</td></tr>
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<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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GSafCHUlm10/U5sphCe7eBI/AAAAAAAACy4/cATmiUXTi18/s1600/IMG_3063.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-GSafCHUlm10/U5sphCe7eBI/AAAAAAAACy4/cATmiUXTi18/s1600/IMG_3063.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Life is good."</td></tr>
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The voice of content and discontent:<br />
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<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/-Ek8Ho_MAK40/U5sohYewsbI/AAAAAAAACyc/2uchq35w1GI/s1600/IMG_3044.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ek8Ho_MAK40/U5sohYewsbI/AAAAAAAACyc/2uchq35w1GI/s1600/IMG_3044.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ok. What is this green crap you're shoveling in?"</td></tr>
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A recent quote by a famous dad has me wishing I had said it myself. But the ticket is remaining calm, cool, skilled and yes, pragmatic, when the venue becomes a hellish frat house.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><i>“Having children is like living in a frat house -- nobody sleeps, everything's broken, and there's a lot of throwing up.”</i></span><br />
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~tpg (aka Mary)</div>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-46289135374885556392014-05-29T11:16:00.000-07:002014-06-03T09:39:51.293-07:00Being Ginger, Fairy Dust Cookies & Matters of Such ImportanceIt's been awhile. I still have a pulse. So do they. I told the mom yesterday, <i>"Feel free to check the hidden cameras for verification that I'm not harming Lil Sis." </i><br />
It's been 4 weeks since our courtship began. Four long weeks of this:<br />
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<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/-Sm-y2OLSetU/U2-aZlrNtVI/AAAAAAAACt4/45anKDEWoVQ/s1600/IMG_2798.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Sm-y2OLSetU/U2-aZlrNtVI/AAAAAAAACt4/45anKDEWoVQ/s1600/IMG_2798.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This nanny is not what I ordered!"</td></tr>
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And this:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6-qU0znSxpE/U2-du_OGzjI/AAAAAAAACuE/M9QX68AJrUM/s1600/IMG_2797.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6-qU0znSxpE/U2-du_OGzjI/AAAAAAAACuE/M9QX68AJrUM/s1600/IMG_2797.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Where's my Grandma? My Momma? Anybody but the woman in glasses."</td></tr>
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During meltdowns (mine not hers), I've actually pleaded with The Cousin as to why this is happening? <i>"What am I doing wrong?"</i> I pathetically ask the 3-year old. </div>
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<i>"She's just not used to you yet, Valerie."</i> She replies matter-a-factly.</div>
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Well, that's bullshit! Kids love me! I wanna scream these words at the top of my amateurish nanny lungs and yet, I regroup in a mindful, yoga type pattern of breathing. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NhGRbBmRFy8/U4dfulcrD0I/AAAAAAAACwk/PSPvzoTkwJ4/s1600/IMG_2907.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NhGRbBmRFy8/U4dfulcrD0I/AAAAAAAACwk/PSPvzoTkwJ4/s1600/IMG_2907.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm not Cinderella. I'm the Fairy Godmother."</td></tr>
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Thank God I have a Fairy Godmother! I'm on the verge of asking her to do some "bippity boppity boo" and make Lil Sis turn into a pumpkin.<br />
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She wore this outfit yesterday and proceeded to make me "fairy dust cookies." </div>
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They were absolutely delicious! I tell her so. I tell her she can be anything she wants; an artist, a chef, a mechanic, an architect. She tells me she wants to<i> "go on expeditions with Chrissy."</i> </div>
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(Christopher Robbins) This guy is her current favorite and I can see why. He's smart, kind, </div>
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well-read, curious and adventurous. The Cousin and I have these discussions when Lil Sis is snoozing. They are now routinely interrupted when the vocal and independent "ginger" is awake. </div>
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Whew! All fire, man! If it wasn't me attempting to tame the flame, I'd find her quite charming I'm sure.</div>
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One week, Lil Sis slept for 3 hours. (Nanny Confession: I didn't check to see if she was still breathing.)</div>
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Can one say, "Paradise?" It's paradise when she naps. Let's just be honest. </div>
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It's the fucking Garden of Eden. </div>
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It's true, The Cousin and I are having to adjust. You see, pre-Lil Sis, she and I had lots of time to explore, create, discuss matters of such importance, get into trouble. That's all changed slightly.</div>
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And, she's a bit irritated about the change and the whole "attention thing." Can you blame her?</div>
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<i>"Valerie?"</i></div>
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<i>"Yes?"</i></div>
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<i>"Let's give her privacy. Just put her in the other room and close the door."</i></div>
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I can see where The Cousin is coming from. </div>
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The Cousin and I have a lot in common, as I've had the same thoughts. </div>
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When I was in my junior college years, I studied child development and then went on to get my teaching credential. I was a pompous, 'know-it-all' when it came to children and other important matters and I swore, (even wrote papers about it) that I would never plop my child or any other person's child in front of a television, video, etc. I spewed the research to anyone who would listen about "the evils and harm" of those types of distractions.</div>
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Let's just say things have changed.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Valerie, I'll be done in a minute." </td></tr>
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<i>"Go ahead and stay 5 more minutes." </i>Hell, stay as long as you like.</div>
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I say this in order to get Lil Sis' diaper changed. I say this to give me time to feed Lil Sis. I say this because I have learned to carry Lil Sis in a pack on my chest while I do dishes and clean up the house. </div>
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I say this because I'm not very good at doing all of the above and, simultaneously, engaging in conversations with a 3-year old. </div>
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Lil Sis is a challenge, but there are others in this household...</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Challenge # 104 for the nanny.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Challenge #105</td></tr>
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This house is a diabetic wet dream. </div>
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Each Wednesday, amidst the shitty diapers and screams of discontent, I fight off binging. I can see why stay-at-home-parents do it. I can see why they down a box of Wheat Thins or a bag of Milano cookies, while listening to Ellen and looking at their Iphones. Do I condone it? Hell no! Do I have a great understanding and appreciation for it now, hell yes! </div>
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Folks, it <i>is </i>getting better. The Cousin loves to bake and a couple Wednesdays ago, we made her mom a Mother's Day cake. (Let me be clear, though tempting, I did not partake in the bottles of red liquid behind the mixing bowl.)</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mWFFqsScSik/U2-gDjYAgnI/AAAAAAAACu0/_hqlXQFTqno/s1600/IMG_2791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mWFFqsScSik/U2-gDjYAgnI/AAAAAAAACu0/_hqlXQFTqno/s1600/IMG_2791.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I don't crack eggs, Valerie."</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/-_uyIuHq_C78/U2-gBGgI85I/AAAAAAAACus/Vff6vD34COY/s1600/IMG_2792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_uyIuHq_C78/U2-gBGgI85I/AAAAAAAACus/Vff6vD34COY/s1600/IMG_2792.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"But I do shake, shake, shake the sprinkles."</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://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2WuOBsI4ZBk/U2-gM91GnTI/AAAAAAAACvE/55c_E4xm5-s/s1600/IMG_2795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2WuOBsI4ZBk/U2-gM91GnTI/AAAAAAAACvE/55c_E4xm5-s/s1600/IMG_2795.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Happy Mother's Day, Momma!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
Yesterday, we met Sweet Pea and her mom at the park. </div>
<div>
Carrying a baby in one of those chest/back contraptions isn't easy, but I forged ahead because Sweet Pea's mom is young, energetic, in shape and I fully intended to take advantage of her being there.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
First, I practiced...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<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/-V8j3mwKFGqM/U4dp4bFLGwI/AAAAAAAACxM/lJgj_4f9zco/s1600/IMG_2826.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V8j3mwKFGqM/U4dp4bFLGwI/AAAAAAAACxM/lJgj_4f9zco/s1600/IMG_2826.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"The bags under my eyes are well-earned."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Then, the real deal...</div>
<div>
<div>
<div>
<br />
<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://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MHe-i1TMruo/U4dq65MgmPI/AAAAAAAACxc/_QRgQVQ_9_8/s1600/IMG_2745.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MHe-i1TMruo/U4dq65MgmPI/AAAAAAAACxc/_QRgQVQ_9_8/s1600/IMG_2745.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This is gonna be interesting."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
Caledonia Park, Pacific Grove, CA...</div>
<div>
<br /></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/-NETlTPBE6QQ/U4df4XEyzbI/AAAAAAAACww/9u2eRV7Dzyc/s1600/IMG_2909.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NETlTPBE6QQ/U4df4XEyzbI/AAAAAAAACww/9u2eRV7Dzyc/s1600/IMG_2909.JPG" height="400" width="325" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8rKMd5X6HXg/U4df-O-02II/AAAAAAAACw4/kMlzBpF90YY/s1600/IMG_2887.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8rKMd5X6HXg/U4df-O-02II/AAAAAAAACw4/kMlzBpF90YY/s1600/IMG_2887.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<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://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ns39-5ry_WE/U4dfmqGWetI/AAAAAAAACwg/jVfbQ6wEYck/s1600/IMG_2908.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Ns39-5ry_WE/U4dfmqGWetI/AAAAAAAACwg/jVfbQ6wEYck/s1600/IMG_2908.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sweet Pea aka "I can do it myself."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We made it home before the "tireds" set in, and in all honesty, it was a pretty good day.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let's call it a "half bottle of red" rather than a "full bottle of red" kinda day. </div>
<div>
However, a question, to all you parentals out there, continues to loop through my brain-feed, </div>
<div>
<i>"After having one, why in the hell would you have another?!"</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Thanks for reading, y'all!</div>
<div>
~tpg</div>
<div>
<br /></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://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lVRbuIrAIB0/U4dgIfJa07I/AAAAAAAACxA/H26UTqzxNew/s1600/IMG_2917.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lVRbuIrAIB0/U4dgIfJa07I/AAAAAAAACxA/H26UTqzxNew/s1600/IMG_2917.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'll ease up when I feel she gains an understanding of who's really in charge."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-13327917297539390252014-04-19T08:31:00.000-07:002014-04-21T07:17:07.866-07:00Meet 'Lil Sis<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p>
<o:p><i>"Valerie."</i></o:p><br />
<o:p><i>"Yes."</i></o:p><br />
<o:p><i>"I need a Kleenex."</i></o:p><br />
<o:p><i>"WHOA! You sure do! Hang on."</i></o:p><br />
<o:p><i>"That's my snot."</i></o:p><br />
<o:p><i>"I see that."</i></o:p><br />
<o:p><i>"Well, it looks like shoestring snot."</i></o:p><br />
<o:p><br /></o:p>
<o:p><br /></o:p>
<o:p>You know you're getting sick, when your cup of morning coffee and evening glass of wine both taste like crap.</o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p>Since I'm not a parent, I haven't a clue what y'all do when YOU are sick. Me? I turn off my phone, grab a glass of room temp water and the bag of Ricola lemon throat lozenges, crawl into bed and pull the comforter over my head. I stay there all day. But how the f@!k do parents deal with feeling like shit when they have 2 youngsters to take care of; especially two that are also sick! </o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
This darling, a fiery, little redhead was sicker than an entire ER room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Her welcome gift to me, </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">I suppose.</span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Meet 'Lil Sis. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G3X2YkSMtxA/U0_0PoVqGwI/AAAAAAAACrs/9t5n_X_Ny9w/s1600/IMG_2654.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-G3X2YkSMtxA/U0_0PoVqGwI/AAAAAAAACrs/9t5n_X_Ny9w/s1600/IMG_2654.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt guilty taking this shot.<br />
Ok, so, how best to describe my new friend? 'Lil Sis is, quite frankly, going to give me a run for my money. She's all bang. Very expressive and communicative of her needs.<br />
She doesn't like to stay in one position for more than 90 seconds. She despises lumps in her avocado. And, you <i>will</i> hold her if you plan on maintaining your sanity. She's direct and head-strong.<br />
And she's not really too sure about the nanny.<br />
<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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OsCX54b2Nt0/U1FD5w0E1HI/AAAAAAAACr8/OsiiQ35BVI8/s1600/IMG_2730.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OsCX54b2Nt0/U1FD5w0E1HI/AAAAAAAACr8/OsiiQ35BVI8/s1600/IMG_2730.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I demand puree, not chunky."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></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://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KS9c81hnAlU/U1FEsmgf6-I/AAAAAAAACsE/6L2-rT8KzO8/s1600/IMG_2659.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KS9c81hnAlU/U1FEsmgf6-I/AAAAAAAACsE/6L2-rT8KzO8/s1600/IMG_2659.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You gotta be kidding me. This is who my parentals chose to leave me with?"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<br /></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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UvhnGtpO0to/U1FFhiYik2I/AAAAAAAACsM/7tJT3_kut2w/s1600/IMG_2667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UvhnGtpO0to/U1FFhiYik2I/AAAAAAAACsM/7tJT3_kut2w/s1600/IMG_2667.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"MOMMA!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
When things get rough; when they start going to hell in a hand basket... there's only one person to call. She's kinda like the "special forces" unit...</div>
<div>
<br /></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/-QOQjUQ3BLjQ/U1FGUiz2zTI/AAAAAAAACsU/rrbWwZEwE1g/s1600/IMG_2650.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QOQjUQ3BLjQ/U1FGUiz2zTI/AAAAAAAACsU/rrbWwZEwE1g/s1600/IMG_2650.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
The Cousin's calm, cool and fearless. She's out of diapers now and wearing "big girl" panties; insistent that she only needs help wiping for poop not the pee. She knows how to get dressed all be herself, and when you suggest that the owl goes on the front of the shirt, she firmly disagrees and wears it her way.</div>
<div>
I bribe her. </div>
<div>
I tell her that if she helps me calm 'Lil Sis, she can choose a video and watch "a little bit of it."<br />
She accepts the assignment and works her magic so effortlessly. </div>
<div>
<br /></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/-lXGimNefZZI/U1FHlstf0GI/AAAAAAAACsg/2HKJja-Ss_Y/s1600/IMG_2712.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lXGimNefZZI/U1FHlstf0GI/AAAAAAAACsg/2HKJja-Ss_Y/s1600/IMG_2712.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This is how you do it, Valerie."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<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/-g8AQONEq1Ks/U1FIgMFh3vI/AAAAAAAACss/wZYNEizTdvo/s1600/IMG_2706.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-g8AQONEq1Ks/U1FIgMFh3vI/AAAAAAAACss/wZYNEizTdvo/s1600/IMG_2706.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"My sissy should receive your paycheck today."<br />
<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></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/-iq5YH61SF1I/U1FJJit_XaI/AAAAAAAACs0/VJgAYs28RRo/s1600/IMG_2674.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iq5YH61SF1I/U1FJJit_XaI/AAAAAAAACs0/VJgAYs28RRo/s1600/IMG_2674.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<div>
Voila! Now can we have project time?<br />
<br /></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/-8Rw21rSujDA/U1FJ7HscxpI/AAAAAAAACs8/G_QxYl2_Vdw/s1600/IMG_2676.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8Rw21rSujDA/U1FJ7HscxpI/AAAAAAAACs8/G_QxYl2_Vdw/s1600/IMG_2676.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You just gotta know what she likes, Valerie."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
Project time was the most peaceful f*@!king time of the entire 8-hour day. First, we used "real" artist chalks, dipping them in water, creating suns and grass and purple mountains. Next, we made a robot from a recycled juice box and named her Dinah.<br />
<br /></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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ur3eCTfmNkM/U1FK6AuzkxI/AAAAAAAACtI/QpSPiFW7M8U/s1600/IMG_2678.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ur3eCTfmNkM/U1FK6AuzkxI/AAAAAAAACtI/QpSPiFW7M8U/s1600/IMG_2678.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meet Dinah.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
When nap time ends, project time ends and my blood pressure rises.<br />
<div>
So, I make good on what I promised and let The Cousin choose a video. Ok. I may be out of touch, but can someone please inform me as to what the hell is so awesome and healthy about the blockbuster hit, <i>Frozen</i>?<br />
Because watching it, with babe in arms to avoid a meltdown, I am perplexed as to the point?<br />
There are so many bad messages for little girls (and boys) in this movie, that the list would run off the page.<br />
The whole prince thing, locking a kid with differences in her room her entire life, a charming boy falls in love and then lies about the whole thing, greed and deceit erupt with a man wanting to take over an entire kingdom... WOW! And then of course, there's that damn song that The Cousin must have sang 20 times...</div>
<div>
LET IT GO ALREADY! </div>
<div>
<br /></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/-aLJrpNY7qeY/U1FNjwHqMsI/AAAAAAAACtU/11zAcUZMpbM/s1600/IMG_2745.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aLJrpNY7qeY/U1FNjwHqMsI/AAAAAAAACtU/11zAcUZMpbM/s1600/IMG_2745.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"If you hold me 24/7, I will give you some much needed relief."</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://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PCu4A5loI3A/U1FNxTygu1I/AAAAAAAACtc/T2ahG8vOomk/s1600/IMG_2744.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-PCu4A5loI3A/U1FNxTygu1I/AAAAAAAACtc/T2ahG8vOomk/s1600/IMG_2744.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Valerie, wake up. 'Lil Sis is crying and I want a cookie."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<br />
<div>
I remember meeting Sweet Pea at this age. She was fierce and mighty, just like 'Lil Sis.<br />
And stubborn! </div>
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But we made it through, didn't we, and we'll make it through this one too! Sweet Pea's mom is now home with her, but I still see her every chance I get.<br />
Yep, we'll make it through; The Cousin, 'Lil Sis and me... god willing and the wine box doesn't run dry.</div>
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~tpg<br />
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-21358012963715093002014-03-27T10:37:00.002-07:002014-03-27T12:29:00.912-07:00What Next? She Asked.A loyal reader, at the close of my last blog, asked the question, "What's next?"<br />
It's a fine question; one worthy of a preview.<br />
After the abrupt interruption of The Cousin and Sweet Pea adventures, in order to run a 7-week marathon in a first and second grade classroom, it's an appropriate question at the close of the public education race...<br />
<br />
Well, my devoted pals, here's what's comin!<br />
Introducing... Lil Sis!<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"You better be on your game, Wallery!"</td></tr>
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<br />
Stayed tuned!<br />
~tpg<br />
<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-53887215789666589192014-03-10T08:36:00.000-07:002014-03-10T08:36:09.521-07:00Keeping It Short & BittersweetCircle Share<br />
<br />
You learn a great deal about 7 year olds at "circle share".<br />
The "juicy" learning commences after first recess, when the eager blabber mouths file in and hurry to the carpet to form a circle. This in and of itself, takes time.<br />
Since math needs to start in only 15 minutes, I remind them that they need to "share only one thing, in a couple of sentences, not a lengthy paragraph connected together by 20 "and then and then and then..."<br />
It sometimes takes bribery to get them settled and quiet, ready to begin. I want to bribe them by saying, <i>"If we can't get in our circle and quiet down, we won't get to have math today."</i><br />
Instead I say, <i>"Ok. If we can't get quiet and ready to share, we won't have recess this afternoon."</i><br />
I don't want to say it. It's not what I learned in the credential program. And I hate when every other damn teacher on the public school planet says it.<br />
I want math, reading and various other essential subjects of academia to be what they hunger for rather than music, art and recess and yet, I spew the words to get instant results. I get instant results because so much of the arts and physical eduction have been removed from our public schools, and the children are literally starving for it. Unfortunately, the recess bribe works. <br />
We are ready to begin our circle share:<br />
(We pass around this purple bean bag and whomever is holding it, gets to speak while the rest of us get to listen)<br />
<br />
<i>"Well, yesterday I saw Nick at the mall (outbreak of giggles by the 1st graders) and I got new shoes and then my mom said we could go to Dave's BBQ and after that we went to my tia's house and then..."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Ok. We need to pass the bean bag."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Last night, I was watching the news and I heard Noah's name on the news.</i> (class bursts out giggling and Noah, our student, blushes and hides his head between his knees) <i>It was a movie called Noah's Boat." (</i>Class is overcome with laughter. Katie starts to blurt out the correct name and I remind her it's not her turn, hoping she forgets the sermon by the time the bean bag reaches her.)<br />
<br />
<i>"My therapist told me it's not ok for my step mom to be mean to me."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"What's a therapist?"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Shhhhhh."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Yesterday, my sister played Spin the Bottle." </i>( Ms. Fern seems to be the only one present familiar with this game. No one in the circle bats an eye.)<br />
<br />
"Pass."<br />
<br />
"Pass."<br />
<br />
"Janelle took cuts in the line after recess."<br />
<br />
<i>"No, I didn't!"</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"Shhhhh..."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"My mom is taking me to get new shoes after school today but if we can't find any shoes, then I get two shirts and if we can't find anything we get to go have ice cream." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>"We're taking Flopsie to the doctor to have her baby-maker taken out after school today."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>...And the bean bag continues around the circle where honest, and sometimes, excruciatingly detailed accounts are shared, one kid at a time. And one teacher, listening, learning, holding back the bursts of laughter that seem to be building in her throat and biting her tongue until it requires medical attention.<br />
<br />
You know, kids are no different than adults. They want to be heard.<br />
And as with adults, it's extremely hard for them to listen to each other without thinking, planning, conspiring what <i>they</i> are going to say.<br />
Lesson to self: Listening is more important than speaking.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><i>My Last Day</i></b><br />
<b><i><br /></i></b>
As you might suspect, there's been MANY days I thought the 7-week stretch would never end; many days (and nights) I feared the whining (and wine-ing) would never end.<br />
However, yesterday, came out of nowhere and hit me like a bolt from the blue.<br />
And though my head has been throbbing as a result of rising before humans actually should and from listening to a constant, daily barrage of <i>"Ms. Fern....Ms. Fern....Ms. Fern..." </i><br />
It won't come as a huge, teary-eyed surprise that, as I hugged each one good-bye when the dismissal bell rang, that's exactly what I did...<br />
I cried.<br />
<br />
I'm so spent from this highly respected, grossly underpaid profession called elementary school teacher, that I really have no more details floating around in what's left of my brain.<br />
So, I think I'll just leave it at that.<br />
<br />
~tpg<br />
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<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-63677594961574019072014-02-23T12:46:00.000-08:002014-02-24T06:17:04.760-08:00Stuck in a Plasma Globe. Be Home Soon!You know, today's kids don't get out much. I'm speaking specifically about urban kids; the children of the hood. The kids that live in small apartment complexes on the East Side with a slew of family members and friends, all sharing a one or two bedroom apartment with no yard. And even if they had a front yard, they wouldn't be allowed to go outside and play in it for fear of drive-by's, drug dealers and other various daily occurrences of their lives. Those children don't know what a dirt trail feels like beneath their feet. Or what it's like to smell a freshly mowed lawn or run through piles of crunchy autumn leaves. Those kids spend a huge amount of their spare time inside. Those kids take care of their younger siblings. Those kids, the ones who have never splashed in a rain puddle because it's not safe outside or their clothes will get dirty, stay inside a lot and as a result, they feel uncomfortable out in nature.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #666666; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 12px;"><b>Dr. Stephen R. Kellert of Yale University devotes a chapter to the subject of "Nature and Childhood Development." Combining his original research with well-documented references to the research of others, this chapter is a powerful synthesis of what we know, and what we do not know, about the importance of nature to children's healthy development. Kellert states, "Play in nature, particularly during the critical period of middle childhood, appears to be an especially important time for developing the capacities for creativity, problem-solving, and emotional and intellectual development." He includes research to indicate optimal learning opportunities at age-appropriate times and differentiates between indirect, vicarious, and direct experiences with nature — with the latter less and less available to children. He urges designers, developers, educators, political leaders and citizens throughout society to make changes in our modern built environments to provide children with positive contact with nature—where children live, play and learn</b>.</span><br />
<br />
This epidemic of keeping children inside and away from nature is also quickly becoming the norm in our public schools. With standardized testing, fast-paced curriculum, newly adapted "Common Core" requirements, children working "far below basic" in Language Arts (I hate to even use the word "arts" in this way because the manner in which we are teaching language, grammar, writing and so on is the farthest thing from "the Arts") By cramming children inside all day; sitting them at their desks in order to "teach them" by teachers' ignorant lecture-babble... Aren't we actually robbing them of the essential tools to help them grow,develop, problem-solve, empathize, create, think critically and understand each other and the world around them? <br />
Amy Barra, an environmental specialist for the Montezuma Audubon Center wrote in an article for the The Finger Link Times:<br />
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<b>Children who spend time in nature are shown to be happier and have higher critical thinking skills than their peers who have not had access to natural spaces. A research article published in 2004 by Francis Kuo Ph.D., and Andrea Taylor, Ph.D. showed that children who suffered from ADHD had reduced symptoms after a short 20-minute walk through a natural area. Students who are exposed to nature also achieve higher test scores in math, reading and writing than their non-nature-exposed peers. Children who play together in nature are less likely to take part in bullying behavior and instead are shown to develop more collaborative skills and will demonstrate respect for others. All of these benefits come from time spent exploring outdoors and connecting with the natural environment.</b></div>
Higher test scores? Less bullying? Collaboration skills? You'd think we'd be outside every fucking day for most of our academic time!!!! But no! We give 'em 10-20 minute recess, tell 'em to use the bathroom and get water, and then hurry them back inside to their seats, for more lectures and more "learning", all the while, reminding them to be quiet.<br />
<br />
At the site where I'm teaching, there's a huge lawn and a beautiful corner area shaded by a couple of mighty oaks and other foliage. The children aren't allowed to venture to this corner of the lawn "because there's too many bees" So I'm told. (Actually, there aren't too many bees thanks to the<br />
Roundup being sprayed.)<br />
<br />
I took my students to the 'forbidden' lawn one afternoon, two days after the most welcoming rain left it a rich, vibrant shade of green. The sky was breathtaking and the clouds, plentiful. We had just read the book "It Looked Like Spilled Milk" and I thought it appropriate to lie on our backs, breathe in the fresh air and share a discussion about the various types of clouds (science, language arts), how they are made (science. For Katie, God), verbal discussion, (language arts, critical thinking, listening skills), counting the number of clouds, (math) and what each cloud formation looks like. (language arts, expanding the imagination, listening to and learning from peers)<br />
<br />
We walked to the farthest corner. There were mustard colored dandelions and miniature daisies all around our shoes. I shared with them what little I knew about the healthy and healing properties of the dandelion root and we discussed how killing them with chemicals not only hurts them, but also goes in our water systems. When we got to the perfect spot to lie down, they all, except Layla and her best pal Arianna, went ballistic! Of the thirty kids that I was responsible for that afternoon, 28 flat-out refused!<br />
<em>"It's dirty, Ms. Fern."</em><br />
<em>"My mom doesn't want my clothes dirty."</em><br />
<em>"There's bees here."</em><br />
<em>"I'm allergic to bees."</em><br />
<em>"Me too."</em><br />
<em>"It's too wet."</em><br />
<em>"The sun's in my eyes."</em><br />
<em>"Mine too."</em><br />
<em>Ms. Fern, I don't want to."</em><br />
<em>"Me neither."</em><br />
<br />
I ignored them, in a way that only a teacher knows how to do, and I proceeded to lie down<br />
with the 2 girls and a small handful of "reluctants" who hesitantly decided to risk it. <br />
We had our discussion, took deep 'yoga breaths', breathing the fresh mid-day air into our lungs and enjoyed ourselves before heading back to our room.<br />
Layla spoke,<i> "My mom and dad take me hiking in the Sierras a lot and sometimes we make bonfires at the beach. We also go camping a lot."</i><br />
<i>"We go to Arroyo Seco and play in the river"</i> shared Arianna.<br />
<br />
Well, there's the explanation.<br />
The girls' parents must value the great outdoors and the connection we humans need to have with nature. Not surprising, these two are well-balanced, attentive in class, are able to problem solve, read above grade level...Oh sure, there's a number of reasons as to why these two excel besides Mother Nature, but certainly their experiences in the great outdoors contribute to their language development and their fearlessness about getting a grass stain on their pant legs.<br />
<br />
You know, first graders are whiners. There, I said it.<br />
It's actually, secretly, driving me nuts. <br />
<i>"Ms. Fern, she said mean things to me."</i><br />
<i>"Ms. Fern, he took cuts in line."</i><br />
<i>"Ms. Fern, my finger hurts."</i><br />
<i>"Ms. Fern, she won't be my friend."</i><br />
<br />
I'm ready to snap at the end of the day. I pull all my tricks out of my hat: encouragement of problem-solving, conflict-resolution, class meetings, even humor. But there are days that I am at the edge of simply using good old-fashioned public humiliation.<br />
On the whole, second graders have passed that stage in their development. Thank God half of my class has an element of maturity.<br />
They are hilarious, though. The first graders.<br />
One morning, one runs up to me, wearing her hot pink Hello Kitty winter gloves and holds up both her hands, 10 pink fingers open wide in my face. Well, 9 pink fingers. The middle finger, on the left hand, was all skin as it poked straight up through a hole in the glove. <i>"Ms. Fern, I have a hole in my glove!"</i> she innocently exclaimed as she (unknowingly) flipped me off.<br />
<br />
So, I have 13 first graders and 17 second graders; a perfect, even number of fiery, kinetic energy balls. <br />
If you've ever been in a room with thirty children, all under the age of 8, it's similar to one of those plasma globes, with electrical currents bouncing off the glass. Only noisy.<br />
<br />
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I'm stuck in the middle of this bold, spontaneous burst of fun. The truth?<br />
It's not that bad. It's kinda growing on me. In fact, I'm sort of getting the hang of it again and I'm sure, that when this gig ends on March 7, I'll actually have it down.<br />
Most likely, I'll even miss it a little.<br />
And them.<br />
<br />
<i>"Ms. Fern? Why is your nose so red today?"</i><br />
<br />
(Oh, Jasmine, it's just from the bottle of Cabernet Ms. Fern drank last night.)<br />
<br />
~tpg (aka Ms. Fern)<br />
<br />
<em></em><br />
<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-90599207646529544352014-02-09T09:09:00.000-08:002014-02-09T09:10:03.211-08:00Hail to the Teachers!It's 5:37 p.m. and the cats and I are nodding off. The sun is barely beginning to set.<br />
I take a sip of "adult grape juice" and my thoughts ricochet from <i>"Did I say the 'right' thing to the speech teacher?"</i> to <i>"We haven't done reading fluency this week in grade 2"</i> to finally, <i>"I have to get up in 12 hours." </i>And then, of course, there's a hundred others thoughts bouncing from wall to wall in my brain.<br />
<br />
You know, when you teach, the word "multi-task" is no longer current. It's like a Gilligan's Island episode; a telling, interestingly descriptive adjective, but hugely out-dated. I used to use it, the word 'multi-task', when I was applying for teaching positions:<br />
<i>"I have many strengths, but one that stands out in my mind is I'm excellent at multi-tasking."</i><br />
It could be my age. It could be the broken, out of touch, ridiculous system. It could be the kids.<br />
But whatever the fuck it is, multitasking doesn't come close to what this job requires.<br />
Try SUPER-HUMAN, EXTRATERRESTRIAL, GOD-LIKE POWERS. That'll work.<br />
<br />
When you're swimming for your life in the sea of public education, it's the little things that get in the way; leaving your papers by the copier, leaving your lunchbox in the supply room, not locking the bathroom door, turning your key the wrong way 50 times, calling Angel Alex and Alex Angel at least a dozen times in a day and searching for crap you need. Where did I put my water bottle? What about the notes from the office, the homework packets, my keys? It's spacey, menopausal amnesia times 1,000. And you what? Every minute of your break time is precious, so when you waste it on the 'little things', the big things suffer and your day ultimately sucks.<br />
I wasted at least 10 minutes scouring the classroom for my purple fork. <br />
I finally located an old white one at the bottom of a large tub. I'm finally able to sit down, relax<br />
and graze.<br />
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<br />
I'm teaching them yoga. Did I mention that? It's not really for them, but I tell them it is. I tell them it will help them think better. I tell them it will help them remain calm. I tell them it is good for their muscles. I tell them whatever the hell I can think of, in a split second, that will shut them up and get them engaged and silent. <br />
"Silence" is like the coveted, golden Oscar when you're trapped in a classroom of 30, especially on a rainy day.<br />
When six and seven-year olds enter the classroom on a rainy, stormy morning, its like a stampede of bulls down the narrow streets of Spain. Only louder.<br />
Katie: <i>"God made the rain because he knows that all living things need water. I learned that in church."</i><br />
Nick: <i>"Nuh uh."</i><br />
Katie: <i>"Yes, sir."</i><br />
<br />
I'm with Nick, but I move on. Because nothing says rain quite like poetry. And Nick is a poet, an artist and just about the coolest kid alive, under his beanie and baggie Transformer tee-shirt.<br />
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First and second graders love poetry and their ability to capture life, in a few lines, is nothing short of refreshing. It tastes of fulfillment.<br />
Nick also lives in an imaginary world in his head. I spent a good 15-20 minutes teaching a lesson on base words and endings with my group of 1st graders. I was quite animated up at the white board.<br />
I gave example after example. I had students come up and underline the base words and circle the endings with dry eraser pens. I did page 237 with them. Then we checked it together. Then they did page 238 on their own. Then we corrected it together. <i>"Give me a thumbs up if you understand what we're talking about, friends!" </i> All thumbs go up. I sigh a penny-size breath of accomplishment.<br />
Then Nick raises his hand.<br />
<i>"Nick, do you have a question or comment about base words and endings?"</i><br />
Nick doesn't pause,<i> "My mom just got a new dog." </i><br />
<br />
Nick also was in the center of a large crowd at morning recess that gathered around a small mountain of dirt near the climbing structures. Being the yard duty aficionado, I moseyed on over to survey the situation...<br />
<i>"It's a mole in there, teacher!"</i><br />
<i>"No, it's a gopher!"</i><br />
<i>"No, it's not! It's a mole."</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Okay, boys and girls. It's a gopher-mole and we need to just go play and let it alone because it's in its own habitat just digging tunnels and minding his own business."</i> Nick lingers with his recess pal who looks up at me and says, <i>"I know where his wife is." </i><br />
<i>"Really. Where?"</i><br />
<i>"She lives in my backyard. My dad and I saw her."</i><br />
Nick and his pal are serious as a heart attack and I hold back the burst of laughter that forming in my throat.<br />
<i>"That's cool." I say. "All families are different and some live in separate homes."</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Kids are cool. But they're weird too.<br />
I was in a restaurant recently with my partner and a kid, who was too old to make a decision like this, walked in waving a large purple balloon as he walked in between tables toward his booth. <br />
Since I took this teaching assignment, I can't stand to be around kids when I'm not at school. I sit away from them in the theater, I ask for a booth at the other side of the restaurant, I change lines at the grocery store.<br />
Listening to them whine and listening to their weird, inappropriate parents deal with them (or not) is almost too much to bear.<br />
I watched this immature kid, waving his fake sword in his sibling's face and all I could see was a large, purple penis. <br />
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<br />
Obviously, I'm exhausted. Or have penis envy. Or both.<br />
Actually, I'm losing it.<br />
That's what teachers really do, you know. After a long day of holding it together, biting your tongue with the principal, smiling at jerk colleagues, teaching every subject over and over because nobody's listening, tying a shoe, cleaning up a dropped bottle of glitter, making copies, getting a key sucked in a laminator, reteaching, reteaching, writing lesson plans, introducing a new concept, addressing the needs of the parents...After all that and much more, teachers fucking lose it in the privacy of their own homes. <br />
And they lose it in the confines of their own minds, imagining a large purple penis, while dining in a restaurant on their day off.<br />
<br />
I saw Sweet Pea and The Cousin the other night at a basketball game. It took awhile for The Cousin to warm up to me. (Her punishment for choosing to make bank over her) But soon, she took my hand and we were outside the gym dancing and running through rain puddles just like old times.<br />
I look forward to getting back to the "easy life". <br />
<br />
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Have a good week, pals. And hail to the teachers!<br />
~tpg<br />
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<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-9295079380498074542014-02-01T07:41:00.003-08:002014-02-01T12:04:45.596-08:00Why Teachers DrinkThis will be fairly short for a few reasons.<br />
1. I'm so f!@*ing exhausted, my head is nodding into the keyboard.<br />
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2. The past 2 weeks are somewhat of a blur, therefore some details escape me.</div>
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3. I'd rather drink wine than talk to y'all.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Coffee in the cup holder.</td></tr>
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I left the house yesterday at 7:15 a.m. and returned at 7:30 p.m. A 12 hour day of teaching, staying after school to prep for tomorrow, (teachers are always, <b>always</b> staying after school to prep for tomorrow), then an hour power walk around a track with my "teacher pals", wine, more wine, appetizers at a local bar and debriefing at a local bar because teachers need to debrief and debrief and debrief.<br />
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I told The Cousin and Sweet Pea I'd be back. That Wallery needed to work (not play) for several weeks in order to earn some extra money. Then, I took what's known as a "long-term sub position" in a combination classroom of 30 1st and 2nd graders. (you read that correctly)<br />
If I've ever complained about a 1.5 year old and a 2.5 a half year old, shoot me now.<br />
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Every inch of my skin; every orifice, my feet, shoulders and head, all ache. My throat is on fire and I sound as if I've smoked a pack of cigarettes today. Sexy? Maybe. Demi Moore? You wish.<br />
Gravelly sandpaper? For sure.<br />
I took the 5-week position for the bank. $$$$$$. There, I said it. <br />
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Yea, there was a time, a long, long time ago in a far away land, that I taught for the pure joy,<br />
the love of teaching. There was a time when I taught because I felt like I could make a gigantic difference and that my hands were the hands of change; molding, shaping, guiding children like an artist carefully and passionately shapes her clay. I can honestly say, without an ounce of doubt, that those days are a colorful tapestry whose threads linger like a sweet song, but are no longer a part of my current tune.<br />
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When you're a sub, you're not a "real" teacher. Well, let me rephrase that. You're not a real teacher to the permanent staff. You <i>are</i> to the children, especially 6 and 7 year olds. They adore you no matter how many f!@*ing mistakes you make in an hour. But the "real" teachers, check you out, just like a bunch of high school Heathers and you put on your best face, use your most professional and positive language and avoid the staff lounge at lunch at all costs. Most staff lounges, for the readership that are not in public education, are filled with gossipy vipers and Negative Nellies. Besides, if you're a sub, especially one that hasn't worked full-time in several years, you need to isolate. You need to prep. You need to pray. And you need, ache, crave and deserve the quiet solitude of your classroom for the 50 minutes you are allotted at lunchtime.<br />
You sit there staring at lessons that need to be updated, stacks of folders that the real teacher left. You wonder not what's inside, but when the hell you'll have time to take a look. You breathe in through your nose and blow out, with exaggeration, through your mouth.<br />
You're wiped and it's 11:40 a.m.<br />
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Noone. NOONE knows this state quite like another elementary school teacher.<br />
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You have to pee. You have to check your blood sugars. You can't recall who goes to speech after lunch. There's crap all over the floor. The phone rings. One of your students is unaccounted for. You head for the cafeteria, but you can't figure out how to use the key properly in the lock. It's day 4.<br />
Two girls come running up to you! <i>"Teacher! Teacher! Isabella called me a cry baby and said she's not my friend." </i>You give the right answer and continue to the cafeteria. You see the kid. He's throwing spit wads in the bathroom. He sees you and runs into the stall. He knows you can't go inside. You scream his name from outside the boys' bathroom and you wonder where the fuck are lunch aides?<br />
You still have to pee.<br />
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It <i>is </i>a blur, the past two weeks. Here's what I remember:<br />
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<b>Establishing Routines:</b><br />
Establishing routines, discipline, norms and gaining understanding of 30 small people takes time and exceptional talent. I have neither.<br />
<b>Noise Level:</b><br />
Going from one day a week with toddlers and 2 days a week in a Japanese tea boutique where shamisen music drifts in the background versus a room crammed with 30 children all screaming, talking, laughing, whining simultaneously, all the while the phone is ringing, a parent has a question and there's an all-call over the intercom, is nothing short of hell.<br />
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<b>Teacher Camaraderie: Fitting In</b><br />
The look. You walk into the office and you are as sweet as summer apple pie. You introduce yourself to the principal, the secretary, the health aide, the custodian and every teacher that walks by you. They all have the same look in their eye: "If she's the sub, she better be good."<br />
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<b>The Laminator:</b><br />
I'm unsure if I've mentioned to y'all that I obtained a teaching credential in 1982 from SFSU.<br />
(Go Gators!) I first subbed in Sonoma County, then later was a director of a state funded preschool in that area. Then, after years in the coffee industry, I finally found my way back to public education.<br />
There was no gold medal waiting for me.<br />
Since 1983 or 84, and what the hell does the year matter, I have used laminating machines.<br />
Never with a problem. Fast forward to 3 days ago.<br />
We had made bookmarks, after a firm and meaningful lesson on why we don't fold page corners of our library books, and I headed to the staff room to laminate the children's work.<br />
Being the conservationist that I am, I tried to line up as many bookmarks as I could, as to not waste the plastic. The machine gave me the green light; it was hot and ready to go!<br />
As I'm feeding the row of 8 markers through the two hot, plastic cylinders, I lean forward into the machine and without notice, my room key, which hangs from a lanyard on my neck gets sucked into the piping hot, oval pistons and I am in a serious adult jam.<br />
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Quietly, but with a sharp element of panic shooting through my veins, I search for the "stop button".<br />
A crowd gathers.<br />
By the time I locate it, I am 3" away from having my lips laminated. I can't move. Of course, the children will arrive at the classroom any minute.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The culprit<br />
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Notice the clip in the above photo. A good samaritan approaches, attempting to hold back the laughter, and unclips the keys from the lanyard, since my face is too close to the machine and I'm unable to remove it over my head.<br />
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Meanwhile, there's a secretary on a walkie talkie seeking a custodian. There's an all-call for the woman in charge of the laminator. There's teachers chuckling and, of course, there's the raising of eyebrows.<br />
I feel a joke coming on...</div>
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<i>"Well, folks, this will certainly give you something to gossip about when I'm long gone. Meet here, at the same time tomorrow, for my next act."</i></div>
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When maintenance finally separates the cylinders and removes the key, it's hotter that shit.</div>
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It's thrown up in the air like a hot potato and teachers are ducking. </div>
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I'm late. And you know what?</div>
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When you're late for 30 kids under the age of eight, it's far more stressful than when you're late for the office.</div>
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<b>First Graders:</b></div>
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I've only made 3 cry.</div>
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Come on! I forgot how sensitive they are! It's totally my fault and I take full repsonsibility. I moved too quickly that first couple of days. I gave them too many tasks in a row. I also forgot that Band-Aids were so important. When I taught 4th-6th, they didn't say a thing. But these rugrats tell you every single damn detail, right down to the imaginary, minuscule splinter that's in their right thumb that needs attention.</div>
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<b>Second Graders:</b></div>
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Tattle Talers.</div>
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<b>Sore Throat:</b></div>
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Yes.</div>
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<b>Know the Schedule:</b></div>
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So the regular school day begins at 8:15 a.m. and ends at 2:41 p.m. And there's lots to share of the minute to minute detail that goes on between those times. But one day a week, due to meetings, leadership gatherings, grade-level planning and principal "wisdom" pow wows, the schedule is different... So, afternoon recess normally begins at 1:40 p.m. I bribe my class by telling them if they're organized and prepared and "show me they're ready" by quietly putting their heads down on the 1983 desks they're provided with, I will take them out to recess 15 minutes early. I figure, since I don't have afternoon recess duty, I can hold my pee until the teacher on duty relieves me (no pun intended) at 1:40 p.m. Bribery prevails and we're soon out running, jumping, climbing, building sand castles all by ourselves. I still have to urinate. I look at my watch and it's 1:50 p.m. I feel a slight irritation that the teachers are tardy. Time continues to pass. Play continues to happen. Then all of a sudden I hear a first grader's voice,<i>"Ms. Fern! Today is short-day Thursday!"</i> Holy crap! I now have 5 minutes to get 30 children, who are thousands of miles away from me and in their own worlds, off the playground, to the classroom to collect their things and then to the bus.<br />
I still have to pee.<br />
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<b>Teacher Bathrooms Lesson #1:</b><br />
All the staff bathrooms can be opened with room keys, hence the slider bolt lock inside the door, which I neglected to lock the first time I used my new school's bathroom. Surprise!<br />
I met another staff member.<br />
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Yes, it is a tiring profession; one that you never just "shut off." I'm experiencing long periods of sleeplessness, usually between 1:00 a.m and 3:00 a.m. where I turn on an old episode of Law and Order just to stop thinking about tomorrow's lessons, order of the day, what's due, and which children need special help. Teaching is not for sissies. <br />
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These two things are saving my ass:</div>
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So, in closing, I raise my glass to teachers! If there's a heaven, I'm positive there's a billboard with bright lights stating, <b>"Teachers: This Way To The Bar!" </b></div>
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~tpg<br />
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-2133071727539210102014-01-17T08:21:00.002-08:002014-01-17T11:07:15.551-08:00Letting Go and All that Other Crap that Goes Along with ItBuddha said it. Great poets and writers have written it. Teachers, therapists have lectured it...<br />
Let it go! Let it go! Let it go! (read to the tune of Let It Snow) Let go of anger. Let go of hostility.<br />
Let go of anything and everything that bogs you down. Let it go; release it like a feather on a warm, mid-day breeze. And in doing so, you will find peace of heart and mind everlasting. Ready?<br />
Let's get started! It's as easy as one, two, three...<br />
Or is it?<br />
Letting go of a hurt, a lie told to you, an action(s) that led to mistrust, sadness or even physical and emotional detriment is easy when you're sitting at the water's edge and pretty monarchs are dancing around your shoulders. Sure!<br />
Good-bye thoughts that bring me down! Good-bye tightness and unforgiving images that create illness in my body! Good-bye all the memories and reminders of what you promised and didn't do or your actions that have left an invisible scar on my skin. Good-bye judgmental thoughts!<br />
BAM! Good-riddens!<br />
Hello forgiveness! Hello moving on! Hello sweet letting go!<br />
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But what about when you fall short?<br />
What about when you're not in the "sunny side of life" space at water's edge? What about when you're driving in your car or awake at 3:00 a.m and the little bastard of a memory creeps up from behind, out of nowhere, and fills your head with so much anger that you just want to re-live the unjust over and over again and then punch the person's lights out? Then you work, work, work and you breathe in, breathe out and work some more...<br />
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Okay, that would be truly immature, now wouldn't it? To punch someone's lights out? And yet, that feeling heats up like liquid in a pressure cooker and then it bubbles and bubbles up to the top of your throat; the place where all your self-control must take residence...<br />
I know I'm not alone in this. You just don't talk about it.<br />
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So, there's this guy whose quotes speak to the whole healthiness of letting go:<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">“Renew, release, let go. Yesterday’s gone. There’s nothing you can do to bring it back. You can’t “should’ve” done something. You can only DO something. Renew yourself. Release that attachment. Today is a new day!”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"> </span></i></span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">“It is important that we forgive ourselves for making mistakes. We need to learn from our errors and move on.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span></i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;"><i>“You must learn to let go. Release the stress. You were never in control anyway.” </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Okay, Mr. Steve "Fucking Perfect" Maraboli, aren't you the fortunate one? I'm always skeptical of these dudes (and women) who publish books and hold expensive clinics and conferences on this subject. Like, what's happening in their private lives, behind closed doors? </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">But that last quote, that last sentence, flickers at me...</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">"YOU WERE NEVER IN CONTROL ANYWAY."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Now, isn't that the truth. And perhaps the hardest pill to swallow. Relinquishing control is one thing, but letting go of control that you never had is pretty damn rough for some of us, at least those honest enough to admit it.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px;">Those of us, who from time to time, experience that lack of control, are reminded of that in the middle of the night, at some ungodly hour, and that's what makes it so challenging. I'm referring to personal situations, of course, not huge events like where our tax dollars go, etc. The personal events that hit one's pissed off, achey, breaky heart even though, it's a simple fact: You had no control of how the other person treated you or handled a situation that involved you.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">And then where do you stand? I mean after all the self-help books have been read. After all the meditation cd's have been purchased and played. After all your hard-earned money has been spent on workshops, shamans, life coaches, psychologists, day spas, vitamin supplements and green tea cleanses... I mean, where does one turn? What does one do to just let it all go?</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I'll tell you.</span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Why not sing a catchy tune of Do Re Mi? Could anything else be more healing? </span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">Can you think of a better way to let go of anger, sadness, resentment, regret or just the f@!#king blues than to belt out a verse of Do a deer a female deer...Re a drop of golden sun... Mi a name I call myself...Fa a long, long way to run, especially butt naked!? </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">Me either.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">I want y'all to try it next time this crap gets in your way. I know <i>I'm</i> going to. In fact, I'm singing it loud and proud as I type this blog this afternoon! It seems to be working, at least in the moment, and HEY! Isn't the moment all we really have anyway? I mean a massage only lasts for so long, then the neck ache returns, right? Go ahead. It worked for the von Trapps, now didn't it, and it can work for you and me.</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">This works too:</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S-zSALn4-RM/UthBuaN3zYI/AAAAAAAACmQ/U8-rS3vo-S4/s1600/IMG_2149.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S-zSALn4-RM/UthBuaN3zYI/AAAAAAAACmQ/U8-rS3vo-S4/s1600/IMG_2149.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bear and I so beautifully captured by the artistic genius of The Cousin</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;">This aids in the letting go process as well. Joining in a group activity, while retaining your own unique style:</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Screw you guys. I'm doing my own thing!"</td></tr>
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I don't know about you, but it takes some work to let go. And then it takes some reserve or back-up for when the little conniving bastards return. Because unless you're Mr. Rogers or Dora the Explorer,<br />
both perfect in every way, my presumption is that you too have trouble letting go from time to time.</div>
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Perhaps that's the weight of being human. </div>
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Today's writing is a bit reckless, kind of all over the map with perhaps a beginning, but certainly without a consistent trek to a well-planned destination. My sincerest apologies for that.<br />
Welcome to my head.</div>
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But since it's come to this, I will add even more directionless chaos by closing with a poem that a dear friend sent to me this week. Sometimes, timing is everything and I hope the timing of Mary Oliver's words are perfect for some of you as they are for me.</div>
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~tpg</div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>Flare</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>12.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider<br />the orderliness of the world. Notice<br />something you have never noticed before,</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket<br />whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,<br />shaking the water-sparks from its wings.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>Let grief be your sister, she will whether or no.<br />Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,<br /> like the diligent leaves.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>A lifetime isn't long enough for the beauty of this world<br />and the responsibilities of your life.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.<br />Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>In the glare of your mind, be modest.<br />And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Comic Sans MS; font-size: x-small;"><b>~ Mary Oliver ~</b></span></div>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-91097135793609126812014-01-10T11:31:00.000-08:002014-01-10T11:31:22.246-08:00If Wishes Came True<i><br /></i>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Hey! Move your ass to the left a little."</td></tr>
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<i><br /></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"Do you have a wish today?"</i> I asked The Cousin this while, she, Sweet Pea, Sweet Pea's mom and I were having cocoa and lattes at our favorite coffee shop in Pacific Grove, CA.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"I wish for fish" </i>she replied with a newly acquired kind of smile that stretched with wit from corner to corner.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"Wish and fish rhyme!" </i>Sweet Pea sits across from the smarty pants, rhymer twirling and flinging the </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">whip cream with her </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">straw. Sipping's not in Sweet Pea's vocabulary.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Do you have a wish?" I ask Sweet Pea.</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Yes! I wish for Halloween!" </span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Right on! Well, you loved Halloween, didn't you?" "I like Snow White and Cinderelli.</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>Yes. And Christmas Eve." </i>She continues.</span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Oh! Christmas Eve? You wish for Christmas Eve?"</span></i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Yes. I wish for presents."</span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">All-righty then. Basically, we have the makings of a literary poet and a capitalist.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">You know, wishes are happening every second, everywhere by every human on this diverse and amazing planet. Wishes for peace, prosperity, joy, good health, mended relationships.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Remember when you were a kid and you'd run outside to your front yard and wish upon the first night star? <i>"Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight...Wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight." </i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My childhood wishes fluctuated between meeting the perfect boy to wishing my parents would stop smoking. And fighting.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Once I remember wishing I was Meg Murry from the book, <i>A Wrinkle in Time</i>. Sure she had flaws, so did I. I was fat, pimple-faced and my clothes reeked of Kents cigarettes. I had warts on my right hand and was the weirdo who loved Wednesdays because Mrs. Miller brought in the plastic flutes. Meg (Murry) was a misfit too, but she evolved and gained so much understanding of life and of herself. She was also excellent at math and science, subjects to this day, I suck at.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I always made wishes and I still do. For me, the term "wish" holds less baggage than the term "prayer". Wishes are non-denominational, belong to people of all religious and non-religious paths. Wishes are fiction and sweet and don't raise debate.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This kid's a big-time wisher, and not just for fish!</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z_RgTPvDm1c/Us7o__ta1PI/AAAAAAAAClA/QrG1oXiv8SU/s1600/IMG_2113.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-z_RgTPvDm1c/Us7o__ta1PI/AAAAAAAAClA/QrG1oXiv8SU/s1600/IMG_2113.jpg" height="400" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"When I get to school, I'll show the teacher the ropes."</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her wishes extend like a world map to include sweet sentiments for her new baby sister, health wishes for her dad who has a "hurt back" and the biggest wish, which was also mine as a child; that her mommy not return to work.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her mom's on a 6-month maternity leave and that feels just right for The Cousin. And it should. Studies show that a parent that stays home with a child, especially in the first 5 years of their life, contributes to that child's academic excellence, positive emotional development and general well-being. The Cousin and her mom are bonded like an extra-strength Elmer's glue stick. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Her mama is one hellava woman. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Often I wonder if that calm, language appropriate, positive self esteem building tone just goes to shit when no one's around! This woman, who now has a 2.5 year old AND a 3 monther, is so calm that I feel the urge to check her pulse from time to time. Seriously.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A "stay-at-home" parent, especially one that is conscious about what a child needs during every developmental moment, is awesome in my book. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">However, unlike in Sweden where each set of parents gets 480 days of parental leave per child, which must be claimed before the child turns eight, the U.S. spends a majority of its tax dollars elsewhere.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">( Graciously, I will not go ballistic or Code Pink on y'all!)</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2cha36fP4ms/UtAuGnHmUgI/AAAAAAAAClQ/gqAeV28CiPY/s1600/IMG_2110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2cha36fP4ms/UtAuGnHmUgI/AAAAAAAAClQ/gqAeV28CiPY/s1600/IMG_2110.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">"I don't need school. I'm swimmin!"</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And then there's Sweet Pea. One of her parentals is home with her , and it's a blessing because this kid would run any child care provider into the earth and bury him/her deep! She's a "no-holds-barred" kinda girl. Always has been since the day, around 3 months, that she fought me while I attempted to put a diaper on her. I had to pin her down, using elbow and forearm, as if wrestling. Like The Cousin's mom, Sweet Pea's mom deserves an award. (or 50) She's patient, loving, steady and calm in the face of "all hell breaks lose" and she has a terrific sense of humor. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sweet Pea's wishes float away into the magical realm where fantasy and magic exist 24/7. When she hears the tune "Frosty the Snowman" she becomes Frosty. When you mention "Cinderelli" suddenly she's sewing the dress in the company of all the mice. And her mom is right there with her, pretend needle and thread in hand. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I know I have quite a few parents that read my blog. Thank you very much!! I have just one question for you, and it blares through my veins every single time I'm around children for more than a few of hours: "HOW THE FUCK DO YOU DO IT?"</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today, I noticed a playful article of quotes, from Huff Post, by Tina and Amy and have placed the link here for your smirking enjoyment. The Gospel of Parenting According to Tina & Amy...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/09/tina-fey-amy-poehler-parenting-quotes-_n_4556970.html?ncid=edlinkusaolp00000009">http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/01/09/tina-fey-amy-poehler-parenting-quotes-_n_4556970.html?ncid=edlinkusaolp00000009</a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's a quote in case you're a skimmer:<b> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">“When you’re a twerking mother, balance is really important because you don't want to go too low and blow out your butt and bust your knee." </span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">-- Amy Poehler</span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">If wishes truly <i>did</i> come true, I'd wish that all adolescents and twenty-somethings be required to live with screaming, bossy, needy, colicky children for a minimum of 6 months and also, live with a teenager for an </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 17px;">additional 6 months prior to deciding whether to use birth control or not.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 17px;">But alas! Calm down all you parents jumping out of your skin and wanting to rip my eyes out right now, as you defensively coo and ahhh over your contribution to over-populating the planet...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;">I never harmed the girls! Never laid a hand on them, and as you know, somehow miracles do exist </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">because they managed to ooze their way into my parentless heart like a tube of honey or gooey berry jam<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">.</span></span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"What'd you think of Doonesbury today, cuz?"</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Baa Bee?"</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Yes."</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Do you like funnies?"</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"I love the funnies."</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Baa Bee?"</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"You funny."</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Do you have another wish to share with me?"</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Yes! Ice Cream!"</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Well, let's go!"</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></i>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~tpg</span>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-36088193493609574002013-12-31T10:30:00.001-08:002013-12-31T13:00:32.916-08:00Welcome 2014!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>You gotta love retail during an American holiday such as Christmas.</b></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9YwRYP4cn1A/UsBVUBV6RaI/AAAAAAAACjg/pBUZaO1TxgU/s1600/DSCN0200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9YwRYP4cn1A/UsBVUBV6RaI/AAAAAAAACjg/pBUZaO1TxgU/s400/DSCN0200.JPG" width="400" /></b></span></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The Trader Joe's parking lot, seemingly a suicide alley, an intersection with a 4-way stop light whose non-existent colors of yellow and red ensure horns blaring, folks dropping "F-Bombs" left, right and in between...</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>All in the name of love, caring and 3 wise men who gave frankincense and myrrh. In turn, we give IPhones and Home Depot gift cards. I know there's a connection somewhere and I know I'm supposed to get it, but I don't. </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I don't get the folks that say, "Keep Christ in Christmas" either. I did see a sign that read, "Keep Christ in Christian" and I get that. Seems the there is a great deal of amplification going on during the holiday season; dichotomies of caring yet irritability, giving yet expecting something in return. Emotions are flared. I read where folks used pepper spray at a Walmart, fought for the bargain on bath towels. I personally think there's an unspoken pressure to be kinder, gentler during the season and yet, that's asking the impossible and people become these human pressure-cookers. </b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>So, at times, the road is long, friends. </b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>And often, it feels endless. Every damn step brings a minute mental battle and yet, we keep walking. Why? Well, the alternative sucks, that's why. And you know what? There are so many cool humans that I encounter day to day! They are the silent ones. The ones that are plain and ordinary to the common eye unless one takes the time to recognize their "Extra-ordinary."</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>And my friends, humbly I tell you this, I have done just that and these humans; these homo-sapians, are so beautiful. They are exquisite and unique stories, waiting to be told.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>2013 was a helluva year! It was jam-packed with trials, tribulations, pains, and extremely winding roads. Yosemite-size boulders along the way. Larger than life stumbling blocks, that made it hard, no impossible, to get out of bed some mornings for many of us. I have spoken to many a folk who bid "good-riddens" to 2013!</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>My solution to the whole damn fiasco, is to move on. With that said, I welcome 2014 with arms open wide and a bucket full of personal intentions! They read, loosely, as follows:</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>One) Get my ass moving again! Climb a mountain, walk the beach trail, pop in one of my Richard Simmons dvd' s.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Two) Continue to work, with diligence and commitment, on my writing and art forms.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Three) Let go of the past. (i.e. the yucky parts)</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Four) Focus on listening and noticing.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Five) Travel with my sweetheart.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Six) Breathe deeply and deliberately, especially when I find myself on those long, winding roads.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Seven) Love! Love! LOVE with all my heart.</b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>And yours? The curiosity is killing me, friends.</b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I learned, from a dear compadre, Shem, that making intentions for oneself, not just at the start of a new year, but regularly, is a very healing and positive thing to do. Not resolutions. They seem to be more firm and concrete, with an expected outcome. Not goals. Not set-ups to fail... But intentions.</b></span><br />
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<span class="hwGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="hw" d:dhw="1" d:priority="2">in<span class="hsb"></span>ten<span class="hsb"></span>tion</span><span class="pronGrp"><span class="pr" d:pr="US" type="US"> |inˈten<span class="sc" style="font-variant: small-caps;"> ch </span>ən|</span></span></b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="prelim"><span class="ps" d:ps="1"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>noun</b></span></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="sn">1. </span><span class="def">a thing <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">intended</span>; an aim or plan </span><span class="ex" d:priority="2" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="lbl">: </span>she was full of good intentions </span><span class="exGrp" d:priority="2"><span class="lbl">| </span><span class="gramGrp" d:priority="2">[with<span class="syntax"><span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">infinitive</span> </span>] </span><span class="ex" d:priority="2" style="font-style: italic;">the Ukraine and Kazakhstan have both declared their intention to be<span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">nuclear-free</span>.</span></span></b></span><span class="specUse" d:priority="2" style="display: block; text-indent: 0px;"><span class="MS" style="display: block;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="lbl">• </span><span class="def">the <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">action</span> <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">or</span> <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">fact</span> of intending </span><span class="ex" d:priority="2" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="lbl">: </span>intention is just one of the factors that will<span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">be</span> <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">considered</span>.</span></b></span></span><span class="MS" style="display: block;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="sn">2. </span><span class="subjLabel">Medicine </span><span class="def"><span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">the</span> <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">healing</span> <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">process</span> of a <span apple_mouseover_highlight="1">wound</span>. </span><span class="xrefGrp">See <span class="xref"><span class="x" style="font-variant: small-caps;">first intention </span></span>,<span class="xref"><span class="x" style="font-variant: small-caps;"> second intention </span></span></span></b></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>I personally like #2.</b></span></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Medicine. The healing part of a wound. I feel as if I should ponder that second "Webster" because isn't that why one would offer up an intention in the first place? To heal. </b></span></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>No doubt, the world is in desperate need of it. No one can deny that. But, I propose to you that we each need individual healing as well, and perhaps that's a very good place to start. </b></span></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The "wounds" of our childhoods, our recent spats with friends, family members, the sickening news story you heard on the radio that you can't let go of, the child being yelled at in a parking lot, the words that regrettably came gushing out of your own mouth, the lies that have been told...All these and more have left our hearts wounded. </b></span></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>If you think of a literal wound to the skin or bone, the healing begins with surgery or medicine or herbs and fresh air. But what about the wounds of the heart? They need medicine too. Of course, setting an intention might not bring quick recovery. But <i>not </i>setting an intention has zero chance for healing.</b></span></span></span></span><br />
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<span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="sense" d:abs="1" style="display: block;"><span class="xrefGrp"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h7t3FlpLezQ/UsL0dCZi6iI/AAAAAAAACkE/ajXbfYlCVsU/s1600/DSCN0318.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h7t3FlpLezQ/UsL0dCZi6iI/AAAAAAAACkE/ajXbfYlCVsU/s400/DSCN0318.JPG" width="400" /></a></b></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"> Intentions toward others can bloom from a very pure and noble place, yet bring unexpected results. Here's a Christmas story... </span></b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b> A close friend of mine shared a very personal account with me over breakfast a few weeks ago. The story has yet to leave my thoughts. With Christmas approaching, while serving in Viet Nam, he decided to bring gifts, a Christmas tree, the festivities of his own childhood, to the people there. His intentions were pure and good. As he gathered everyone together to distribute the gifts, two things happened that cut so deeply into his selfless heart, that I do believe, to this very day, he ponders his good intentions. The gift-giving brought jealousy and competitiveness, for the first time, amongst the parents; all fighting one another for the best gift for their child. And outside the church, where the gathering took place? </b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Poor children stared in, through the open windows, with sad, hollow eyes at a sight they had </b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>never seen before. For the first time in their young lives, they realized what they did not have.</b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">(heavy sigh)</span></b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;">Intention # Six: </span>Breathe deeply and deliberately, especially when I find myself on those painful, winding roads.</b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>This is a painful, difficult thing to swallow; like a large uncoated vitamin that gets lodged in your throat. I had to breathe deeply when I heard my friend share this intimate experience and I have to breathe deeply now, as I share it with y'all. The lessons of that day, of that time and moment are huge for the people, but more so, for my friend. </b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>As I reflect on his story, my eyes are opened to the heart-felt intentions of his soul. I have a clearer vision of the man he is today and the man he was on that day so long ago. </b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The intentions I set forth for myself will be for myself. But, like my friend who saw a wounded world that deserved some medicine, I may, at some time in 2014, make conscious intentions that, though from a moral and loving place, have an unexpected and unintended outcome. </b></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></i></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><i>“When your intentions are honest and pure, when you speak or act from a place of selflessness and love, the feedback and returns are unimaginable and immeasurable.” </i></b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>~Nike Campbell-Fatoki</b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b>Welcome 2014 and all it will bring!!!! Blessings to each of you as we travel this journey together. </b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><b>~tpg</b></span></span></span><span class="SB" style="display: block; margin-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 15px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span><br />
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<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-75060638789526608212013-12-16T12:01:00.001-08:002013-12-16T12:02:53.940-08:00“How did it get so late so soon?” ― Dr. SeussSo, I got barreled into the other day, by an older woman in a Ginormous Volvo SUV (government plates) while I was finding a parking space. My little (new) Yaris took a major hit, while her "tank" escaped unscathed. My day had already had a handful of icky challenges, so when I leaped out of the car, even though I'm a sucker for dogs, cats and seniors, my first instinct was to pump up the volume in my voice," Didn't you hear me laying on my horn?!!"<br />
I megaphoned.<br />
She was a bit frazzled. My guilt set in. "Well, it was my fault dear, but I <i>do</i> have the flu."<br />
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You know, the final month of the year is a crazy-hectic month, isn't it? I mean one attempts to find the serenity, to walk in the light, to offer up kindness to all... However, it doesn't always work out like one plans. After the "I had the flu and that's why I hit your brand new, small car" incident, I managed to drop a package of 4 Dole pineapple cups in aisle 4 at Save-Mart, causing a large, liquidy mess. And prior to the tropical fruit mess, I dared to go into Beverly's Fabrics (lesson to self: Stay the fuck away from Beverly's Fabrics during the month of December) where my debit card was declined. Never mind that the store was packed and there was a crowd around me. The worst part of it (our account was "locked" due to suspicious activity, I was told by the bank) was that my homophobic next door neighbor was behind me in line and witnessed the event. <br />
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December is many things to many people: Christians honor the birth of Jesus. (Who was recently discussed, along with Santa, by Megyn Kelly of Fox News and declared absolutely, without a doubt, white), Jewish celebrate Hanukkah, Goddess-worshiping Pagans light incense and dance around naked under the full moon and the rest of us, just tread water to keep up and drink in heavy volume.<br />
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I have a love/hate relationship with December. <br />
I hate the excessiveness of it; the spending, the over-eating, the extreme indulgence, except for the booze part. I like the booze part. I have a sharp dislike for the busyness and hurriedness as well. There's no time to be with friends because we are too busy running around and buying gifts for our friends. If you work in retail, you know how ugly December can be. <i>"Why don't you have what I'm looking for??? I drove all this way in horrific traffic!!!"</i> Sometimes, I feel as if December brings an explosion of giving to the sick, the homeless, the less fortunate, the abused animals, as if all of these unfortunates do not exist the other 11 months of the year.<br />
There's some pretending going on too. You know my homophobic neighbor I spoke of earlier?<br />
Well, she sent us a holiday card, which she signed by all her family members, even the ones that don't look at us when we wave. This brings a conflicting response in my pea-brain head: How lovely they remembered us with this Hallmark gesture & how shitty it is that they hate lesbians.<br />
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Children are a huge part of this month, and that's sweet as fudge, yet I can't help but recall my observations when I was a teacher; specifically, the kids that "had a lot" vs. the kids that "had very little". It really <i>is</i> amplified by this thing called Christmas. When holiday vacation ends, and students return to school in January, there's such a competitive vibe in the air. There's the kids wearing their $150.00 Michael Jordan basketball shoes and those that still have on their shoes from The Goodwill. </div>
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There's the Banana Republic faux fur coats vs. the Walmart fleece zip-ups. There's the students that went to Europe to visit grandma and the ones that got to see Santa at the mall. It's a glaring, blaring oddity that cannot be denied. And then, of course, there's the poor families who open Visa charge accounts, with 24% interest rates, in order to buy their kids what they want, so that they don't get made fun of or feel less than. December becomes this month of incredible debt and living beyond one's means. </div>
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There are two things I especially love about December.</div>
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THING # 1:<br />
I love this face. It's a package of joy and innocence and a clear reminder of all that is truly important. Look at her light up at the opportunity to make her parents and her baby sister a present. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Who knew Q-tips were better than paint brushes!"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"A flower-shaped lollipop is all I need."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-APYT4VVw3YI/Uq9Kbj7jlRI/AAAAAAAACiU/rSUrdf2t424/s1600/IMG_2060.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-APYT4VVw3YI/Uq9Kbj7jlRI/AAAAAAAACiU/rSUrdf2t424/s400/IMG_2060.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Why is my shadow so tall, Valerie?"</td></tr>
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I love this face too:<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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9A4CpQ6F_9g/Uq9WL1eOUAI/AAAAAAAACik/kj7W5zrGBhg/s1600/IMG_1861.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9A4CpQ6F_9g/Uq9WL1eOUAI/AAAAAAAACik/kj7W5zrGBhg/s400/IMG_1861.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Baa Bee, I can shoot hoops!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9CwsGZ52zJc/Uq9WorgFvjI/AAAAAAAACis/xKFgX5aAe_A/s1600/IMG_2001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9CwsGZ52zJc/Uq9WorgFvjI/AAAAAAAACis/xKFgX5aAe_A/s400/IMG_2001.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I don't wanna eat my lunch. I wanna play!"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
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<div>
<br />
<div>
Aren't children the extraordinary magic of any month? </div>
<div>
True, unless of course, you're an over-worked elementary school teacher, in a classroom of 33 and no aide. (Shout out to my heroines in the public school system!)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
THING # 2:</div>
<div>
The second thing I love about December are the holiday letters. So, I receive anywhere from </div>
<div>
2-7 each year. Most are lovely, though a few go on and on, in great detail. For example, the 100 awards their kid received, or how many maps they had to use on their vacation, or what each child received for his or her birthday. Some are a bit "wordy" you might say, but all are sent with well-intentions, I suppose, as is the one I send every other year or so.</div>
<div>
There are 2 that I receive yearly that stand out. One is from an acquaintance of long ago and the other one doesn't actually come to me, but to my mom-in-law, who kindly shares it with me each year.</div>
<div>
The following two are unedited. (I swear to God!)</div>
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Here's to the joy and festiveness of the season!</div>
<div>
~tpg</div>
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<br /></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/-GrM26y5GPNw/Uq9a6ExyGWI/AAAAAAAACi4/Ir3ITW5XlgU/s1600/IMG_2061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-GrM26y5GPNw/Uq9a6ExyGWI/AAAAAAAACi4/Ir3ITW5XlgU/s400/IMG_2061.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Do you like frog glasses, Valerie?" "Yep, I do."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
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<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>Christmas 2013</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>Dear Valerie,</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>Not one of our better years. Bill (name change) is worse and now has gallstones. Can't be operated on as his intestines are too inflamed. </i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>My typewriter had the nerve to die. It's hard to find a used one.</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>They have been working on the new sewer in front of my house for nearly 3 months. The city's equipment keeps breaking.</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>I managed a couple of day trips and had a good time.</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>I hope you are doing well.</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>Merry Christmas.</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>Love,</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New', Courier, monospace;"><b><i>Betty (name change)</i></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Dear Mary, (name change)</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>It's been a banner year!</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>We began by getting a new minivan complete with a navigation system. </b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>It’s been a lifesaver! </b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>We have the routes to all the nearest hospitals and pharmacies pre-programmed. </b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>With the time we’ve saved from printing out directions, I’m now able to spend some time knitting. I’m just starting out but I made little Roxy a new sock to chew on. (This has really helped her stop chewing the couch.)</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>John is doing well. He landed a third job hauling trash, which helps cover all our psychiatric co-pays.</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>We are so proud of Brian (name change). During his last incarceration, he received the prison’s coveted Inmate of the Month award for his good behavior. And John and I were so impressed by the license plate he made for us for Christmas.</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Annie (name change) is just terrific, too. Her soccer coach has noticed that she’s kicking harder than ever (though it’s still at the other players). </b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>And the other night, she actually sat down and did her homework.</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>It’s been a bittersweet year, as Felix, our cat, is no longer with us. One of the kids left the door open, and he never came back. John says he’s never seen a cat run so fast.</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Well, that’s all the news we have to report for now. </b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Best wishes for a happy, healthy, and hospitalization-free holiday season.</b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
<div style="color: #222222;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The Smith Family (name change)</b></span></div>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-34473727637379779612013-12-03T12:39:00.000-08:002013-12-03T12:40:07.742-08:00Mina; From Marrakech to Marina<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;">There's something very special about a conversation with a stranger. The initial anonymity that flows effortlessly between two people who know nothing of the other's past. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;">Initially, there is no past. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;">Only the here and now.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">All of each other's dark secrets, poor choices, past trials and tribulations and yesterday's experiences can remain neatly wrapped; perfectly hidden and unopened. It's a clean slate.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Each person has control over what they divulge and how they divulge it. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I like that part. For a while, it's safe. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">But, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;">I also like the other part; the part that grows, evolves, opens up like a tight bud anticipating the transformation to a sweet, fragrant blossom. Sometimes, you can control the pace, the process, the self-exposure, the unfolding. But other times, it's as if that stranger unexpectedly taps into a piece of you that is so raw, so spontaneous, so heart-driven, that you don't even realize you're divulging personal information. Suddenly, before you know it, the stranger chips away at everything that you thought you could hide, and all that is left standing there are two friends laughing together...</span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 21px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Marrakech is undoubtedly not for everyone. This is a city with edge. It is contradictory and not easily fathomed, but for most people who visit, that is all part of its elusive charm. From the exotic market stalls of the medina to the westernised glamour of the Ville Nouvelle, Marrakech is a riot of contradictions and extremes – at once African and Arab, eastern and western, frontier town and modern city, religious and secular, elegant and rough-around-the-edges. At times daunting, occasionally maddening, always exhilarating, Marrakech is all about getting lost, letting go and opening up to whatever experience or encounter comes your way.</span> </span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9D9OJ0FBpuQ/UouNt9txP4I/AAAAAAAACdk/95xWwPtJ1_w/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9D9OJ0FBpuQ/UouNt9txP4I/AAAAAAAACdk/95xWwPtJ1_w/s320/images.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<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://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Keyh8lHTF5o/UouN_Mu1qSI/AAAAAAAACds/M5Xs6ZUz0Ko/s1600/58d0e06f-6e8a-402b-bff0-e54cb0862cc9.Morocco-Marrakech-spice-souk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Keyh8lHTF5o/UouN_Mu1qSI/AAAAAAAACds/M5Xs6ZUz0Ko/s320/58d0e06f-6e8a-402b-bff0-e54cb0862cc9.Morocco-Marrakech-spice-souk.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Markets of Marrakech</td></tr>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ndSZ6URr-d8/UouOI8pXATI/AAAAAAAACd0/efwFfSsaOLo/s1600/03d51761-53c3-40aa-9b05-4982d147f802.Morocco-spices-souk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ndSZ6URr-d8/UouOI8pXATI/AAAAAAAACd0/efwFfSsaOLo/s320/03d51761-53c3-40aa-9b05-4982d147f802.Morocco-spices-souk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">After reading about Mina's homeland of Morocco, I can't help but think of the famous line spoken by Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz: <i>"Toto, I have a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." </i> And she's not. In fact, she a long way from Marrakech, Morocco, along way from familiarity, along way from her family and yet, her disposition is friendly, hopeful and positive. There's a trustful ease about her as she speaks with me. She's forthcoming, though we've only known each other a short while. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I see Mina as a yummy, delightful stew; a hearty mixture of strength and innocence, with a hefty serving of joy, wisdom and fortitude mixed in. I do not know everything about her, nor do I profess to walk in her shoes. However, if I can pay tribute to this hard-working dreamer, who was once a stranger and now a friend, so be it.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YJMdTvb-B1E/Uo1VkR6b_HI/AAAAAAAACeE/QfhLb49iC6U/s1600/IMG_1906_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-YJMdTvb-B1E/Uo1VkR6b_HI/AAAAAAAACeE/QfhLb49iC6U/s400/IMG_1906_2.jpg" width="336" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Mina</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">There are two things that stand out about Mina, and if you were to ever meet her, I'm sure you would agree. One is her infectious laugh that flows out freely, and often, like a sweet-tempered melody that you want to play over and over again. And the second are her eyes; set deep into her smooth, olive-toned face, they are the shape of perfect almonds and the color of darkly roasted coffee beans. They're intense. When she looks into your eyes, you instantly know you are looking into the eyes of a soul much older than her 32 years. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">I was drawn to Mina instantly and our friendship is a testament to the fact that differences in culture, lifestyle, backgrounds and language are never barriers.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">tpg: Do you know that many Americans have no clue where Morocco is?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Mina: (laughing) Yes, I know. This is true. Yes, many say, "Is that in Latin America? Africa?" I say, No. No. Not Africa and they are very surprised!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">tpg: After you tell them of your homeland, Morocco, are there other reactions?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Mina: Many think we all live in tents in the desert with no vehicles, no electricity, no water. I tell them, "No! No! We have all these things!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">tpg: So then, do you see Americans as ignorant?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Mina: No, the people who know Morocco, mostly know Casablanca. It's very famous and very expensive. I have only visited Casablanca one time. It's a very, very old city. </span><br />
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</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
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<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/-jtKXOjHsILo/Uo1ZL5nwVHI/AAAAAAAACeQ/LumL-ORiatI/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jtKXOjHsILo/Uo1ZL5nwVHI/AAAAAAAACeQ/LumL-ORiatI/s320/images.jpeg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Casablanca</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">
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<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/-ysoJNLnwaTQ/Uo1Zh1oV25I/AAAAAAAACeY/ZHzRGddQwlM/s1600/article-2045232-0E34E48600000578-625_634x418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" height="210" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ysoJNLnwaTQ/Uo1Zh1oV25I/AAAAAAAACeY/ZHzRGddQwlM/s320/article-2045232-0E34E48600000578-625_634x418.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Casablanca</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iHOH1fI1DhM/Uo1ZrreevwI/AAAAAAAACeg/io7ha4h2Rqk/s1600/images.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iHOH1fI1DhM/Uo1ZrreevwI/AAAAAAAACeg/io7ha4h2Rqk/s1600/images.jpeg" /></span></a></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">tpg: Were there other reactions or responses when you first arrived? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">What has it been, five years ago?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: Yes. Five years. People had strange faces when I told them I was from Morocco. They kind of stand back and seem a little uncomfortable. Like, maybe they think "terrorist" or something. (laughing).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: Did that anger you? It would me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: No. I just explain to them who I am and my family and they are nice after that.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: How about your family? You are married and have four boys? WoW! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">How do you do it?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: I don't know! It's a lot of work. My boys are all so different. One is very calm, quiet and does anything I ask of him like clean the table and help me. My middle son is very different. He wants to play basketball and doesn't want to study. I want him to study. My baby takes a lot of our attention. My husband and I want our children to study and make the best in their education. I worry about them if they don't do good in school.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: Tell me about your husband. How did the two of you meet?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: (smiling and coy) Hassan is a very good man and a good father. I met him at a friend's house. I liked him because he was the only man who doesn't look at my body when he first met me. He just looked at my eyes while we talked.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: Is that unusual in Morocco?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: Yes. It is always that way. A woman walks down the street and all the men look at her from her feet to her head and back down to her feet again. Some women like it. They feel ugly if men don't do that, but not me. It is why I liked Hassan. He wasn't like that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: Has that happened to you here? Men checking you out?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: No. I feel safe here. I can walk or take the bus by myself and no one bothers me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">It's very different. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: Are you happy here? Do you miss Morocco?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: I am happy here because we want a better life for our children. But it is hard because my English isn't good, so it's hard to find jobs that pay well. I work cleaning houses in the day time and Hassan works at night at a place that cares for older persons. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">I miss my family, especially my mother. I have 4 brothers and 4 sisters still in Morocco.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: NINE CHILDREN in your family? Your poor mom!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: (laughing) I know but it's not unusual there to have a big family. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: Are you and Hassan planning on having more children?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: No! We are not as traditional. This is why we leave. We have different ideas than our famili</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">es. We are, how do you say, the ones that are different in both of our families.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: Some people say you are the "black sheep" of your families. I don't really like that term but if you and I were to have one thing in common, it would certainly be that!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">...And so our conversation continued for more than 40 minutes in much of the same way:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">Strangers morphing to acquaintances to ultimately friends. Black sheep laughing at the world, pausing to appreciate the world, pausing to appreciate one another. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">She told me about the difficult economic times currently in her country. Europeans are coming in and buying up all the old mosques, historical buildings and opening high-class hotels, spas, restaurants. The result? Everything sky-rockets and the Moroccans can no longer afford to buy property in their own country. They work <i>for</i> the Europeans for close to nothing, struggling to feed their families. She speaks of her dreams: to see her sons go to college, to be able to buy a house, to visit her mother again...</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">We sip tea together. The quiet between us is comfortable as time slips away. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia;">In ways, this interview was simplistic; an immigrant, wife, mother. Simple dreams, the same as you and I. But in a way, the complexity of Mina's past, present and what lies ahead, can only be partially understood in one sitting. And she didn't share it. I knew she was withholding parts of past experiences and struggles; perfectly hidden, neatly wrapped. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">I'd like to attempt a closer understanding. I have such an interest in people and their lives. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: You know what is my favorite song? <i>Here Comes the Sun</i> by The Beatles.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">tpg: I love that song too!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">Mina: It makes me feel happy. It gives me so much hope.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia;">~tpg</span><br />
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-79818928195955172072013-11-21T08:00:00.002-08:002013-11-21T10:40:19.222-08:00What Does the Fox Say?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GERING-DING-DING-DING-DINGERINGEDING</td></tr>
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<a href="http://youtu.be/jofNR_WkoCE">http://youtu.be/jofNR_WkoCE</a></div>
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Dog goes woof Cat goes meow Bird goes tweet and Mouse goes squeak...</div>
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Cow goes moo Frog goes croak And the elephant goes toot...</div>
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Ducks say quack and fish go blub And the seal goes ow ow ow</div>
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But there's one sound no one knows</div>
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WHAT DOES THE FOX SAY?</div>
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She's baaaaack. </div>
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Actually, she never left. At least she never left my heart or yours. Right?</div>
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Today, The Cousin and I went to the library. Just her and I and, what seemed like, a million snotty nosed 2 and 3 year olds that drove me nuts, reminding me that I'm much more qualified, these days, to be a pole dancer than a pre-school teacher.</div>
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GAWD! It was like a nut house and the only sane one? The Cousin.</div>
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Calm, cool, collected and VERY well-behaved, she patiently waited her turn to participate in Miss Linda's interpretation of the children's story "There was an Old Woman Who Swallowed a Fly." (Weird messages throughout, but all in the name of rhyme, which I abhor.)<br />
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I gotta hand it to Miss Linda. Day in and day out, dealing with a room full of out-of-control toe-heads that do far more than just wiggle on their carpet squares. These punks throw full-blown, screaming tantrums and the moms, every once in a while, look-up from their IPhones.<br />
I pray to God that Linda isn't a volunteer.<br />
The Cousin and I positioned ourselves on a multi-colored beanbag. She insisted on sitting on the patch of blue fabric, because blue is now her favorite color. (Man, I was worried it was going to be pink.) We were both poised on-lookers, and every once in a while, she leaned into me and whispered, "Valerie, what does the fox say?" Her giggle is infectious.<br />
This is her new joke and her new favorite video. And that's right. She calls me "Valerie" now.</div>
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The days of "Wallery and roses" are long gone. Caillou too. (Thank you, Jesus!) She's shedding Elmo and Caillou like an old coat and turning to Madeleine and YouTube fox videos. <br />
She's growing up.<br />
She doesn't need my hand to get out of her car seat, nor an extra offer of support to climb 3 flights of stairs. Today, along with her usual books and movies, she wanted to check out a book to read to her new baby sister. Now that's maturity, people! It's as if Superwoman has emerged out of the ashes...<br />
Yes, I am now, and forever more, "Valerie" to her and together we will conquer this library story time madness, one screaming toddler at a time. </div>
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And then we'll get the hell out of dodge. Have a little beverage. Chat about the old days. And read her new addiction, one square at a time!<br />
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She's a cool kid with a cool outlook.<br />
We all should be blessed with this much curiosity and zest for life:<br />
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See a pile of fall leaves, jump in them just to hear the C R U N C H ! </div>
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Plop down in the middle of our shadow, simply because you want to "touch it!"<br />
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As adults, we've lost that "zest for life." Seems we go about our daily routines, rituals and obligations required of us at such a pace, any zest that remains is just in the lemon peel of our cocktails.</div>
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Seems we've also lost, what I often refer to as, "the art of conversation." Look in your mailbox. Any cards, notes, letters from friends or simply bills and consumer ads?<br />
Now, look in your email box.<br />
Less and less, right? How about on your voicemail of your phone? Any calls from friends lately? Maybe, but not as much as a few years ago. Lots of texting to converse and lots of Facebook to share stories, opinions and pictures. The idea of calling a friend, on a regular basis and meeting at a cafe to "catch-up" or sharing recent photos, offering a hug (real arms not virtual)...<br />
Those times are less and less. </div>
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I propose to you, that this lessening, is removing the zest from each of our lives. </div>
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So, what does the fox say? </div>
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Call a friend today! Meet on an unknown trail and take a walk with that friend or by yourself.<br />
Sit smack down in your shadow! Put a box, from your remote control car, on your head and pretend it's your helmet!<br />
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Play the video at the beginning of my blog, and dance around your living room!</div>
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Locate "The Cousin" inside yourself! She's there waiting.<br />
Let her soar today!</div>
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~tpg</div>
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P.S. Next week... Interview #5 with Mina; a polished gem who's a very long way from home.<br />
Stay tuned in, pals.</div>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-84735501065792739192013-11-12T12:00:00.004-08:002013-11-12T12:00:56.573-08:00Good Shit Coming Soon! <b><i> I'm writing some good shit, coming your way soon buckeroos .... </i></b><br />
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-62765492543948866902013-11-01T08:15:00.000-07:002013-11-06T07:13:05.455-08:00Julio, I See You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you're anything like The Cousin, you're an observer of life. You walk through the world like a hushed shadow, but your eyes are in a constant state of panoramic. It's a comfortable way of being for her. It feels like an old, soft, washed-out pair of denims; the ones you want to wear every day, even if they haven't been laundered in a while...<br />
Stop. Take notice. Process. Ponder. And for god's sake, perform these tasks in silence because when you're out in the world, the world is much too noisy.<br />
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I never was that kind of kid. I couldn't adhere to such characteristics in adolescence nor adulthood either. Speak first. Shove entire size 8 shoe into mouth after. <br />
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But as I enter what society has termed "middle age," I'm morphing a bit... Stop. Take notice. Process. Ponder. Listen. Bite tongue. Learn something.<br />
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When I look around at humans, I readily see both kinds: the observers and the engagers.<br />
I want to be more like The Cousin. I've encountered so many people, whose names will go unmentioned, that tend to feel they have a lesson to teach us all. It's a common occurance. Have you ever been sharing something of your life; perhaps a situation, an opinion, a dream, and I'll be damned if "the engager" fires back with an answer (THEIR answer) which usually has everything to do with THEIR experience, THEIR opinions and THEIR advice. They seem to know that you'll be better off listening to THEM. It's as if, while you are speaking, you can almost see their response-words excitedly dancing on the tip of their moist little tongue, which is poking out of their half-opened mouth. THEY ARE NOT LISTENING TO YOU! They're preparing, editing, revising their script for THEIR next reading, which translates to a lecture.<br />
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If you're not born with the gift of listening and observing, you have work to do. One of the reasons I'm interested in interviewing people, is I want to improve my listening skills. I want to cross over to the observer side of life. I want to follow in The Cousin's footsteps.<br />
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There's a man who sits on the brick ledge in front of the downtown post office. It's difficult to determine his age and ethnicity. People who live on the streets appear older than they actually are. Weather, I suppose. Weather and worry.<br />
He's sun-drenched from years on the street. His face is leather brown, his hands boney and curled.<br />
He's quiet. He doesn't have a sign with words like ANYTHING WILL HELP or GOD BLESS YOU. He's always hunched over in his layers of jackets, the color of Army fatigues. When he does look up, his eyes cut through me like the point of a serrated knife. Sometimes, I observe him from across the street. I notice people walk right by him. Most do not give eye contact. <br />
They look right through him.<br />
He's faceless to them. <br />
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They look down or pretend to be on their IPhones or turn their heads the other way. It must feel more comfortable for them to remain in their own world; a world where hungry, homeless, drunk people do not exist. When I have a $5, I give him a $5. When I have a single, I give him a $1.<br />
He always says, "Thank you." That's it. <br />
I like that.<br />
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I know that my small amounts of money won't get him off the streets. I also know the streets might be exactly where he wants to be; as comfortable for him as the soft, old jeans I spoke of earlier. I know he may spend his money on booze or something else that makes some people hesitate to give anything. He's quiet. That's my draw to him. Something inside of him is shy, distant, discreet. What was he like as a child? Did he start out lively, talkative, sure of himself, only to be hushed, crushed by someone or a chain of events? If I gave him $20 bucks, if I knew his name, if I offered him a hot meal and a shower...It would all be a band-aid and yet, he sits in my neighborhood, hunched over and silent. <br />
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That nudges me to inquire about his story because he has one. They/we/you/me...we all have one.<br />
<br />
I pretend his name is Julio. I imagine he was once a vibrant child who loved to play with trucks. I wonder if he had dreams of being a football player or a musician.<br />
I ask myself, is he a father, and if so, where are his kids? Did he abandon them? Do they hate him? Or are they looking for him but he cannot bring himself to re-appear in their lives, not in the state he's in. Was Julio in Viet Nam? Desert Storm? Did the sound of exploding bombs and the sight of death snatch his sanity? <br />
Why do I give a shit? Why this unexplainable fascination of mine?<br />
I actually don't know. Not really. Maybe it's because no one tells his story. You tell yours. I tell mine. We tell our stories everyday. We share our daily lives through social media, by phone, at cocktail parties, on long walks with friends. How easily we forget that we are constantly sharing our daily lives, our "memoirs" if you will, with others and from that sharing, we get recognition, validation and even pleasure from the interactions with others...<br />
Engage. Observe. Share. Listen.<br />
<br />
I have this fantasy about asking him to sit with me at a small outdoor cafe next to the post office. Have a lunch together. Tell him the truth; that I want to ask him questions about his life in order to better understand my own. I would ask him what he would charge for his time. I would ask him his name, so I wouldn't have to refer to him as Julio.<br />
That's where I'm at. I almost did it Tuesday. Then I chickened out. Today I have free time, but there's laundry to do, and there's always tomorrow. Right? You see, these are the hiccups that stand in my way. If you told me this exact fantasy, I would whole-heartedly encourage you with a zealous GO FOR IT! I would tell you there's nothing to fear but fear itself and all that bullshit and I would be behind you 110%! Yet, here I sit in my own angst puddle of uneasiness and self-doubt, while thousands of folks' stories go untold...<br />
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<br />
~tpg<br />
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-57953090491347112532013-10-23T08:36:00.000-07:002013-10-23T12:15:32.301-07:00I'll Say It All Here<i>I didn't really want to meet him for lunch. If he had something in mind other than an acquaintance and this interview, I wanted no part of it. I told him, through a text, that it was my treat if he'd meet with me.</i><br>
<i>The thought of meeting him, left me with hours of "build-up." Anxiety. Incompetencey. Amateur writer attempts another interview. My third, I suppose, if you count the one with The Cousin. And then, of course there's the thought, 'Does he just want sex?' </i><br>
<i>In the day, the cute young girls were attracted to me. In the last few years, it's the men over 65. </i><br>
<i>What are ya gonna do? It a slap of reality that I will most likely go to my grave not accepting. But I wore my Lucky Brand jeans anyway! No, not because HE was going to get lucky, But because I was hoping to get lucky with my questions, lucky with opportunity, lucky to say it all here with a look at life through his eyes.</i><br>
<i>We were to meet at 1:00 p.m. I arrived at 12:45 p.m. and purposely chose a table in the sun. </i><br>
<i>I felt way more confident with my sunglasses on.</i><br>
<i><br></i>
<i><br></i>
<br>
HY: You're early.<br>
<br>
tpg: For a change. Thanks for meeting me.<br>
<br>
HY: What shall we have? Pellegrino? Large? Waiter. Please. 2 large Pellegrinos and what are today's specials?<br>
<br>
<em>His wrinkled shirt, which was tucked into jeans, was a neon lime green. I thought of </em><br>
<em>over photo-shopped mint leaves. He wore a baseball cap which smelled of stale cigars when the breeze hit it.</em><br>
<em>The waiter rambled off the Specials of the Day; first the appetizer, then the salad, then the entrée and finally, the dessert. It's so fast, I couldn't recall one thing.</em><br>
<br>
HY: Very good. Very good. Now, may I ask you a question? <br>
<em>(waiter nods)</em><br>
How long does that take you? Every day, do you have to wake up and memorize the daily specials every day because they change, don't they?<br>
<i>(waiter holds a perplexed yet polite expression)</i><br>
<br>
HY: So what shall we eat?<em> (looking at the menu)</em> I like the apple and pecan salad. What was the special? Halibut? Filet Mignon?<br>
<br>
tpg: <em>(panicking because I had offered to pay in exchange for his time.)</em> The appetizer of squash blossoms stuffed with goat cheese <em>(thinking it might the fucking cheapest special) </em>sounds yummy. <br>
<br>
HY: And salad? It's a nice day, eh?<br>
<br>
tpg: Umm... Yes.<br>
<em>(waiter returns)</em><br>
<br>
HY: We'll have the squash appetizer, pecan apple salad, Cobb salad and filet mignon, medium rare, salt and pepper only.<br>
<br>
tpg: You're fast-moving. Do you ever slow down?<br>
<br>
HY: Daytime. I sleep during the day and I paint all night. My neighbors think I'm crazy. They see my lights on all night and they think, "What's the crazy Japanese man doing now?" I don't care because I don't really talk to them. I don't really talk to people.<br>
<br>
tpg: Yet, you're are here, talking to me.<br>
<br>
HY: That's different. <br>
<br>
tpg: Tell me about your art. <br>
<br>
HY: My art. I studied art in Paris. Many, many years ago. My family, we are all characters and we all like to try new things. I only worked with oil on canvas in the beginning, then I changed to sculpture and pop art. I like color.<br>
<br>
tpg: I looked at your work on-line and can honestly say I love the pieces of ink and paint on hand-made rice paper. I also love your laser project in Afghanistan.<br>
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HY: That was an experience. I was approached to possibly re-build the statues but I didn't feel reproducing those ancient statues would be right. They're destroyed. Dynamited. There's only ghosts left. I wanted to bring awareness to this massive destruction of the 3 Buddhas of Bamiwam (Bamiyan) by the Taliban, while at the same time, use solar powered lasers to offer electricity, a few hours a day, to the people of the Bamiyan Valley who had none.<br>
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tpg: Wow! Was the project completed?<br>
<br>
HY: <em>(Laughing)</em> We completed it, but governments are corrupt. All of them. We couldn't come to an agreement on money, even after I had hosted fundraisers in Los Angeles. We are all sheep, you know.<br>
<em>(Food arrives)</em><br>
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tpg: Sheep? What do you mean?<br>
<br>
HY: We are all sheep and all governments are the herders. It's intentional and it's always been that way since the beginning of time. You, me...We're not going to change it. Do you give money to bums?<br>
I never do.<br>
<br>
tpg: Yes, I do, but I prefer not to call them 'bums'. There's 2 in particular that I give some small amounts of cash to on a regular basis. One is a Vietnam vet. He stands in front of Home Depot in Seaside.<br>
<br>
HY: There's always been poor. So much poverty. Never can we change that.<br>
<br>
tpg: I agree, but it makes me feel good to give a little. Perhaps, it's self-serving.<br>
<br>
HY: I did an 8-month project on Los Angeles Avenue years back. I lived on the street and hid a small camera in my clothes. I took black and white pictures of the bums, all the while, the mafia and drug lords would be in the fields and parking lots, watching. Waiting. I'd watch the bums spend every penny they got on drugs and alcohol.<br>
I prefer people who work. I'd rather give to the men standing outside of Home Depot, the Latinos, who <i>want</i> to work. That's where I met my assistant 28 years ago. <em>(He's eating and talking at the same time; half fork, half fingers.)</em><br>
<em></em><br>
tpg: You met your assistant on the street?<br>
<br>
HY: Yeah, twenty-eight years ago. (He pats his fist on his heart.) I trust him. When times are good, I pay him well. When times are not so good, he works for me for nothing.<br>
<br>
tpg: I dream of such a project like what you did; capturing life through photographs, gaining an understanding of the human condition. Where are these images?<br>
<br>
HY: (laughing) We had an opening at a gallery in Los Angeles. Low turn-out. I think they're in one of my storage units in LA.<br>
<br>
tpg: Do you have any children?<br>
<br>
HY: Yes. Two daughters. You know we will all die with at least one regret and that will be mine.<br>
<br>
tpg: What do you mean?<br>
<br>
HY: I divorced their mother when they were very young because I wanted to travel the world, do my art, make money and I never saw my daughters or my wife. I was the father that never went to school plays or functions. The absent guy. My daughters never had the opportunity to know me. They hated me for a long time. <br>
But now is Chapter 2.<br>
<br>
tpg: Chapter 2?<br>
<br>
HY: Yes. I have a second chance. I have apologized to them and have a pretty good relationship with them now. <i>(laughing) </i>That is, when I can see them! They are so busy, I have to make an appointment one year in advance!<br>
<br>
tpg: Your art is very eclectic; oil on canvas, pop art, photography, ceramic cartoonish sculptures, posters, lasers. What are you working on now?<br>
<br>
HY: I'm working on more canvases of ink on rice paper. You should see my living room! My living room is about 900 sq feet and it's a mess!! It's where I work.<br>
<br>
tpg: What inspires you?<br>
<br>
HY: People. Yeah, I like to capture people and the actions of people.<br>
<br>
tpg: I was blown away by your world-wide notoriety. You must have the opportunity to meet many people because of your work.<br>
<br>
HY: I hate people. Well, <i>those</i> people. The art world is like governments; crooked, greedy and pretentious. They want me to sell at Christie's and to their private buyers and I won't. Most artists despise me. They think I'm stupid; a crazy recluse. I don't care. I value the apple tree that I've grown from a tiny seed more than any piece of art; theirs or mine.<br>
<br>
tpg: Are you? A crazy recluse?<br>
<br>
HY: (laughing) I'm here with you, aren't I?<br>
<br>
HY: Check! (calling to our waiter) I'm going to meet a friend of mine in King City to look at a vineyard he purchased but hasn't seen yet.<br>
<br>
tpg: Your friend bought a vineyard without seeing it?<br>
<br>
HY: Yeah. I've never been to King City. Have you?<br>
<br>
tpg: (laughing) Ahh...yes. It's nothing to write home about! Oh! And thanks so much for lunch! <br>
<br>
HY: See you soon.<br>
<br>
<br>
~tpg<br>
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<br>Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-2735238432233369872013-10-12T12:33:00.000-07:002013-10-12T14:02:43.112-07:00Billie~A Piece of Oral Herstory<i>I met Billie one foggy afternoon two years ago. It was a Sunday and I know that for a fact because Billie only comes into the teashop on Sundays; always at 2:00. She gets out her four dollars and her frequent flyer card, as I wash my hands and begin to prepare her bowl of premium matcha. She requests the same bowl; the one that "sufficiently holds the heat."</i><br />
<i>Billie is a different sort. A misfit. She's the single, tiny piece of washed sea glass in a beach of a million granules of sand. She did not want to be photographed.</i><br />
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<b>tpg:</b> Thanks for sitting with me, Billie. I hope I can honor you in a way most deserving of the person that you are. Let's begin by you telling me a bit about your childhood. Where did you grow up? What were your interests?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie: </b> (rubbing her eyes and looking everywhere except at me) I grew up in Massachusetts and then in Hawaii, which was interesting to say the least. I always preferred Boston, you know, it was the 1950's and 60's and so on and so forth. Segregation, good old-fashioned lynching's were a hot topic and of course, I wasn't going down south, no way no how.<br />
<br />
<b>tpg:</b> What was interesting about Hawaii?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> I mean it was horrific at times because I wasn't Hawaiian or Samoan!!! (She's shouting) I was a "toe-head" for god's sake!!<br />
<br />
<b>tpg:</b> Did you have trouble making friends?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> I didn't need friends. I preferred books. Mother always bought me books. I read the entire Bible, THE KING JAMES VERSION, (shouting) by the time I was 11 years old! <br />
<br />
<b>tpg:</b> Wow! And you were an only child, right?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie: </b> Yes, I was. My parents were a bit eccentric. I was most likely a mistake. Well, I shouldn't say mistake, but certainly a surprise! (laughter)<br />
<br />
<b>tpg: </b> Were you closer to one than the other?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> I found them both excruciatingly high functioning. In later years, after mother had long passed, I ended up caring for my father and during that time, we became somewhat close, though his dementia grew horns every now and then.<br />
<br />
<b>tpg:</b> Would you consider either of them role models for you?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> I think not! Aunt Margaret was who I went to for advice, direction and books. Additional books. She and Yosko.<br />
<br />
<b>tpg:</b> Yosko?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> Yosko hailed from Tokyo and knew how to cook like nobody's business. I had my first bowl of matcha in her studio and I loved her dumplings. I need to buy some cut flowers when I go to the farmer's market for my English peas...it's the only place I can find fresh ones, well, except Grove Market... and put them on her grave. Maybe I can get some ribbon at Beverly's. <br />
I think they're having a sale.<br />
<br />
<b>tpg: </b>Are you a coupon-cutter like my mom was?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> Well, not really. I suppose I could be. But I sure can look a good deal in the face!<br />
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<b>tpg</b>: So, I'm gonna take a sudden turn and ask you about your dis-ease.<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> HA! It's a pain in the you know what because while most people can cry, I cannot. So instead, I have this enormous amount of rage that's like two burnt holes in a blanket. You're gonna read about me one day on the front page...Woman beats the crap out of domestic abuser because she can't feel sad about it.<br />
<br />
<b>tpg:</b> So what's the medical term for what you have? I've watched you put liquid in your eyes for almost 2 years now.<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> I have kertoconjuctivitis sicca...Which basically means, I have no tears. DRY EYES! The doctors that I deal with don't seem to be worth a half a cent. I keep trying to find one that knows what the hell is going on!!<br />
<br />
<strong>tpg:</strong> Gonna take another turn and ask you, do you ever feel lonely?<br />
<br />
<b>Billie:</b> Do you?<br />
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<b>tpg:</b> Touché! Not often. But I guess I'm fortunate to have a partner and many friends in my life. I like how you turned my question on me!</div>
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<b>Billie:</b> (laughing) I don't mind being alone. I'm used to it. I've lived in my apartment for 44 years. They do need to update the plumbing and fix the water pressure, but Pauline, the daughter of my slum lord, is easily agitated. Specifically, I walk on eggshells around her. </div>
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<b>tpg:</b> Do you kill her with kindness?</div>
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<b>Billie:</b> I'd like to just kill her. Then I suppose you'd read about it in the headlines of the morning paper, but yes. (gathering her worn leather purse and reusable shopping bag)<br />
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<b>tpg:</b> You seem as if you're getting ready to go. Just a few more questions...</div>
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<b>Billie: </b>I have a lot to accomplish today. I need to steam my vegetables and press my shirts. I should sweep and air out the rugs and so on and so forth. </div>
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<b>tpg:</b> I know you work at the library. Do you go in early tomorrow? </div>
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<b>Billie:</b> It's a 6-day work week. They, the powers that be, want me to take some time off. I have too many weeks of vacation days to count. Hell, they probably wish I'd retire.</div>
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<b>tpg:</b> How old are you, Billie?</div>
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<b>Billie: </b>No comment. (laughing)</div>
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<b>tpg: </b>Fair enough. Thanks for this. See you next Sunday.</div>
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~tpg</div>
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<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-12907664764264425122013-10-01T11:47:00.000-07:002013-10-02T07:24:30.115-07:00Interview with a Two-InaHave Year Old<i>Obtaining and documenting oral histories (or herstories as the case may be) takes time. Not only does it take time, but it takes opportunity, some thought and luck. As I wait for the above mentioned components, in order to share with each of you a little slice of the human experience or "life on the street", I offer up the following interview with The Cousin. It is my first interview in hopefully an interesting series. The Cousin was born with her daddy's (abba) hairline on April 29, 2011. Her momma was in labor for god knows how many hours, but throughout the night. Thank Jesus the Royal Wedding was on to distract her. She was named after the matriarch of the family, their great aunt who was a retired nun. She was 97 years young when The Cousin was born. Her parents continue to give her, warmth, stability and love, crazy love...</i><br />
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tpg: "So you are two years old?"<br />
<br />
The Cousin: "No, Wallery. I am two-inahave."<br />
<br />
tpg: "Oh yes! You <em>are</em> two and a half!"<br />
<br />
tpg: "So, tell me what a two and a half year old likes to do."<br />
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The Cousin: "Well, I like to go to the park and play puzzles and I like to watch Cinderella."<br />
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tpg: "Do you get to watch Cinderella every day?"<br />
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The Cousin: "No, just a little bit." (holding up her right thumb and index finger to indicate about an inch)<br />
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tpg: "Why?"<br />
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The Cousin: "I dunno. Because momma and abba say not too much tv."<br />
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tpg: "How do you feel about that?"<br />
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The Cousin: "I feel mad about that because I love Cinderella and Gus and the Prince." (picking her nose.)<br />
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tpg: "What's your favorite part of Cinderella? Do you like the part when the mice make her dress? or when she cleans the floor? or when the pumpkin turns into a carriage?"<br />
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The Cousin: "No. I like the ball. I want to go to the ball. (running to the couch) Come on, Sweet Pea, let's dance..."(she pulls at her cousin who is content eating a cracker on the couch and shows great refusal.)<br />
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tpg: "Don't you also like taking pictures?"<br />
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Her Still Lifes:<br />
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tpg: "What's your favorite food to eat?"</div>
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The Cousin: "I like cookies and grapes. And raisins!"</div>
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tpg: "Do you like cinnamon?"</div>
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The Cousin: "Yes, I love cinnamon!" (big smile)</div>
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tpg: "Do you like chocolate?"</div>
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The Cousin: "Yes, I like chocolate. Can I have a cupcake from Uncle Matt's birthday?"</div>
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tpg: "How about a half of one?"</div>
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The Cousin: "No, Wallery. A whole one!"</div>
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The Cousin: "Can we go outside now?"</div>
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tpg: "Yes we can. Thanks for talking with me today."</div>
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The Cousin: "It's ok."</div>
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<i>Stay tune, readership, for interview # 2 next week...with a grown-up of interesting proportion.</i></div>
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<i>~tpg</i></div>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-12341017243632648122013-09-16T07:17:00.000-07:002013-09-16T07:17:05.042-07:00The Metamorphoses of a Blog<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you live in Monterey, then you know that summer begins in September. Tourists pile in by the thousands, beginning Memorial Day weekend and continue pouring in through Labor Day. They wear shorts, tank tops, sunglasses. They're equipped with beach umbrellas, coolers, rubber floaties.<br />
And to their surprise, they freeze their asses off because it's foggy as all hell May-August.<br />
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I can't get enough of this delicious sunshine. I can describe it much like Goldilocks described the 3 bowls of porridge she tasted at the bears' kitchen table..."This one is much too hot... This one is much too cold... But this one (Monterey) is just right." And it is. It's been a delightful 78-82 degrees for a couple of weeks and holding steady. <br />
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And I'm holding steady too. Holding steady to the unflappable truth that the only thing in life we can be certain of is change. I'm holding steady to dreams and personal ambitions as well, be they small, be they simple. I have a handful, as I'm sure all of you do. Mine tend to hover in the writing/photography, art and publishing realm. They're the kind of dreams, though, that have vivid, detailed beginnings; ones you easily recall upon waking, but whose endings fizzle away into incompletion with no recollection. <br />
I dream of a poem being published in The Sun Magazine or my screenplay being read by someone who matters. I daydream about my blog picking up a big corporate sponsor or two and actually earning bank for my writing. And yes, I dream about having "follow-through". I can't begin to imagine what that feels like. I've started 6 or more short stories, 3 children's books, a box full of interviews, a folder of photographs, stacks upon stacks of poetry. I've hoarded about 50 skateboards, that my dear mother-in-law picked up for me at yard sales for 2 bucks each, because I will in fact do artwork on them again one day. I'm the girl with the ideas. I'm the girl who could come up with a hundred business plans, but YOU, not me, will have to see the project through to the end.<br />
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I'm holding steady to the idea that I can move forward on some of these projects and if I don't? Well, if they all just spill out of my soul and into boxes, folders and computer hard drives, then at least I can say that the spilling brought me quiet satisfaction and released a part of me that needed to be un-caged at that moment. I'm particularly interested in interviews. I have this deeply rooted desire to ask and listen, ask and listen. I would like to interview individuals, one each week, for this blog. Simple people. Complex people. Misfits. Trend-setters. Whatever. The desire stems from a firm belief, that is wedged, etched, carved in my core; that individual lives, individual stories are worth hearing and are what truly matters.<br />
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Oh yes, I can spew about the economy, war versus peace, women's issues, lgbtq rights, animal abuse, poverty...but really, at the end of the day, it's an individual's experience that is worth remembering. Think of your own lives. Can we really recall points, figures, images as much as we can recall a conversation that moved us?<br />
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I have a hobby: I like to watch. ;) I can sit for hours on a park bench, at a bus station, in a coffeehouse and just watch people. My dream is to interview them, not just watch them. Kind of win their trust, open them up a bit with sincerity and charm, and then ask some interesting and important questions. Then, listen. Just listen to them, which is a skill in and of itself and sometimes challenging. I'd like to sit back and let them spill because most people like to spill. That spillage is the story, the significant piece of non-fiction that we can all relate to. Listening to individuals connects us as humans and frankly, we all need to feel connected.<br />
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There's a man, a black man with soft eyes and weathered skin. He always wears a red and charcoal flannel shirt and jeans, sometimes a baseball cap that's frayed around the edges. He usually can be spotted in front of the Starbucks in Seaside or at the bike trail where they hand out free meals each evening. His large cardboard sign reads, "VIETNAM VET. ANYTHING HELPS. GOD BLESS YOU." This man interests me. He intrigues me and his story is my story and your story. I feel as if I want to look into him, not simply at him from afar. Why, you ask? Because this man's experiences are part of a bigger tapestry whose threads stitch together the very fabric of<i> our </i>existence. Not just his! You see from afar, we can think, "Oh, I hope he's ok." or "I wonder if I have a buck to give him." or some might think, "He's probably not really a vet. What a gimmick." But to actually speak with him for 15 minutes, ask him his name, his opinions on various subjects, where he grew up and so on, might offer up an understanding and bring some enlightenment in the form of not just kindness but authentic connection.<br />
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It's perhaps the difference between looking out on a field of brown-skinned farmworkers and thinking, "Wow, that's difficult, back-breaking work" and sitting one-on-one with one of the workers, over coffee perhaps, and asking her about her life. It's the difference between noticing a store owner behind a counter and asking him how he's doing today. Sometimes, that's all it takes to spark a connection that brings people together. There in lies the understanding.<br />
There in lies the element of being human. <br />
This is my dream for my own personal growth and for this blog. Because by sharing those interactions/interviews with y'all, an even larger group of strangers unite in the commonality of being human. I've touched on this subject before, but never truly dissected it. I could, at best, compare it with dipping my toes in the ocean but never diving into the wave. I wanna dive into that wave now, head first! Could be frightening. Could hit hard on the ocean floor. Could tumble and crash against the rocks. It's a risk that I'm willing to take. I'm also listening to one of my best friends, who I can always count on to be straight-up with me. She told me, in so many words, that the blogs are getting a bit repetitive and that I had the ability to expand my writing, to venture out more. Her words, along with my personal desires and unfinished projects, have brought me to this moment.<br />
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Oh, don't panic! I will still be writing about the escapades of Sweet Pea and The Cousin! But there's small changes in the air for them too. The Cousin is about to have her world rocked, big time, with the arrival of a new sibling on September 30! (Hopefully, the child will be born with a safety helmet on.) And Sweet Pea's mom will soon be in transition and between jobs, so she will be home with Sweet Pea more...Where does that leave the nanny? Well, we met last night to discuss it and I basically said, "You're keeping me! End of story." But life <i>does </i>bring change and that we can depend on. I roll pretty well with change. Hell, I intentionally change my hairstyle and color every other month. It's awesome when I want to remain anonymous in a crowded room. So, beginning October, I begin my journey with them in new and changing ways. I'll still be bringing you the lowdown, just other things as well to kind of mix it up. Things like observations and hopefully, interviews. But those little girls, who have melted my heart, and yours, like butter in mama's skillet, will certainly be hanging around too.<br />
Perhaps, my first interview will be with The Cousin. Now that would prove insightful!<br />
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And readership, I'd love your feedback as my blog metamorphoses into new shapes, new conversations and explores unchartered waters. </div>
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To be continued...</div>
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~tpg</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"We be stylin"</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I love to get her to this manic state."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Baa Bee, that's the funniest joke I've heard in a long time."</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'll be back!"</td></tr>
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<br />Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4107737623514518595.post-44763464917227850822013-09-05T13:31:00.000-07:002013-09-05T13:31:03.664-07:00Running Wild and Looking Pretty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yesterday was rough. I'm talking Brillo pad. I was running on empty to begin with and they refused to take naps. </span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Now let me explain something to you about a 1.5 and 2.5 year old's refusal to rest their weary little heads. When toddlers refuse to take naps, it's quite frankly worse than building a bonfire inside an igloo. It sucks. It's chaos at its finest, and I embellish not when I say that the worst thing that explodes from every pore of their cute, pudgy, soft skin is a resounding, clear message of "I'M BOSS!"</span></b></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yes, there was a constant struggle yesterday for "boss rights" as 3 young, bright, talented women vied for this leading role. It seems these two didn't get the memo that the nanny is the boss, and apparently, they will do more than arm wrestle with each other, to maintain the crown...</span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; line-height: 21px;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And along with this boss thing and the bossy, irritating behavior that accompanies being the head hancha, is this personality characteristic of wildness that seemed to split at the seams for 9 hours straight.</span></b></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uFT8w0tWltU/UiizU4sAdJI/AAAAAAAACVM/_nYbF_qEz2w/s1600/IMG_1355.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uFT8w0tWltU/UiizU4sAdJI/AAAAAAAACVM/_nYbF_qEz2w/s320/IMG_1355.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm the captain of this ship."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2-NG3G71ROY/UiiwzYxfC-I/AAAAAAAACTs/Q1B8AiGM0I4/s1600/IMG_1293.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2-NG3G71ROY/UiiwzYxfC-I/AAAAAAAACTs/Q1B8AiGM0I4/s320/IMG_1293.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Let's have some fun!"</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h5gYsLeiEhk/UiixQAZN7II/AAAAAAAACT4/6cS5-tHjAlw/s1600/IMG_1335.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-h5gYsLeiEhk/UiixQAZN7II/AAAAAAAACT4/6cS5-tHjAlw/s320/IMG_1335.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Say what?"</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;">Danger in the shape of something wild<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Stranger dressed in black, she's a hungry child<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />No one knows who she is or what her name is<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />I don't know where she came from or what her game is</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"></span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S8zchiyJb-0/Uiiw0M9Tc3I/AAAAAAAACT0/ZhcZAw7DU4A/s1600/IMG_1304.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-S8zchiyJb-0/Uiiw0M9Tc3I/AAAAAAAACT0/ZhcZAw7DU4A/s320/IMG_1304.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aKz0OHXLaBQ/UiiywWb2B0I/AAAAAAAACU4/bzkzyRBpua4/s1600/IMG_1348.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-aKz0OHXLaBQ/UiiywWb2B0I/AAAAAAAACU4/bzkzyRBpua4/s320/IMG_1348.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This will really drive her crazy."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3_C0R-XdM5k/UiiyEvcFLdI/AAAAAAAACUI/CEdX5mCI8i0/s1600/IMG_1345.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3_C0R-XdM5k/UiiyEvcFLdI/AAAAAAAACUI/CEdX5mCI8i0/s320/IMG_1345.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"No, Baa Bee! It's not clean-up time."</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;">Hot child in the city</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;">Hot child in the city</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;"><br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;">Runnin' wild and looking pretty</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;">Hot child in the city</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z9ub_1Yg0q8/Uii1ZzqyETI/AAAAAAAACVY/FlZqUPdHaYQ/s1600/IMG_1299.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-z9ub_1Yg0q8/Uii1ZzqyETI/AAAAAAAACVY/FlZqUPdHaYQ/s320/IMG_1299.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Give me the damn doll."</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Things were basically crumbling by 10:00 a.m. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;">Why I suggested making Playdoh as our project is beyond me. </span></div>
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<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/-hxGagEzAflk/Uiji5-a2pNI/AAAAAAAACVs/uWVrWMyeQz0/s1600/IMG_1322.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hxGagEzAflk/Uiji5-a2pNI/AAAAAAAACVs/uWVrWMyeQz0/s320/IMG_1322.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm having little voices in my head telling me where to toss this flour."<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ROKzHs6jjYQ/Uiiypf1cjAI/AAAAAAAACUw/mu8qgT6t9pQ/s1600/IMG_1347.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ROKzHs6jjYQ/Uiiypf1cjAI/AAAAAAAACUw/mu8qgT6t9pQ/s320/IMG_1347.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"And you don't take me seriously because? </td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;">Hot child in the city</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: 500; line-height: 20px;">(Hot child in the city)<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />She's kinda dangerous<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />(Hot child in the city)<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Young child<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />(Runnin' wild and lookin' pretty)<br style="border-bottom-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-left-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-right-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); border-top-color: rgb(153, 153, 136); color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; font-weight: 700; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;" />Young child, runnin' wild</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 14px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444433; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><br /></span></span></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zvmDG4JUFzw/UiiySK3JAaI/AAAAAAAACUQ/DMLMMcSMwxg/s1600/IMG_1319.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zvmDG4JUFzw/UiiySK3JAaI/AAAAAAAACUQ/DMLMMcSMwxg/s320/IMG_1319.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Naps are for sissies."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Wv-lNYCBYDA/UiizRsq4MSI/AAAAAAAACVI/NEk1r-anOK8/s1600/IMG_1386.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Wv-lNYCBYDA/UiizRsq4MSI/AAAAAAAACVI/NEk1r-anOK8/s320/IMG_1386.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"This is the closest you'll get to changing my diaper."</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1iJnx4UHQTs/UiizJngPVKI/AAAAAAAACVA/uajsTK9dyWg/s1600/IMG_1339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1iJnx4UHQTs/UiizJngPVKI/AAAAAAAACVA/uajsTK9dyWg/s320/IMG_1339.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I'm done with highchairs."</td></tr>
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Truthfully, I felt my control slipping away from the minute the moms left for work. The Cousin's mom hasn't limited her television time and, of course, the first thing out of her mouth when her mom left was, <i>"Wallery, can I watch Caillou?"</i> I exerted my control, mentally patting myself on the back for the boundaries I was putting forth. Well, she threw the biggest f@#king tantrum that could be heard three blocks away.</div>
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You know if you give in when the tantrum arrives, it's all over people. They own you.</div>
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So I held my ground, tried to bring out the new wood puzzles, bowls of blueberries, ANYTHING to gain jurisdiction over the situation. Things did calm eventually.<br />
<br />
I was a wild kid too. Well, I had my days. My mom once told me when I was two, I used to roll down the backseat car window and throw my books out. And she, being a new mom, would pull off to the side of the road and fetch them for her sweet daughter. Evidently, this continued for a while and then one day, my mom just kept driving. I guess my tantrum was epic. And you can probably guess; I never threw my books out the window again.<br />
My wildness took a hiatus through high school, as I became "born-again" and spent my free time giving out Bibles at the local mall.<br />
(You can't be too wild when you're telling people they need to be saved.)<br />
But I found my wild child again in my late twenties and throughout my thirties. WHEW! Welcome back, baby! Those were fun times; wild, free and fearless.<br />
Many of you know what I'm talking about and here's the thing. Whether these two girls are wild or mellow or a pleasant combination of both, I'll surely be along for the ride.<br />
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Here's a few quotes by a few famous folks with regard to wildness.</div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;">"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">I was a sloppy kid, wanted to be just wild."~Etta James</span></b><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><span><b> </b></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: -webkit-auto;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>“Some prefer the wildness. Some the calm. There's enough of both in the world for everyone to have their choice. And enough time for any to change their mind.” </b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #676767; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; line-height: 18px;"><b>~Nora Roberts</b></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>"Take a walk on the wild side."~ Lou Reed<span><br /></span></b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>"I'd like more of the world to go back to being wild."~ Hayao Miyazaki</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">And one more for y'all. Perhaps, the one I'm secretly hoping will stick.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">~tpg </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><b>"I need this wild life, this freedom."~ Zane Grey</b></span></div>
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Valerie Fernhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04098943497558760020noreply@blogger.com0