tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57775729212512535262024-03-12T21:47:15.941-07:00Sardines in a CanThis blog began when I chronicled a 3-week family vacation pulling our travel trailer from Texas to Northern California. Packed in with our five unschooled children like sardines in a can, we made it to California without resorting to cannibalism. In fact, we had a great time! So the chronicle continues... no longer on vacation but still groovin' on a great journey.Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.comBlogger250125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-25133709547920632732014-05-20T19:26:00.001-07:002014-05-20T19:28:24.495-07:00Haunted<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She sat with me, resting in the silent wake of chaos that had been our week. Her semester was over, summer break had begun, and she was…visiting.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I wanted to think she was <em>home. </em><span style="font-size: 13px;">But she’d</span> arrived with only her dirty laundry and a dress to wear to her boyfriend’s college graduation. All of the boxes and laundry hampers full of stuff that usually arrived with her were sitting in a new apartment six hours away.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It was Mother’s Day.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">We had planted new flowers and shrubs in the front yard and were enjoying the fruits of our labor from the freshly swept porch. A southern breeze enticed low, melodious notes from the new wind chime hanging above our heads. The front pasture was spread out before us, green from recent rains and mild temperatures, a refreshing sight during the current drought. She was lost in thought, staring at the pasture with a half-smile on her lips. I followed her gaze to see what she saw.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Ah. It was the ghosts again.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A small blond girl skipped through the pasture, both hands clutching wildflowers. She wore jeans and a striped shirt—<em>I only like plain clothes, Mama—</em>and a little boy followed behind. He paused to pick a flower and stuck it behind his ear. Then he continued along the cow trail, walking carefully with both arms out to his sides. He didn’t want the flower to fall.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><em><br /></em></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><em>Watch out for rattlesnakes! Don’t step in fire ants! </em>These were warnings I wanted to yell. The ghostly apparitions always bring a tightening in my chest, a need to protect them, hold onto them, keep them from fading away…</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The little girl stopped to admonish the boy. He had frightened off a rabbit. Or maybe it was the cry of the baby, or the screeches of their younger brother. He offered her a flower, and they continued on their way.</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">There was so much to do. Would they head for the rope swings in the big tree? Maybe they would climb the tree and make heart-stopping jumps with the swings between their legs—flying, flying like the hawks that hunt in the fields. Or would they head to one of the ponds in search of frogs and tadpoles? Maybe they’d go to their secret hideout in the cattle pens—the one they thought I didn’t know about. They skipped away, trailing giggles behind them.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A lump formed in my throat. I looked at the young woman at my side, so strong and beautiful and self-assured. There were hardly any traces of the little blond girl. I had a question to ask. I <em style="font-size: 16px;">thought</em><em style="font-size: 16px;"> </em>I knew the answer, but I wasn’t entirely sure. Because sometimes when I see the ghosts of the children, I also see the ghost of woman, and she’s tired and frustrated and low on patience. She thinks she will always be exhausted, that they will always be needy and noisy and that nobody in the house will ever sleep through the night. <em>Stupid woman!</em> <em>They aren’t even the same as they were a minute ago. Can’t she see time rushing past her? Literally washing over her and taking their precious little voices and tiny hands with it?</em></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My voice strained as I finally asked, “Was it a good childhood here? I mean, was it<em>mostly</em> good?”</span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">
<span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">She looked at me and smiled. “I was just thinking that it was,” she said.</span></div>
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 16px; line-height: 22px;">With one last glance at the pasture, she stood to go inside and gather her laundry. It was time to head home.</span></span></span>Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-46171505582478298592014-02-22T10:20:00.001-08:002014-02-22T10:20:59.477-08:00Because I'm a Professional<br />
This is awkward. It's been so long -- I feel as if we hardly know each other. We've drifted apart...people change...it's not you, it's me...let's still be friends...oh wait- what am I doing? I ALMOST JUST BROKE UP WITH YOU GUYS.<br />
<br />
So it has been a long time. I've been very busy with <strike>Facebook</strike> important projects and <strike>Twitter</strike> taking care of home and family. Also, remember that little novel I wrote? I whined about it all the time (I realize I whine with such regularity that you might need to concentrate in order to remember the novel-whining). I whined about writing it. I whined about editing it. I whined about revising it. I whined about querying it. I whined that it would never be published....GUESS WHAT?<br />
<br />
It's under contract with a publisher. (I did not put an exclamation mark in that sentence because I'm totally calm, cool, and collected about all this and also my editor has made me terrified of exclamation marks - I wear this collar around my neck and when I type in an exclamation mark it shocks me.)<br />
<br />
I'll tell you more as the release date approaches. In the meantime, I'm still the same person. I'll be blogging about writing at my new author website (possibly launching March 1, 2014). As for Sardines in a Can, it will remain the same old blog it's always been. I will, however, attempt to project a more professional image. No more exclamation marks!! A REDUCTION IN THE FREQUENCY OF ALL-CAPS!! No pictures of my kids or dogs!! No more making fun of Rick Perry!!<br />
<br />
Let's start with Rick Perry. Actually, no, let's start with Greg Abbott, who is quite possibly/very likely going to be our next governor of this here Great State of Texas. The dude has been hanging with Ted Nugent. And people are all riled up about Ted Nugent because HE'S CRAZY. But personally, I love Ted and I love it even more when politicians use him to talk to The Commoners. I mean - gosh - it's just so uncomfortable and delightfully awkward. When Ted opens his mouth Abbott visibly flinches...you can just see him praying <i>Dear God please don't let him say anything about Mexicans or sweet poontang just let him talk about guns please please please please God - just guns.</i> <i>And maybe Obama. Guns and Obama. </i><br />
<br />
The family values gang loves Ted, too. He performs for crowds of rally-goers, folks with their hands in the air like they don't care, thoroughly enjoying their first concert experience, wondering when the next album will be out (never), and enjoying the lyrics about female genitalia while thinking about what a great role model Uncle Ted is for the kids.<br />
<br />
We're going to be seeing more of Ted Nugent in Texas over the next few months and this makes me a happy girl. I realize there's something wrong with that.<br />
<br />
Let's see - before I start projecting more professionalism, let's sneak in one more pet picture. This is my dog Napoleon.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJOqXKWOyGKHqnLAiIlRO6OutFFtWiHcaTAXIEAZ-hDFn3xSmk96o3UlyrZ99YrcTpZioy5VLggSY9iV7jIFNX4E3IinCwQ6o__xUGcN3kiVSLQC0ajg5IdGY8Ijrn4cn0fxRX-r3_QE/s1600/P3250126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwJOqXKWOyGKHqnLAiIlRO6OutFFtWiHcaTAXIEAZ-hDFn3xSmk96o3UlyrZ99YrcTpZioy5VLggSY9iV7jIFNX4E3IinCwQ6o__xUGcN3kiVSLQC0ajg5IdGY8Ijrn4cn0fxRX-r3_QE/s1600/P3250126.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
And kids. I realize I never posted Joel's un-graduation photo on the blog (and there have been a few requests) so here it is. And yes, he's wearing a smoking jacket and ascot. Also - yes - that is a bearskin rug.<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
"Putting the Class in 2013"</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPujsf5W9dj4W-fvUbT_5oA9ocnRsOF0r82vhuCOjGwEF6mCn4sTCTMY2b3v-Jvk0Uvdfyz8u18nCE6uBpheHa5vCFI9XeuzP4KUgxMiXYOe1j6Go0VCyMkVzqLRFQlIwRuo1NY_Cqoj8/s1600/joel+on+bear.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPujsf5W9dj4W-fvUbT_5oA9ocnRsOF0r82vhuCOjGwEF6mCn4sTCTMY2b3v-Jvk0Uvdfyz8u18nCE6uBpheHa5vCFI9XeuzP4KUgxMiXYOe1j6Go0VCyMkVzqLRFQlIwRuo1NY_Cqoj8/s1600/joel+on+bear.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
That's all I got for now, folks. It was great visiting with you again<strike>!!!</strike>. Let's stay in touch<strike>!!!</strike>.<iframe allowtransparency="true" frameborder="0" scrolling="no" src="http://www.facebook.com/plugins/like.php?href=www.sardinesinacan.blogspot.com&layout=standard&show_faces=true&width=450&action=like&font=arial&colorscheme=light&height=80" style="border-style: none; height: 80px; overflow: hidden; width: 450px;"></iframe><br />
<br />Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-53416183463029193852013-10-22T16:41:00.002-07:002013-10-22T16:45:43.138-07:00Binders Full of Women<i>*I promise this isn't political. It's just a really clever title (if I do say so myself).</i><br />
<br />
While cleaning out some bookshelves, I came across a stack of organizational binders. They were covered in dust and I had no idea what was lurking inside. It turns out they were binders full of women.<br />
<br />
And all the women were <i>Me</i>.<br />
<br />
You see, I've gone through many phases in my forty-eight years, and I think I've bought organizational binders for each and every one of them.<br />
<br />
With a little hesitancy, I decided to through them. I was surprised by the first binder. It was full of coupons. COUPONS. When did I ever collect coupons? I had no recollection of ever having collected coupons. But there they were, staring me in the face, along with notes about upcoming MOMS Club meetings, playgroups, and reminders about all sorts of things. (One rather ominous reminder was written in bold, frantic letters and said - REMIND JOEL TO RELEASE THE FROGS!!!!)<br />
<br />
This was the binder of my Young Mom With Small Children Stage. I'd like to say it was filled with laughter and happy memories, and it was -- a little. But it was also filled with melancholy and regret. Maybe even remorse. Because that was the phase where I was at my very best AND my very worst. It was the phase of unfathomable fatigue, worry, and stress. And immeasurable wonder, joy, and awe.<br />
<br />
Coupons. I didn't care about coupons. I was a lonely, often frantic, and completely lost young woman seeking contact with other young women who might also be feeling a bit lonely, frantic, and lost. I attended MOMS Club meetings, scrapbooking get-togethers, and parties where hostesses sold candles and cookware. And obviously, at some point, I went to some coupon-clipping gatherings. (I have a vague recollection of listening to a woman extol the virtues of saving 25 cents on a case of shampoo.)<br />
<br />
But all I was really doing was searching.<br />
<br />
For myself.<br />
<br />
I wanted to crawl into that binder and find myself back in 1999. Maybe I'd say:<br />
<br />
<i>Hey Girl - I know you're bored out of your mind. I know you don't give a rat's ass about saving 25 cents on shampoo if you buy it by the case because you're wondering if there's enough money in your checking account to put gas in the car so you can get yourself and your three kids home. I know you wish that lady would shut up about the shampoo and talk about something Meaningful. And Real. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Like how much you miss yourself.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I see you sitting there in your folding metal chair - YOU - the former fashion design major who ended up with a marketing degree because it got you out of school faster. You're wearing a shapeless blouse designed for breastfeeding and a pair of truly awful mom jeans. You're sadly looking forward to tomorrow because Spin Doctors are going to be on Sesame Street. I know that you wouldn't necessarily even like Spin Doctors if it weren't for the fact that you're so sick to death of Raffi. (I saw you throw that cassette out the window in front of a backseat audience of stunned pre-schoolers because you just couldn't handle Wheels on the Bus....</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>One</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>More</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Time.) </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I know you still dream of leather pants, pink hair, and mosh pits. And that you wonder if it was all a dream. If YOU are just somebody's dream and when they wake up - you'll be gone forever.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Poof.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I know you feel like you're stranded in an alternate universe where your hair stays nondescript and you're cutting grapes in half so nobody chokes....for all eternity.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Let me tell you some things. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>You will not be listening to Wheels on the Bus forever. The six-year-old at your feet is going to someday</i><i> text you a picture of Jack White on stage with the message of "Look how close I am, Mom!" She's going to play Franz Ferdinand on her guitar until you think maybe you'd prefer Wheels on the Bus. She's going to </i><i>go to college on a full music scholarship and play on Big Stages in front of Lots of People and you will clap your hands as your heart threatens to explode inside your chest. It will beat more wildly than it ever did at any rock concert. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And the boy? The four-year-old? He's going to drive you around in his car, making you a captive audience as he tries to turn you into a Russian pop fan. And you will not get Russian pop.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>At all.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He's going to cry tears of joy with you as Beastie Boys and Red Hot Chili Peppers are simultaneously inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. OH MY GOD--YES, WOMAN--RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS IN THE HALL OF FAME!!! Who the hell saw that coming? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That little boy is going to grow up to be taller than you by a long shot, and he's going to turn to you at a Jane's Addiction concert and say, "Thanks for bringing me, Mom!" And you're going to have a rocking awesome time at the Jane's Addiction concert -- and I promise you that Dave Navarro will look exactly the same as he does today, which is both hot and borderline creepy -- and you won't even mind the migraine you get on the way home. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And the baby nursing at your breast? He's going to be into Techno. Hardcore Techno. He's also going to idolize Moby and you're going to love him for idolizing Moby. Also? You're going to get tired of Moby. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>I know that as he nurses you feel as if he's sucking the life out of you. Literally sucking you dry until there's nothing left. I promise you that you'll get it all back. For every ounce he's draining, he'll give back tenfold. He's a deep thinker, a ponderer, and he'll be a talker. He'll teach you to think in a new way - and it will fill you up until you think you can't take anymore.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>But you can.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He will take the Middle Child Thing seriously - the kid will take getting attention to new and previously unheard of levels....</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Oh, wait.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned that he's a middle child. I'm not sure you can handle knowing that there are two more coming...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>In fact, I know you can't handle that right now. But since I let it slip, let me assure you that you'll be BETTER with them. You will be more patient. You will be kinder. You will not worry that everything is permanent, because by then, you'll know it's not.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Everything is FAR from permanent. In fact, it's the opposite of permanent. And you will be PRESENT and ALIVE and GRATEFUL. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also? That little dream you're quietly nurturing about writing a novel...you should totally do that. It will be published in May of 2014.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
That's what I would have told myself.<br />
<br />
I yanked the coupons and calendars and memos out of the binder and threw them away.<br />
<br />
It was like exhaling after holding your breath for a decade.<br />
<br />
I picked up the next binder and dusted it off. Scattered throughout the pages and pages of schedules and routines and lessons and homeschooling curriculum were articles about dyslexia. There was an article about auditory processing disorder...with question marks scribbled all across the top. This one was (short pause for dramatic effect) the What Are We Going to Do About Joel Binder.<br />
<br />
If I crawled into that binder, I'd probably find myself sitting at the kitchen table staring helplessly at a little boy with a bowl haircut. He makes all kinds of noises as he leads several pencils into battle against some erasers. He doesn't use many words, just lots and lots of sound effects. He grins up at me, and I grab the pencils away in frustration. We're trying to do math.<br />
<br />
"Let's try this another way," I say, while spreading out four of the pencils. "If you have four pencils, can you give someone six of them? Do you REALLY think you can do that? I mean, dude, look at this. There are four. FOUR. One, two, three, four. You cannot give away six when there are only four."<br />
<br />
The boy runs off and returns, happily holding more pencils. "Now we can, Mama!" He slams the pencils down on the table. "Now we can have all the pencils we want!"<br />
<br />
I want to tell myself:<br />
<br />
<i>First of all, calm the hell down. I mean, I'm working really hard not to call you a bitch here -- I'm giving you the benefit of a doubt because you're short on confidence and heavy on the anxiety. Look at your adorable kid. He's a natural problem solver. A brilliant and creative problem solver. He did just solve the pencil problem, no? Also? There was no effing pencil problem to begin with. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is going to make it to adulthood without eventually grasping that you can't take six pencils away if you only have four to begin with. There is no emergency situation where you simply must know that by first grade in order to save the universe. You know what will save the universe? Creative problem solving.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Also - you're right about the dyslexia. He's got it. In the words of a diagnostician you'll meet in a few years, "He's got it bad!" And those little question marks you wrote on that article about auditory processing disorder? Bingo. Jackpot. He's got that too. He also has integrative and expressive language disorders. I'm not telling you all this to freak you out or anything. Because I PROMISE everything will be fine. He'll be reading in two languages by the time he's 18 - and you'll understand most of what he says and he'll understand most of what you say and the times you don't understand each other will usually be hilarious. All that stuff in the binder? The sooner you throw it out, the better. The curriculum isn't going to work. You're going to frustrate yourself (and him) by trying to force a round peg into a square hole. Forget about sending him back to school - he's not going. In fact, you're going to end up homeschooling the whole lot of them.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>This child is kind. He is thoughtful. He is freaking hilarious. He will sail through his teen years with a grin on his face, surrounded by friends you adore. He is going to be super handsome, insanely intelligent, ridiculously creative, and you know what's the best part? He's going to be HAPPY. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>He's not, however, going to adhere to that ridiculous schedule you've got in the back of the binder. Just ditch it. You know the one...it starts out: 7:30 - Breakfast....</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>That is never going to happen. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I ripped the pages out of that binder and set it aside with relief.<br />
<br />
The last binder still sat on the shelf. I didn't really want to open it because I knew the iceberg of fear it contained. It's only been about a year since it's melted. It was given to me by a friend during what was probably the worst phase of my life.<br />
<br />
I opened it. The first thing I saw was a medical report:<br />
<br />
<i>The patient is a 7-year-old boy who presents with moderate to severe hearing loss....</i><br />
<br />
Next up was a radiology report. It had lots of big words in it - but most they all amounted to two words: brain tumor.<br />
<br />
The binder was supposed to help me keep organized after Jules' initial diagnosis so I wouldn't be confused by the many doctor visits, lab reports,and appointments of every kind. It was filled with stuff - none of it organized because hello! This was ME. And it was ME in an emergency. That's the very worst kind of me.<br />
<br />
In addition to all of the tumor info, there were articles on hearing impairment. And autism. **<i>I warned myself way back in the first binder that this kid was going to take Middle Child Syndrome to new heights.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
This one was hard. I think if I could crawl inside and go back to myself in the Stage of Hysteria, I would just fall apart all over again. I don't think I'd be of any help to myself at all. But maybe I would at least manage to say this:<br />
<br />
<i>Jules does not have a genetic disorder that will lead to more tumors. The people you're dealing with do not know what they're talking about. In fact, when Jules has surgery to finally remove the darn thing when he's fourteen - you'll discover it isn't even the type of tumor they're saying it is. This is the one and only tumor, it will be removed safely, and it will not come back. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The first thing Jules will say when he comes out of anesthesia is, "It's not my problem." </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>It's a joke. You'll get it at the time. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And then you'll cry. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>A few days later you'll leave that hospital wanting to faint from the enormity of the relief.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>You're not cursed. You're blessed. Unbelievably blessed.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Now please try to act like it.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I don't have any more binders. My life is contained in folders and files within a phone. Or in files or folders within a laptop. Just like the binders, they're bursting with good intentions and schemes -- with hopes and dreams.<br />
<br />
What woman will I be in ten or fifteen years?<br />
<br />
Here's hoping for <i>wiser. </i>And ten pounds lighter would be nice too.Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-58346754039986566192013-08-26T18:55:00.001-07:002013-08-26T18:55:16.935-07:00Martyrdom: It Can Be Tasty<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
We went to the beach for a week and now I need a vacation. <br />
<br />
I have never been a good Vacation Mom Martyr. I was always like, "Dudes! Get a grip, I'M ON VACATION." My husband comes closer to being a good Vacation Mom Martyr with all of his running around getting this and that for everyone and hammering in umbrellas and EZ-Ups and hauling chairs and ice chests, yada yada--only I'm not sure you can be considered a martyr if you're ENJOYING it. And he seems to kind of enjoy it. I know - weird. Maybe that's how gentiles suffer. Like, he's TRYING to suffer but he just keeps grinning and ruining the effect. <br />
<br />
We had a lot of people on our vacation. The official number was More Than Our Condo Could Comfortably (or legally) Hold. We had pads and mattresses spread out all over the floor because having an 80-something-year-old grandpa navigating the floor wasn't already precarious enough. None of my kids will share a bed. Not with each other, and even though we attachment parented and co-slept and everyone said we'd never get them out of our bed, not with us, either. And they won't sleep with their grandfather, probably because they're afraid he'll die in his sleep and who wants to wake up to that? We had to take several vehicles, and my sister's air conditioner went out in her car on the way up. No prob - it was only 106. Also? My sister knows how to suffer. Good lord I thought we'd never hear the end of it. <br />
<br />
The first night was Ellie's 21st birthday (GULP HOW DID THAT HAPPEN?) and we went to our favorite little island restaurant that serves up mediocre Italian food. It's a vacay tradition. The service was super slow, so we were forced to drink copious amounts of wine while we waited for our tepid pasta. Turns out Ellie is a mean drunk. Who knew? Anyway, she wasn't going to stay the entire week, but then her grandpa began the ever-so-subtle This Could Be My Last Vacation Talk, so she was guilted into staying. My dad comes by this guilting naturally. My grandmother used to bid me farewell by saying, "The next time you see me, I'll be in the box." I never knew what that meant. I kept waiting to come to her house and find a Big(!) Fun(!) Refrigerator Box(!) but it never happened. Then, at her funeral, my cousin said, "Oh my God, she's in the box." <br />
<br />
Back to martyrdom. Martyr Moms are always prepared for any emergency. They give up their own precious personal time that could be spent watching True Blood in order to pack orderly first aid kits and make sure everyone's sandwiches are ready for the next day - God love 'em. My kids were always amazed by the Playground Martyr Moms - those organized moms with the perpetual supply of juice boxes and bandaids. They'd flock to them like seagulls to a chum bucket, hoping to snag the extra box of goldfish crackers or the occasional spare fruit roll-up that the Martyr Mom had brought along in case of an emergency. <br />
<br />
I was never prepared. For anything. My diaper bag was basically a trashcan on a strap, nary a diaper or wipe to be found. Rocks, receipts, and melted Burt's Bees lip balms? I had plenty of that and nobody ever wanted it, but I faithfully dragged it around wherever we went anyway. <br />
<br />
So you can see why, after twenty-one years of Low Bar Parenting, I'm excited to share my Beachside Healthy Lunches! That's right - while everyone else hurried down to the beach, I stayed behind and slaved over lunch! It was truly inspiring. I was beautiful in my suffering. After slicing, dicing, stuffing, and packing, I'd schlep my burden across the hot sand to the beach and say, "I sure hope I'm not disturbing anyone's fun by sweating beneath this dead weight of hummus pitas I made myself!" <br />
<br />
I'm so impressed with my efforts, I'm going to post Actual Pictures and Recipes. HOLD ONTO YOUR BEACH HATS. Here it comes.... <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0VrbtRRtOqo5MwpaOhVbv_tWu8Ec0gAfs3Qm5hv0C0QPYpcsKRNETUGTZrEtpBfg6wKgFk0ICcyQypJSTj8tDIAAhB2UeiknMzyF6rB9ycXjhzz01pRX5s2xYFo9uz6JiX5kjlmIPJo/s1600/beach+food+pita.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" osa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ0VrbtRRtOqo5MwpaOhVbv_tWu8Ec0gAfs3Qm5hv0C0QPYpcsKRNETUGTZrEtpBfg6wKgFk0ICcyQypJSTj8tDIAAhB2UeiknMzyF6rB9ycXjhzz01pRX5s2xYFo9uz6JiX5kjlmIPJo/s400/beach+food+pita.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
We're talking homemade hummus and kale butter pitas with avocados, cucumbers, lettuce and red onion. Once filled, they slid beautifully right back into the pita bag - I just zipped them up and they were ready to go. You can use any old hummus recipe - there are zillions - but the kale butter is what makes it. All you do is steam a bunch of kale, stick it in a blender with 1/2 cup of walnuts, some salt, and enough water to get the consistency you want and whoala! An awesome sandwich spread for any Martyrdom Occasion.</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zu2nic9lwopSOIDS9p_13ngsI9i2Cyi7ZQzK1gpCeuzfYOTmwxFI_VoJ3fi8M9Np-LZLH7cjNBY6xxjO-B5FZnveKHLbqLj0xlA5brB5TvSUaNqg6I4dQFtJFXhGaWxwOj9_gsQppzs/s1600/beach+food+bean+salad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" osa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2zu2nic9lwopSOIDS9p_13ngsI9i2Cyi7ZQzK1gpCeuzfYOTmwxFI_VoJ3fi8M9Np-LZLH7cjNBY6xxjO-B5FZnveKHLbqLj0xlA5brB5TvSUaNqg6I4dQFtJFXhGaWxwOj9_gsQppzs/s400/beach+food+bean+salad.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
And here we have the ever-so-popular Black Bean Salad. There are many variations on this staple recipe, but basically mine consists of black beans, corn, cilantro, tomatos, red onion, and avocados. A little salt, lime juice, and olive oil finishes it off. I packed in individual plastic containers with screw-on lids. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizygBBkpLM_K3KESUXtn-yrFT9E8cq8YTeta9KvQMeNxM7Uqyz_q0LkfC5x6Q5BH2ern7fEqkfRsDkfgBNgd3czduypz6-00X3X-MdAoq-ehqvXsIsiKou5HaYjXMZMhkyeEuuvO_QVE/s1600/beach+food+tacos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" osa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjizygBBkpLM_K3KESUXtn-yrFT9E8cq8YTeta9KvQMeNxM7Uqyz_q0LkfC5x6Q5BH2ern7fEqkfRsDkfgBNgd3czduypz6-00X3X-MdAoq-ehqvXsIsiKou5HaYjXMZMhkyeEuuvO_QVE/s400/beach+food+tacos.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
Finally, I quickly (and with a smile) rolled and folded some pinto bean tacos. I'd like to say the pinto beans are homemade by ME - but the truth is - Jeff (hubs) makes them. These are a staple in our house - he cooks them in a pressure cooker and then processes them until smooth. The kids dip into them with chips, roll them up in tacos, or grill them for quesadillas. And we also keep some whole for those of us who prefer them over rice. Anyway - these beans were spread onto tortillas along with tomatos, guacamole, and pickled jalapenos. Jasper prefers his "plain" so his are the rolls on the left - just the beans and nothing but the beans. </div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">
I loved packing these lunches for my family. We're plant-based and we try to avoid processed foods as much as possible. These were relatively easy to prepare (even for a martyr such as myself), delicious, and seriously good for you. Who needs crinkly bags of junk when you can have some truly flavorful om noms?</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">
When we got back to the condo, we all enjoyed bowls of refreshing Chia Mango Pudding. I realize it looks like frog eggs, by the way. But it tastes really great.</div>
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcPn78ytQ1T6e7mvbMvVK5Wii59Zl80_qssAw7IMnP3gP6s3UQeZdS5NuXQ0HGLNrNzpW6oHKwjdh6hWPb7QH1UwOifYJunzfBJvI7WF6E59uAMI3Ml2rX2-k_PtUEsdnS1NI6_m-oZs/s1600/beach+food+chia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" osa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQcPn78ytQ1T6e7mvbMvVK5Wii59Zl80_qssAw7IMnP3gP6s3UQeZdS5NuXQ0HGLNrNzpW6oHKwjdh6hWPb7QH1UwOifYJunzfBJvI7WF6E59uAMI3Ml2rX2-k_PtUEsdnS1NI6_m-oZs/s400/beach+food+chia.jpg" width="298" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
4 Tbls of chia seeds, 2 cups of almond/coconut milk, 1 or 2 mangos (diced) and enough agave to meet the needs of your sweet tooth. You mix it all up, stick it in the fridge to chill, and it magically turns into delightfully tasty frog eggs.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I hope you enjoyed my attempt at being a Foodie. I'm not a great Foodie because of the general effort involved, but I'm happy to share my sub-par-ness with you. If I can do it, anyone can! So what are you waiting for? Make some kale butter GOSH. Some of you martyrs are School Lunch Martyrs, right? Get to it! Just think of how you can make all the moms who sent Lunchables feel like crappola! Screw that Homeroom Mom crap - you can one-up everyone with spectacular lunches. I wouldn't know what that feels like because my kids don't go to school and we're pretty much sleeping while y'all are worrying over the packed lunch nonsense - but I imagine it might feel pretty good!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-54323609864852656882013-06-06T18:50:00.000-07:002013-06-06T18:50:01.358-07:00When We Paddled to the SeaI didn't think it was going to happen this time. I really didn't. <br />
<br />
Y'all remember how I carried on some when Ellie graduated, right? All that blubbery where-has-the-time-gone nonsense? Well, Joel has technically graduated. I say <em>technically </em>because not only has he been homeschooled, he's been unschooled. In fact, I'm not sure he knows he's graduated. <em>*Note to self: Inform Joel he's graduated.</em><br />
<br />
Whereas Ellie desserted me and left for college, Joel will be hanging around for at least a couple of years. In the fall he'll be attending a community college to study Film. Currently, he's lifeguarding and he has Big Plans that include Bartending School because OF COURSE HE DOES. <br />
<br />
It's been less stressful than when Ellie graduated -- no testing or application processing or compiling of educational portfolios. Although, the community college website with it's 1,000,000 words in seemingly no logical order and indiscriminate use of the words <em>and </em>and <em>or....THEY DO NOT MEAN THE SAME THING COMMUNITY COLLEGE, </em>I might need a stiff drink. Which is no problem because hey - my son is about to become an Alcoholic Beverage Mixology Specialist.<em> </em><br />
<br />
Anyway, back to how well I was doing. I was doing spectacularly well with the not crying and the not weeping and the not wanting to sing "Regrets, I've Had a Few...." But then - THEN - I came across <em>Paddle to the Sea </em>while looking for another book. I flipped it open, and dang, the sting hit my eyes immediately. <br />
<br />
When I first began homeschooling, it was just Joel. He's the <em>reason </em>we homeschool. Diagnosed with more communication and learning disabilities than one can comfortably store in short-term memory - school didn't work too well for him. And I didn't know how to homeschool him, either. But I knew how to hang out with him. I knew how to laugh and dream with him. And I knew how to read to him. So I did all of those things. A lot. <br />
<br />
<em>Paddle to the Sea</em> was our first "school book." It was a time of late mornings and slow afternoons. It was soft, comfy chairs and scratchy green grass...tadpoles and turtles...Batman and soccer games. It was when we slowly gained our confidence--in ourselves and in each other. With a school full of people who didn't know what to do, a specialist who said Joel might never learn to read, and family and friends who questioned our choices, all we had was ourselves in those early days of <em>Paddle to the Sea. </em>And no matter how scared I became, no matter how uncertain...Joel remained a ray of sunshine lighting the darkest corners.<br />
<br />
Joel can not only read, he can read in two languages. He's written scripts, won awards for extreme creativity, and he's competed on an international level in creative problem solving. He's made goofy movies with his friends, and he's worked as a Grip in Training on a real short film. He's a certified lifeguard and a black belt in tae kwon do. In short, he's a success.<br />
<br />
I did that.<br />
<br />
When Ellie graduated, I felt a sense of panic over all the things I thought I hadn't done. <em>Ellie, </em>I said. <em>I didn't take you to enough museums. I should have taken you to more museums....</em> It went on and on. I don't know why I felt that way. With all of her accomplishments, why did I feel that way? Why did I feel I'd fallen short? Honestly, she didn't seem to need me that much. Maybe it was a relief, albeit a guilty one. Because I was needed elsewhere.<br />
<br />
I worked for Joel. I championed him. I fought for him. <br />
<br />
And I won. <br />
<br />
I looked at <em>Paddle to the Sea </em>with its frayed cover and wrinkled, dirty pages. I could see the chubby, dirty fingers pointing at the pictures. I could feel the little-boy heat emanating from a sweaty, fidgety body. But I couldn't touch that child. I couldn't pick him up and snuggle him on my lap and turn the page...<em>because we've turned </em>a<em> page. </em><br />
<br />
I'm the mother of a man now. A man who reads the New York Times and drives to work and says, "I'm heading to the coast with my friends -- see you in a couple of days, Mom."<br />
<br />
Dear God, I love that man.<br />
<br />
But today I missed my little boy. He's paddled off to the sea without me.<br />
<br />
I'm forced to leave you with the cutest baby picture IN THE ENTIRE WORLD. And while you ooh and ahh over it, please keep in mind that Joel will be posing for his Senior Pics next week...in a silk smoking jacket. On a bearskin rug. With a pipe. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5u1oS2abRe8_pOCVg31pvdEcWTUxoM-BIf3ohX5h_VxJGBdiXokLNkQHYMUpDdlElCjzUSt6BUG_bSJ9Uc66NPPv30bEbKFVB9TQVjSascQ6tTNt00Ua_FSlaI2mIgpGY9CYbXPoPXco/s1600/Bubba+and+Mom001%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5u1oS2abRe8_pOCVg31pvdEcWTUxoM-BIf3ohX5h_VxJGBdiXokLNkQHYMUpDdlElCjzUSt6BUG_bSJ9Uc66NPPv30bEbKFVB9TQVjSascQ6tTNt00Ua_FSlaI2mIgpGY9CYbXPoPXco/s400/Bubba+and+Mom001%5B1%5D.jpg" width="400" yya="true" /></a></div>
<br />
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-14883560276375094012013-04-18T12:19:00.004-07:002013-04-18T12:44:48.549-07:00A Remembrancer, Designedly Dropt.My writing used to be described as one of two things: family humor or inspirational. The family humor appeared as a weekly newspaper column for several years. But it came to end as soon as the kids became old enough to realize they were being exploited.<br />
<br />
The inspirational writing - wow. It sounds all sparkly and heavenly and possibly nauseating, doesn't it? It was obnoxious of me, but it was mostly in the 90's and I'm pretty sure that The Entire World agreed we wouldn't hold each other accountable for the 90's.<br />
<br />
My stories were published in various inspirational anthologies, and they were sold by those anthologies to various magazines. They were used in newsletters and Actual Church Sermons. (I know because I google myself in private.) <br />
<br />
I was all kinds of In Your Face Inspiration.<br />
<br />
I don't know what happened, but at some point I began to doubt I was channeling anything other than my own bullshit. The Man-God who I'd thought had been constantly trying to communicate with me via various asinine methods - well - He and I grew apart. (Don't worry - I promise this isn't a Bitter Atheist post.) I came to see a falling star as being a falling star. Not a Message From the Great Beyond. And so my inspirational writing disappeared, along with any ability I thought I'd had to phone a friend in Heaven. <br />
<br />
If this were the 90's, I might make a pathetic attempt at making sense out of the Boston Marathon bombings. Or the West, Texas fertilizer plant explosion. Or school shootings. But this is not the 90's and our world is post 9/11 and I'm not that girl, anymore. Heck - even if 90% of you begged and pleaded for me to write something inspirational about the current pain and suffering being experienced in our country, I wouldn't do it. I'm like the Senate in that way.<br />
<br />
Me and God - we don't talk so much anymore. But don't despair! I haven't completely hardened my heart. <em>*Oh dear, I either just quoted the Book of Hebrews or Pat Benetar - not entirely sure which. </em><br />
<br />
Sometimes, out of the blue, I'm reminded how fantastic and insane it is that I'm here, at all. That any of us are here at all. It's that sudden awareness, consciousness, or cognizance of my part in the Grand Scheme of Things that just blows me away. Is there a scheme? I don't know. Usually, I dont' think so. But sometimes I get the unexpected feeling that I'm privy to something - just for a millisecond - to something BIG. And my small part is illuminated in a stillness of time. <br />
<br />
Yesterday, Jules mentioned he enjoyed the poetry of Robert Frost. Specifically, he enjoyed <em>Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. </em>When he was a little kid, he had a picture book illustrating this poem. I'd read it to him, occasionally. I never thought he'd listened. But he had. <br />
<br />
So back to yesterday. Never one to ignore an intro, I jumped on his comment and ran hysterically into my bedroom to grab my Bible - also known as <em>Leaves of Grass</em>, by Walt Whitman. It is so rare that I'm granted an opportunity to talk poetry, you see. I was thrilled. Thrilled, I say! I ran back into the dining room and Jules was still sitting there, so I hastily flipped through the book to come to the well-worn pages of the 6th verse of "Song of Myself." This is the verse where a child has said, <em>"What is the grass?"</em><br />
<br />
I read:<br />
<br />
<em>How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.</em><br />
<em>I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.</em><br />
<em>Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,</em><br />
<em>A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,</em><br />
<em>Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, </em><br />
<em>And say Whose?</em><br />
<br />
The other day I was driving into town, I noticed something placed in front of me and remarked, <em>Whose? </em>It was silly, really. And you very well might read this all the way to the end and say, "That was weird." But I'll do my best to convey my moment of wonder. <br />
<br />
It was a dreary day. One of those days where everything is gray. The highway was gray, the sky was overcast and gray, the landscape was gray and brown. Even the cars on the road were various shades of black, brown, and gray. But then a yellow Volkswagen Beetle passed me on the left. <em>Whoosh!</em><br />
<br />
I watched as it darted in and out of the monochromatic cars in front of me, like a bee skipping from bloom to bloom. It looked as if it had been photo-shopped<em> </em>into a black and white scene. As if someone had placed it there to draw just a bit of attention - to see if anyone would notice, and remark, <em>Whose?</em><br />
<br />
I looked in my rear view mirror at the two lanes of gray, black, and brown cars behind me. And I smiled. Because at that moment I realized I was in a red car.<br />
<br />
I felt very much like <em>a remembrancer, designedly dropt. </em>And I admit to wondering...<em>Whose?</em><br />
<br />Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-82093496012305391142013-02-27T09:18:00.002-08:002013-02-27T09:18:42.764-08:00It's Really Deep...on the SurfaceI have a confession to make. Are you ready? <br />
<br />
I'm shallow on Facebook. <br />
<br />
There! I said it! And I feel so much....<em>better?</em> Dang. I don't feel better. Because gosh, Facebook, I wasn't feeling badly about my shallow status updates to begin with. Because they're <em>status updates </em>and you're, well, you're <em>Facebook. </em>Even though, apparently, there is a discussion going on Out There about how people are not being honest about their eternally happy selves and their seemingly perfect children and locally grown and 100% organic lunches on Facebook.<br />
<br />
Someone wrote an article about all of this, and I heard her interviewed on NPR. She sounded super-duper intelligent and I'm sure she's an excellent writer but I just didn't really care about (nor was I surprised by) the whole Facebook Shallowness topic. <br />
<br />
The writer was concerned that people are giving false impressions of themselves and their lives on social media. <em>Der...ya think? </em>She felt that people would be sitting around at home thinking their lives were the only lives that weren't perfect. After all - what if you're depressed and unable to leave your house and you have to look at endless status updates and pictures of people hiking, biking, dining out, etc? What if your kids are juvenile delinquents and you're having to look at endless updates about how other people's kids are being inducted into the National Honor Society in between feeding the homeless and qualifying for the Olympic rowing team? What if you're doing good to stop by McDonald's and you have to look at endless pictures of That Girl You Didn't Like In High School's gourmet meals that she made from vegetables she grew in her own garden? I mean, don't you think people should be HONEST so you can feel better about yourself? <br />
<br />
For me - the answer to that is a big old NO. Really - don't post a picture of your bunion on my account. I'd rather see a picture of that deer that comes by every morning and nibbles on your honeysuckle. <br />
<br />
Let's consider my own Fake and Oh So Pleasant Facebook Life. This is my current profile picture.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6cr1zyxSvLQXsOemCLaj7bR5Zy6RJZyh-633Au0Mn-tWqkB45MXz-YbsqBTfp4ND6L46XkoaeC8nJii2HMyKG6xIeNypeZkQjXHNtsrokEy6cyL_qL_U_mZjRHMx7ZD1L12EyPbiZ-Y/s1600/PB220187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gsa="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq6cr1zyxSvLQXsOemCLaj7bR5Zy6RJZyh-633Au0Mn-tWqkB45MXz-YbsqBTfp4ND6L46XkoaeC8nJii2HMyKG6xIeNypeZkQjXHNtsrokEy6cyL_qL_U_mZjRHMx7ZD1L12EyPbiZ-Y/s320/PB220187.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
I don't always look like this. I am not always smiling happily whilst clinging to my happy husband. I know - you're shocked, right? And this was a particularly decent hair day. My hair is sometimes excessively curly. And not in a pretty way. On curly days, Joel calls me Hagrid. As in this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykF2hIBJU1SFWYtbXb1dMEN7bFFH-s5sG41qP1TYA_C8dT0e8VGf07yKxv6TgbLOwbARZXthC082CmgCDqMXNDduC8aF96rMTJWch2NykEX9nDWAOZ0FT1slRq5_72UAvWZgbbqL4akY/s1600/Hagrid.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gsa="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykF2hIBJU1SFWYtbXb1dMEN7bFFH-s5sG41qP1TYA_C8dT0e8VGf07yKxv6TgbLOwbARZXthC082CmgCDqMXNDduC8aF96rMTJWch2NykEX9nDWAOZ0FT1slRq5_72UAvWZgbbqL4akY/s320/Hagrid.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>
<br />
I'm guilty of posting a lot about my kids. Yesterday I posted how they'd cooked breakfast and lunch. Before that I'd posted a picture of a freaking perfect vegan espresso layered cake Camille baked ALL BY HERSELF SO THERE. I'm sorry if it upset anybody.<br />
<br />
This might come as a huge surprise to you if you think that nothing happens in my home that I don't post on Facebook - but my kids are not perfect. Sometimes they argue, they make enormous messes and refuse to clean them up or they say they'll clean them up and then disappear for the appropriate amount of time they think it will take for me to either forget about it or clean it up myself. They're noisy. They are sometimes listless and don't seem to care about anything. They sleep a lot. They game a lot. They are hungry a lot. But I'm not going to get on Facebook and tell everyone everything they do that isn't made of awesomesauce. It would be massively disrespectful to the children, who are luckily, not using my failures and examples of lack of perfection as their status updates. In fact, I can't post anything at all about Camille without her permission - she feels rather strongly about that. So my lack of <em>My Kids Are Horrible!! </em>status updates doesn't indicate my children are perfect - nor is it an attempt on my part to convince you that they are - it is merely me respecting them and their privacy.<br />
<br />
I tend to post when I'm happy. But I'm not always happy. But people are rarely taking pictures of me when I'm in the middle of a temper tantrum. I don't have a picture to post.<br />
<br />
I also tend to post when something good has happened. But bad things happen to me, too. In fact, if you know me <em>and this really seems to be the crux of the situation</em>, <em>most of my Facebook Friends do not really Know Me </em>you know that some <strong>very</strong> bad things have happened to me. I have had family tragedies and financial distress. I've suffered loss and the pain of illness. Is it really necessary to discuss this on Facebook? (And for those of you who suffered my seemingly endless flu posts - okay - so sometimes I do a little public suffering.)<br />
<br />
I just don't get the point of the article or the discussion that has ensued in its wake. And there is a discussion going on - I'm seeing it on Facebook. In the past week I've seen several people post about this article while saying something along the lines of, "I'm guilty of this, too." As if they've done something to feel guilty about by not baring their souls to people they don't really know all that well on a social network. <br />
<br />
So what are social networks for? What constitutes a friend if it isn't someone who follows you on Twitter or friends you on Facebook?<br />
<br />
Social networks are for networking. They're for meeting people who might share common interests or goals. They're also avenues of expression and means of giving and receiving information and, often, advice. And let's not forget - they're where you can see images of Grumpy Cat at all hours of the day. As to what constitutes a friend - well, a friend is the person who reads your status updates and says, "That's bullshit." <br />
<br />
I do think that social networking sites and blogs (!!) can be excellent places to make Real Friends - although obviously - you have to be careful. Have you seen the documentary, <em>Catfish</em>? If not, you should. But anyway, assuming that young female writer you just met isn't actually this guy<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhyphenhyphenGJwa_WI7qaCWH2jw0-M8HzowPsvWlV07TQYc-0bA8yY-xglYbMIw7r0XuL7qCZZvDv5mZV24GlvquV4W4ZFO8hG7Sy18zGMWAZPkh1D-7K5-FBRoXNxC-fmyg-u6CO0u9oGDpFRjs/s1600/gun+guy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gsa="true" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhhyphenhyphenGJwa_WI7qaCWH2jw0-M8HzowPsvWlV07TQYc-0bA8yY-xglYbMIw7r0XuL7qCZZvDv5mZV24GlvquV4W4ZFO8hG7Sy18zGMWAZPkh1D-7K5-FBRoXNxC-fmyg-u6CO0u9oGDpFRjs/s320/gun+guy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
you can make some great Real Friends. Two of my very best friends are women I met right here on this little old blog. That's right! Leave me a comment and you, too, can have me and my neediness as your very own endless vacuum of angst all wrapped up with a bow! (It isn't easy being my friend - so be careful what you wish for.) I recently picked up a friend via Twitter. <em>Remember that Twitter</em> <em>Pitch Contest I entered? I didn't win. I came in 2nd. Actually, I was named an alternate but I'm calling that 2nd because it kind of is. And actually there were 2 alternates so it's quite possible I came in 3rd but since nobody will ever know, I'll say I came in 2nd. I could say the other alternate came in 3rd but since she is my New Best Friend and will probably read this, I'll say we Share Second. </em><br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure my New Best Friend is already regretting having met me, by the way. She's thinking <em>She's not like she is on Twitter at all! She's a whiny mess! She never shuts up! She is quickly discouraged and easily downtrodden! If only she'd been more honest about herself on Twitter... I bet that stupid picture of her in the baseball cap is at least 4 years old. **Not only is it old - it's photo-shopped. Shhhh!!</em><br />
<br />
I don't think most people really want to know more about me than I share on Facebook. And I don't really want to know all that much more about them, either. And whenever I give in and post something political, I've noticed that whatever I post next - be it a picture of my new shoes or a recipe - will receive a ton of likes, as if everyone's encouraging me to behave myself. <br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
Once I received an Un-Friending Threat following a political post - but c'mon people - it was about THIS GUY. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYMqbKz1JwgmxVomD5UxQzhyphenhyphen-Q71WFBn9JDujPR6OwW371DEzdvk1jYHD38WIIrxQjSxo-sWQct7HzswV5gnZ0EwoqtXvV5T4RaFvqhyelnS9FlkbVuNJLULg-Qw6dldTYwEMZ9QQbs4/s1600/Perry.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gsa="true" height="231" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCYMqbKz1JwgmxVomD5UxQzhyphenhyphen-Q71WFBn9JDujPR6OwW371DEzdvk1jYHD38WIIrxQjSxo-sWQct7HzswV5gnZ0EwoqtXvV5T4RaFvqhyelnS9FlkbVuNJLULg-Qw6dldTYwEMZ9QQbs4/s320/Perry.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
So is this really a thing - this Facebook Non-Reality? Are you concerned about it? </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I'm not. I'm happy to hear what you had for breakfast, see a picture of your new car, hear about your kid getting accepted into college. I know this isn't all that goes on in your lives. I know that behind every perfect pie there are many that were total disasters. I know that your kids probably yell at you, that at times you worry you're a horrible mother and you've messed everything up. I know that sometimes you can't sleep at night because of bills, or illness, or marital issues. I think it's <em>because </em>of these things that the picture you posted of the butterfly outside your kitchen window makes me so happy. The butterfly isn't a lie - it's not a false representation of the person who took it - it's hope and optimism. And it's important.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
Carry on with your fake self, Facebook. Carry on.</div>
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-56805601154347105972013-02-10T12:09:00.001-08:002013-02-10T12:23:53.825-08:00I Request a (Decent) AudienceI'll be watching the Grammys tonight and it has me thinking about performers and their audiences. Is it just me or has audience behavior gone down the tubes? The endless texting drives me nuts, but not nearly as much as when people use those same phones to film entire performances. At the Red Hot Chili Peppers concerts we went to last year (yes - I said concerts - we went to more than one) we stood behind people who experienced the Chili Peppers entirely through their phones. Watching anything on a phone is pretty much an exercise in frustration - so why would you want to watch a band on your phone when they're RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU? Like Life-Size and stuff?<br />
<br />
I'm a nervous concert-goer simply because of the audience experience. The concert is only going to be as good as the asshat in front of you or behind you. I always fixate beforehand, wondering what my fellow audience members will be like - or at least the ones in my general vicinity - because they have the power to make it or break it for me.<br />
<br />
Depending on the band - I'll expect to either sit or stand. People get very worked up over this particular issue - you have Staunch Sitters who paid good money for their tickets by golly (Staunch Sitters, in my experience, tend to say things like "by golly") and you have those who want to stand and dance no matter what - even if you're in a quaint acoustical setting. I've suffered through both scenarios - having been told to sit down repeatedly and having asked others to do so repeatedly. <br />
<br />
With the Red Hot Chili Peppers, you're going to stand and dance. If you don't, the funk will build up to dangerous levels and you'll explode.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhU8BDk3cdD8gHUVSBw6TOI-4kuFSmfOnChv1J7Fs_Nww1QFIVwIgNNQ2MpIE1wQG7Zj0z1gUe1pUJCDhTaKkUjRYe9sX_gWafcPP49PpRmCtT9LjzyaHZPfXlRqMAD8nGngWbYdTNGDE/s1600/funk+peppers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" jea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhU8BDk3cdD8gHUVSBw6TOI-4kuFSmfOnChv1J7Fs_Nww1QFIVwIgNNQ2MpIE1wQG7Zj0z1gUe1pUJCDhTaKkUjRYe9sX_gWafcPP49PpRmCtT9LjzyaHZPfXlRqMAD8nGngWbYdTNGDE/s400/funk+peppers.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<em>I know this is an old photo with John Frusciante instead of Josh Klinghoffer, but I'm still not at a point in my recovery where I am able to actually post a pic of Josh Klinghoffer.</em></div>
<br />
<br />
At one of the Chili Peppers concerts, we were lucky enough to be on the floor, fairly close to the stage. I watched nervously as my fellow concert-goers arrived to take their seats around us. The people 2 rows in front of us? A squeaky clean family with young kids. GULP. The guys directly in front of us? Had their phones at the ready to record. DOUBLE GULP and I was already irritated. But the absolute worst was the couple behind us. He had that eager, crazed look of the First Date gleaming in his eyes - and she was overly made up, dressed for a cocktail party, and looking around for somebody better than the guy she'd walked in with.<br />
<br />
The show started and everyone jumped to their feet THANK GOD. Mom and Dad put their kids on the chairs so they could see better, and both kids immediately covered their ears with their hands. "What a waste of good seats!" I yelled to Jeff. He agreed. The guys directly in front of us predictably began watching through their phones. I was in awe of their ability to stand so still and hold their arms up like that for so long. Idiots.<br />
<br />
The couple behind us immediately began their first date chit-chat, which had to be executed through screaming, so lucky for us, we got to hear all of it. For the record - I was right - she wasn't into him at all. They didn't even remotely pay attention to the band and I wanted to turn around and yell at them that this was THE FLOOR and no place for amateurs, but that didn't seem to be the case. We were in Amateur Central down there, with the families and the phone-filmers and the corporate types. The only person I had an ounce of respect for was the girl across the aisle - she was old-school and never once gave up in her attempts to rush the stage. A Mean Security Guard Man thwarted her every effort, but she never gave up and you have to respect that, you really do.<br />
<br />
The best audiences are the ones who love the performers they've come to see - but it's rare to end up in a devoted crowd of followers these days, even in small venues. We went to see Matisyahu at a tiny little theatre - tickets were ridiculously expensive. It was just Matisyahu, a stool, and his guitarist - should have been perfect.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIyq9XJNvJ3feWGGB24fgqz7hYCchkNQwMrVqPBaZXmdcRx_rvFpXMw2YEzKmcHvjVu5f-nFwNSiMY4wMlvCLbcEO72PTqJLHrbUg45Nd6hnl4C5a2B6j1RyGvB6FYLjV6eFc3lROTXw/s1600/matisyahu.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="387" jea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvIyq9XJNvJ3feWGGB24fgqz7hYCchkNQwMrVqPBaZXmdcRx_rvFpXMw2YEzKmcHvjVu5f-nFwNSiMY4wMlvCLbcEO72PTqJLHrbUg45Nd6hnl4C5a2B6j1RyGvB6FYLjV6eFc3lROTXw/s400/matisyahu.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div align="center">
<em>I'm still embarrassed to see him without his beard - it's like he's naked. OH GOD I'M BLUSHING.</em></div>
<br />
But the crowd was so-so. It was a fundraiser so a lot of the people there weren't really fans. For example, when he asked what he should perform for his closing number, the woman behind us (who had talked loudly through the entire performance) screamed out, "King Without a Crown!" triumphantly, to let everyone know she Actually Knew of a Song. Unfortunately (and as Matisyahu, himself, informed her) that had been the song he'd opened with. She either a) hadn't heard it for all of her own talking or b) had no idea what the song sounded like. Add to that a drunk guy in the balcony who yelled at oddly quiet and inappropriate times - and yeah - it could have been better.<br />
<br />
The Jane's Addiction crowd was probably the best audience we encountered last year. That concert was also at a small venue - and I could tell immediately that it was going to be a good night. <br />
<br />
As the audience poured in, I nodded approvingly. They were all dressed like total freaks - I had high hopes. The guys who sat down next to us wanted to get cozy and immediately began asking us when we'd first heard Jane and what did we love about them and what was our favorite album - they were pumped and I loved them so so so much for being pumped. We had Joel and his friend with us - and I think they enjoyed the crowd as much as they did the band. One guy, who was out of his mind On Something, would turn to Joel and grab him by the shoulders and just scream in his face before turning around to resume body slamming everyone. Joel was only frightened the first time or two that it happened, after that, he was totally into it. His buddy, Austen, spent a good bit of time crawling around the floor because the woman behind us was dancing so hard that her trifocals flew off her head (so we were an OLD CROWD so what?) and Austen, being the nice young man that he is, tried to help her find them. <br />
<br />
My seat was the best seat in the house because it gave me a direct line of sight to Dave Navarro. He was right smack in front of me - I had a perfect view - and it made me happy. Dave still rocks the leather pants. Now, there are some guys still trying to rock the leather pants who just leave you feeling sad and empty inside - but with Dave - well, it does other things, none of which are sad. Anyway, so at one point Joel's screaming neighbor moved directly in front of me. He was huge and out of control. But I was like one of those women who gain super-human strength and courage when their children are trapped in burning vehicles - I poked him in his beefy bicep and explained to him that he was coming between me and Dave and the leather pants. He was stunned, at first, but then he moved over. "Can you see now Mama?" he asked. I gave him a thumbs up and he grinned. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIak8rNEHzk5V9swXwa1-hADjum2KMysPnztXMQIp3awGM5pXsH-x7_91l9lOHWeJ-drYgyR9KfB7yX1PcKeH5FcxI0kqjqHXos0gDmRvh_FW53UJOnAH2949FKxPb9UqRKJLoiZW41DY/s1600/Dave+in+leather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" jea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIak8rNEHzk5V9swXwa1-hADjum2KMysPnztXMQIp3awGM5pXsH-x7_91l9lOHWeJ-drYgyR9KfB7yX1PcKeH5FcxI0kqjqHXos0gDmRvh_FW53UJOnAH2949FKxPb9UqRKJLoiZW41DY/s400/Dave+in+leather.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
In my mind, the Jane's Addiction concert was the best concert of the year - but I think it had as much, if not more, to do with the audience as it did the band. <br />
<br />
We also went to see k.d. lang - who I have loved since Absolute Torch and Twang - and we were stuck in the balcony with the losers. The woman in front of us was a texter - and a facebooker - and a tweeter. And she was doing all of those things WITH HER ENTIRE BODY. She didn't just text with her fingers - she flapped her elbows around and bopped her head while she held the phone Way Up High so as to illuminate the 5 rows behind her. She was front-row balcony - and that meant she propped her feet up on the railing - big pointy shoes that she crossed and uncrossed repeatedly. I could see her status updates: <em>I'm at the Katie Lang concert!</em> (That's right - she didn't know how to spell the performer's name), and her texts: <em>I'm in the balcony, where are you?</em>, and her tweets: <em>Having a great time at the Katie Lang concert!</em> SHE NEVER ONCE LOOKED AT THE STAGE. Also - she was wearing too much perfume and with all of the commotion and flurry of her activities - it was wafting up into our faces. Ellie and Camille were with me, and Ellie is scent-sensitive (she's also idiot-sensitive, which was probably the bigger issue) and so we moved to the very, very, very back of the balcony area. <br />
<br />
Down below things were different. The devoted fans were down there - so it was just k.d. lang and several thousand lesbians and they all seemed to be having a significantly better time than we were. Even so - when there's a voice like velvet in the house - you can't be completely miserable, even with a Full-Body Texter in front of you. <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXItAgwimeILes4yUH09LnxpZSiI7uPB-yz7GQTkLYt7ccRCgLNk7cwOmiURjIuqnTHIcMMLykP-4vNlM1ByzKJ3pLTPshwXGK0q2odR_PnqfHC2xZyyTUFbetU_wlZ9Wo5OOzLyP15k/s1600/kd+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="337" jea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjXItAgwimeILes4yUH09LnxpZSiI7uPB-yz7GQTkLYt7ccRCgLNk7cwOmiURjIuqnTHIcMMLykP-4vNlM1ByzKJ3pLTPshwXGK0q2odR_PnqfHC2xZyyTUFbetU_wlZ9Wo5OOzLyP15k/s400/kd+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em>Pure velvet.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<em></em><br /></div>
I'd like to say that classical arts audiences are better behaved, but they're not. At piano recitals, people come in late, whisper back and forth, jingle their keys, etc. At The Nutcracker this year, we literally sat behind a family reunion where Grandma distributed Crunch 'n Munch out of a bag by scooping it into paper cups and passing it down the rows to family members who then began to (just like you'd expect) crunch and munch. And when the act with the angels was over - a mass exodus of grandparents began. It's like they said, "I sat here as long as I could - my grandkid is now done - I'm outta here." The problem was, as they painstakingly made their ways down the steps and aisles - none of the rest of us could see the stage. <br />
<br />
During Copellia, I watched as people tried to extend intermission into the 3rd act by simply refusing to take their seats. When MY OWN FLESH AND BLOOD made her entrance onto the stage, I couldn't see her because the people in front of us were still standing and visiting, even though the lights had gone off and the music had started and the curtain had risen. <br />
<br />
I long for the good old days when people showed up for performances with rotten tomatoes. I know just where I'd throw them..<br />
<br />
So tell me - what was your latest audience experience like?Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-14158756965431701612013-02-04T10:36:00.000-08:002013-02-04T10:41:08.077-08:00The Other F-WordSo that previous post - the one where I wrote some sort of horrible inspirational dribble about the flu's silver lining - it was total bullshit. Purge it from your consciousness. Because the flu totally bites - The End.<br />
<br />
I think I might have believed that nonsense when I wrote it - but that was <em>before</em> we went to the pediatrician for the secondary infections and <em>before</em> he casually said, "I keep seeing people come in with one flu strain only to come back a week or so later with the second strain," and <em>before</em> I dismissively responded, "Wow, that would suck."<br />
<br />
It was <em>before</em> I CAME DOWN WITH THE SECOND STRAIN. <br />
<br />
I went from type B to type A, which is the nastier of the two strains (I know because I am unfortunately an expert now). <br />
<br />
At the moment, poor Camille has it. I'm hoping it stops with her but it probably won't because The Universe is apparently pooping flu on us. When it's all over I fear we'll have no choice but to burn our house down with all of our belongings inside. <br />
<br />
I have been well (and I use that term loosely) for about a week. And I still can't hear out of my right ear and I sound like I smoke 3 packs a day. It took Jules less time to recover from brain surgery last summer. <br />
<br />
Seriously, people, I do not think I am going to be able to end this post with any type of inspirational/upbeat commentary, whatsoever. It can't be done under the circumstances. Although, thinking of last summer, and the brain surgery and all that - oh dear, here it comes - <em>there are worse things than a house full of otherwise healthy people coming down with the flu. </em>There is a mother somewhere who, at this very moment, would gratefully trade places with me. <br />
<br />
I have been that mother.<br />
<br />
So listen to me you Stupid Dumb Stupid Flu - you're not as badass as you think you are. <br />
<br />
Oh dear God - I think I just issued it a challenge.<br />
<br />
BRING IT.Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-86178718731246408122013-01-14T10:53:00.000-08:002013-01-14T10:53:00.861-08:00A Little Extra Something for the HolidaysThe holidays went off without a hitch. And by without a hitch, I don't mean I did everything that should have been done - that could never happen. But there was holiday food bought, prepared and served. Gifts were purchased, wrapped, given, and received. <br />
<br />
Gift Highlights: <br />
Camille opening a Taylor Swift ticket. <br />
She stared at it, trying to figure out what it was for a full minute. Then her eyes lifted to mine, she smiled hugely, and made a beeline for me. She hadn't expected that gift - we'd explained to her that concert tickets are expensive and it had been a Red Hot Chili Peppers year..<br />
<br />
Jasper and his Mood Lighting and Soft Sheets.<br />
I admit it. I have a set of wickless LED candles I bought at Costco. We have a little half-moon window right above our bed and they look pretty there. The remote control that came with them? BONUS. Didn't even know about it until I got them home. Jeff likes to hit the button and make hubba hubba eyes - and Jasper goes nuts. He fully appreciates the candles AND their handy dandy remote control. I don't know how the candles came to be referred to as "mood lighting" but they did and so for the past 3 months Jasper has been asking for mood lighting for his bedroom, much to the chagrin of his brother who shares the room. He also asked for new sheets - the SOFT KIND. So on Christmas he opened many toys and a few Lego sets but man oh man - you want to make an 8-year-old happy - give him some new sheets and mood lighting to go with it. BEST GIFT EVER. All that's missing now is the bear skin rug.<br />
<br />
It was a bed sheets theme.<br />
My dad also asked for sheets for Christmas. He didn't specify that they be "soft" but the old guy likes quality so I headed to Target with the rest of the 99%. They actually had some decent thread counts. I was pleasantly surprised. But the "high quality" sheets with the decent thread counts were marketed as PERFORMANCE SHEETS. <br />
<br />
Performance sheets? That gave me pause. Did he NEED performance sheets? What did this mean? Were the sheets expected to perform in a certain manner or was he? And what would he perform? I checked to see if the sheets were possibly the official sponsor of the I don't know...PORN INDUSTRY...but found no such reference. <br />
<br />
When he opened them we were sure to point out that they were Performance Sheets. Jasper looked a bit jealous.<br />
<br />
Other than that, not much stands out in my memory in the way of gifts. I got my usual array of things I'd picked out and wrapped myself. Jeff did, too. The Joels received their usual gig of Dork/Geek items (including a poster of Vladimir Putin). Ellie was, as usual, delightfully puzzled by her gifts. <em>Salt rocks to remove the negative ions from the air, thereby reducing stress? Um....okay, Mom. Sure. Thanks for giving me VOO DOO. Again.</em><br />
<br />
We had friends (mostly Ellie's/Joel's friends) and family over for New Year's Eve. We snuck in a camping trip on New Year's Day. And the entire time we were camping in the COLD AND FREEZING TEMPS I was looking forward to one thing: Our Anniversary.<br />
<br />
Our anniversary is January 4th - and we were only going to mark it with an evening out but man oh man had I been looking forward to it! The holidays are hectic - and we're always the hub of All Holiday Activity - and the camping was basically uncomfortable and had taken a lot of effort in packing, cooking, preparing, etc. So I was really, really, really looking forward to a romantic dinner out where I could relax and regroup with my husband.<br />
<br />
Well, our anniversary turned out to be more than I'd expected. We spent the entire day in bed. A lot of writhing and moaning took place and we didn't even have performance sheets. What we DID have was the flu. Type B specifically. <br />
<br />
The children, like dominoes, began to succumb one by one. Only Ellie didn't fall - she has too much self-discipline, I suppose. We were sick on Jules' 15th birthday, and we were still sick the next day on Camille's 11th. We were sick when the day for her sleepover came along, and she didn't even care when we cancelled it. The Flu was The Boss of Us.<br />
<br />
We're all just now getting back to normal. I still have that "sick smell" in my nose, and nothing tastes right. There is a lot of coughing and I imagine there will be for quite some time. But it's gone. It just left a mess in it's wake. But you know what? <em>Please don't think I'm crazy </em>but it had it's good points, The Flu did. It's quite astounding when you're of the mindset that you have Things to Do and the world will fall apart if you don't do them and then something slams into you and says that you're basically not at all as important as you thought you were and guess what? You HAVE TO STOP.<br />
<br />
I don't stop very often.<br />
<br />
It was weird - to stop. But I did. All of the plans I'd made came and went while I napped, coughed, and groaned. Camille and Jasper were in bed with me and we watched cooking shows and read books - all while the sun moved from one window to the other - until the room was orange like it gets in late afternoon - until the room cooled off with the evening air and all became quiet. Another day had gone by - and we'd somehow spent it doing nothing but <em>being. </em>Just being sick. And the rest of the world allowed it - because we had The Flu after all. The world looked at us and said, "Oh well, you have The Flu. I'll just keep going but you stay right where you are, just mark your place for a while. It's perfectly acceptable."<br />
<br />
It was, at times, <em>almost nice. </em><br />
<br />
Today we're back to our usual life. The dishwasher is going and so is the dryer. I can hear the television in one room and my teenage sons messing around in another. Ellie has gone back to college - Jeff is at work. I am happy to feel well, and more appreciative than ever of what that means. But also, I'm strangely appreciative of the experience of having been forced to <em>stop.</em><br />
<br />
Maybe, just maybe, I should do it more often. Maybe I should take a day, every now and then, to climb in bed with my babies to nap and read and watch the sun go from one window to the next... and tell the rest of the world it's just going to have to wait.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-87829512202276034912012-12-05T18:03:00.001-08:002012-12-05T18:03:58.973-08:00Pumpkin Bombing. Again.YES! We bombed the river with pumpkins on Thanksgiving, again. I know you've been dying with curiosity...<br />
<br />
If you're new to the blog and you're all like WHAT IS PUMPKIN BOMBING? It is exactly what it sounds like. About twelve years ago, as I drove over the old rickety wooden bridge that crossed the San Antonio river...the one on our dirt road...I thought to myself, "Dang. I sure would like to drop a pumpkin over the bridge into the river. I bet it would make a big splash." And yes, twelve years ago - I was technically well into adulthood. Anyway - since that Thanksgiving found us with a couple of pumpkins still intact, we decided to see if it would be as much fun as it sounded.<br />
<br />
IT WAS. They made huge gigantic wonderful splashes!! Some of them even exploded upon impact!! We were hooked.<br />
<br />
We've done it every year since. Sometimes with a lot of people, sometimes with a few. We used to hold onto the kids by their pants so they wouldn't follow the pumpkins into the river. Now they're all bigg-ish and such and we don't do that anymore. A few other changes - in the name of progress - our delightful wooden bridge was torn down and a butt-ugly concrete one was put in its place. The dirt road was paved. So our pumpkin bombing isn't as picturesque as it once was, but it is still freakishly fun. <br />
<br />
We had a small Thanksgiving this year - it was just what I needed. By small, I mean our family of 7, plus El's boyfriend, my dad and sister, and a few friends.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9m4oKCWd9adsDL6fk6i7quJCgyVEKWrhAs5ArE7efu_hErIGB6UuAcVz2PwflIES_XwT-k0k_6jUFbleiRF0fMAHIAOPy39YYWSwgJ6wGus485vWvOHJvFw4Qc21ft4pLCpTmnVibrg/s1600/PB220165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX9m4oKCWd9adsDL6fk6i7quJCgyVEKWrhAs5ArE7efu_hErIGB6UuAcVz2PwflIES_XwT-k0k_6jUFbleiRF0fMAHIAOPy39YYWSwgJ6wGus485vWvOHJvFw4Qc21ft4pLCpTmnVibrg/s640/PB220165.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
My dad is counting down back there. It's good that he counted down. Because when he tosses he cheats. How can you cheat at pumpkin tossing you ask?<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgij18bC4DxJQzRCuTtpAHRVf9-umdEZG1mwU6En4dcBrM3YuKYYGVlQVV9Qfq2svtEgpjeTosh0dIz7VdxIcr7Gr7CZHU4_kBJDrlQDuzsSfn0A2HY6KOO91gJWhoHliugH7oaapgxNjM/s1600/PB220168.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgij18bC4DxJQzRCuTtpAHRVf9-umdEZG1mwU6En4dcBrM3YuKYYGVlQVV9Qfq2svtEgpjeTosh0dIz7VdxIcr7Gr7CZHU4_kBJDrlQDuzsSfn0A2HY6KOO91gJWhoHliugH7oaapgxNjM/s640/PB220168.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Well, you'd think the bombing and the splashing and whatnot would be enough. But this gang wants a WINNER. Actually, it was probably Ellie who started that. Let's say it was. <br />
<br />
Once the pumpkins are tossed, everyone runs across to the other side of the bridge to see who's pumpkin comes out the other side first. And if you're wondering how we tell the pumpkins apart, let me just say that I don't think we can. Hence the ensuing arguments as to who won. Here is the winning pumpkin. Who is belongs to is still being debated.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjSR4FdbyxF3gZaiKA5g7jgKDsL_C34b1p-cili0h0DdJN8hcKylNCn5tnkh3hbuzTiNwxPgqx-6mc5tZA-dZ6M-cTeF66Ahpxg3Pj9B5zbjg7JM8HCnxqcCqkLlwCi0De7hmgZTLLEA/s1600/PB220166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSjSR4FdbyxF3gZaiKA5g7jgKDsL_C34b1p-cili0h0DdJN8hcKylNCn5tnkh3hbuzTiNwxPgqx-6mc5tZA-dZ6M-cTeF66Ahpxg3Pj9B5zbjg7JM8HCnxqcCqkLlwCi0De7hmgZTLLEA/s640/PB220166.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
Before the tossing, there is all kinds of posturing. Here is The Joels.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYPl0E7-5hyphenhyphenO5RBHGC3RD1Ez5pwBtGBp9m9O4PoY4bXEhnnJ7TVrM3npgO-8iJ-XjUVgXHWKtYme4Gj1uWIvCrHFPIXGV-hfiBQZ9abRJ1I3MRYsXEXNeXAH2FTX3W-L9Mtt9VJ3PGCE/s1600/PB220164.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguYPl0E7-5hyphenhyphenO5RBHGC3RD1Ez5pwBtGBp9m9O4PoY4bXEhnnJ7TVrM3npgO-8iJ-XjUVgXHWKtYme4Gj1uWIvCrHFPIXGV-hfiBQZ9abRJ1I3MRYsXEXNeXAH2FTX3W-L9Mtt9VJ3PGCE/s640/PB220164.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Then there's posing for pics. Papa with Camille, Ellie, and Jasper. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoZL48Dfcmn5IkB6Bt1-c9yJKwgbPzod-S26LoySFCeN2PdI4Ar0QqDy41Wk3llS-6Ah-U1GvIT5trnPMbglOzCxnC7wLXj4_iVqNjJB1SpA-G_iKvzAEINl-dMk7OY0h6nYyZfb4I5c/s1600/PB220181.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoZL48Dfcmn5IkB6Bt1-c9yJKwgbPzod-S26LoySFCeN2PdI4Ar0QqDy41Wk3llS-6Ah-U1GvIT5trnPMbglOzCxnC7wLXj4_iVqNjJB1SpA-G_iKvzAEINl-dMk7OY0h6nYyZfb4I5c/s640/PB220181.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
And here's ME and the man.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbstHpgHABrKKbQYl7sxf3nDQepv3kE5REXEFJHZLtk24Un58R7JfeuXy5mMB3J4UktJVjQPFMFq1gctOeWyWi6WsD9z__m7Uro2tiyxiGfrr9e5ijoG9r9thopvVE9TXzE-kSiRRePWU/s1600/PB220187.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbstHpgHABrKKbQYl7sxf3nDQepv3kE5REXEFJHZLtk24Un58R7JfeuXy5mMB3J4UktJVjQPFMFq1gctOeWyWi6WsD9z__m7Uro2tiyxiGfrr9e5ijoG9r9thopvVE9TXzE-kSiRRePWU/s640/PB220187.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
And finally, as we left the pumpkins, the river, and a gaggle of gawkers who never did figure out what we were doing but seemed to enjoy themselves, nonetheless...Camille took this lovely picture.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6YHGm-T6Z2ci_brbgoaZ81A99WKWkwuUzDQA5M4lWOTdH6oxQMkFbF51v-rdA7cN-iUtfLSgz5kd3jMYB8ysH3usBvUCYdrPPKafi6LgfVmbMpC0OT3OiO5cAisLPMa1UXKe4aKktWc/s1600/PB220189.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI6YHGm-T6Z2ci_brbgoaZ81A99WKWkwuUzDQA5M4lWOTdH6oxQMkFbF51v-rdA7cN-iUtfLSgz5kd3jMYB8ysH3usBvUCYdrPPKafi6LgfVmbMpC0OT3OiO5cAisLPMa1UXKe4aKktWc/s640/PB220189.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
It would be perfect without the power lines.<br />
<br />
I hope your Thanksgiving was as lovely, even if you wasted your pumpkins by baking them in pies.<br />
<br />
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-56634893555787034732012-11-20T09:56:00.000-08:002012-11-20T13:16:04.355-08:00The Next Big Thing!I'm participating in #PitchWars - a contest where a few writers are chosen by writing mentors to hook up with and prepare pitches for agents. There's a Writing Meme going around and the hopefuls are participating. I'm a hopeful, so here I go. <br />
<br />
*Clears throat and announces* <strong>The Next Big Thing (!!)</strong><br />
<br />
This is my attempt at concise answers STOP LAUGHING.<br />
<br />
<strong>1. What is the title of your book?</strong><br />
<br />
Just a Little Sting. <em>Look at me being concise!</em><br />
<br />
<strong>2. Where did the idea come from for the book?</strong><br />
<br />
I met two people in the span of two weeks who were synesthetes - meaning they had synesthesia - meaning they actually freaking see sounds as colors, shapes, and even thoughts and smells. This just blew me away. I'd gone my entire life without having met a single person with synesthesia and now I knew two of them! Clearly, The Universe was trying to tell me something. It's very concerned with me and my daily goings on.<br />
<br />
My mind began whirring with the possibilities of creating a character with synesthesia. Both of the people I'd met were classical musicians, and so it seemed only natural that my character would be a musician, too. Only mine is of the electric guitar variety. <br />
<br />
Most people with synesthesia find it to be a minor inconvenience, at times. Who wants to read a story about someone who is minorly inconvenienced? Not me! So my character is often completely crippled by his synesthesia. It's been a problem throughout his entire life and it's led to some bad behavior. In other words, my bad boy has issues. Poor baby.<br />
<br />
<em>That was me not being concise. I'll make up for it on the next question.</em><br />
<br />
<strong>3. What genre does your book fall under?</strong><br />
<br />
Contemporary Romance<br />
<br />
<strong>4. What actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?</strong><br />
<br />
Cleo, my red-headed 30-years-old and still trying to find her way in life heroine, would ideally be played by Amy Adams. Isn't she adorable?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQhhOGJItPi3dD1PgYlMpNIjwo3P0MN_3UK0LY4liX8a9t3uiDUEgHNXLx3s6YCO_rhd8R1OlXbUWpaFneB2lnViR3Ag8tWvHblWcfNa5W67gQEkoIQNomCibusT2WKZVBHFPSESorcE/s1600/amyadams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBQhhOGJItPi3dD1PgYlMpNIjwo3P0MN_3UK0LY4liX8a9t3uiDUEgHNXLx3s6YCO_rhd8R1OlXbUWpaFneB2lnViR3Ag8tWvHblWcfNa5W67gQEkoIQNomCibusT2WKZVBHFPSESorcE/s320/amyadams.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<br />
Julian, my guitar-wielding hero, would have to be a conglomeration. <em>Casting people! Get on that! </em>*snaps fingers*<br />
<br />
The actor would have to look a little like John Frusciante when he's playing guitar:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hPT9iwABNrD25wMMQqfcwHRVgfAjFfhiKZLbroPu-HnGXrHp_fwfhZJz4kq5QFL0Q7_INrkoBOnZ1aS8XhQoZfYTY6CKozxbOuxTWnGkV694ZuaVnmxdKswUAQj5Gu2t77xElU3C-z0/s1600/pretty+john.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3hPT9iwABNrD25wMMQqfcwHRVgfAjFfhiKZLbroPu-HnGXrHp_fwfhZJz4kq5QFL0Q7_INrkoBOnZ1aS8XhQoZfYTY6CKozxbOuxTWnGkV694ZuaVnmxdKswUAQj5Gu2t77xElU3C-z0/s320/pretty+john.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
And he'd have to have tattoos like Adam Levine.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxshR4lI02Dgsvw5yp6kVwTx-xyfbVxWi-TZWu_Te84qjdkbEoZNOHlMs2mQLYIAQCdG0YczWal3z63nNySEK6y2bOA1q4uzoImtK5O4OMGTmrZ05PTKOQZtJoHjbMpfnq5UlI3b-M1Y/s1600/adam.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjxshR4lI02Dgsvw5yp6kVwTx-xyfbVxWi-TZWu_Te84qjdkbEoZNOHlMs2mQLYIAQCdG0YczWal3z63nNySEK6y2bOA1q4uzoImtK5O4OMGTmrZ05PTKOQZtJoHjbMpfnq5UlI3b-M1Y/s320/adam.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
And he simply MUST talk like Russell Brand. We're all suckers for accents. Especially if they're colourful!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinz2uOpVJ0JcwK4HE58s-_9oM7dQSCpRxJtX3EXRIAEYcrvgOwg1yHY2g0yZayRpK3oajOYI4gFXqxrsvwW4R83V12uGuI6-m3vn7pI_uxEDk0nYCbMW6NTjjo5vkgW8axDN40Z5kmTtg/s1600/russel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinz2uOpVJ0JcwK4HE58s-_9oM7dQSCpRxJtX3EXRIAEYcrvgOwg1yHY2g0yZayRpK3oajOYI4gFXqxrsvwW4R83V12uGuI6-m3vn7pI_uxEDk0nYCbMW6NTjjo5vkgW8axDN40Z5kmTtg/s1600/russel.jpg" /></a></div>
So basically, I don't know who would play Julian, but it would NOT be this.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCHxzAnnc0xJS4OaEkUk0rlBrFlyTzBuxOfZqWuKPEjFj4zZlKbOEQ_4fN_FJFc7Kttn9s_VGKFhxdC5qFyJBH4UeEay-xkod7w5n3HDVv0xje1ncpY8s4DqT9-tnM6P9FvB6ReOPqfWM/s1600/tom+cruise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCHxzAnnc0xJS4OaEkUk0rlBrFlyTzBuxOfZqWuKPEjFj4zZlKbOEQ_4fN_FJFc7Kttn9s_VGKFhxdC5qFyJBH4UeEay-xkod7w5n3HDVv0xje1ncpY8s4DqT9-tnM6P9FvB6ReOPqfWM/s1600/tom+cruise.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<strong>5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
Oh dear. If I write a huge run-on sentence that makes all other run-on sentences look like they were merely jogging or possibly running in place, do you think anyone would notice?<br />
<br />
Here goes:<br />
<br />
<em>Julian risks his hard-won sanity and sobriety by stepping back into the spotlight of rock and roll in order to win the affections of Cleo, a woman he mistakenly believes can't love him without fame - because without fame, he thinks he's just a freak.</em><br />
<em><br /></em>That wasn't so bad. I inserted a hyphen in there all smooth-like, though. Technically STILL ONE SENTENCE. And it leaves out so much and this is why I so desperately want to be chosen for #PitchWars....I need the help!! HELP ME.<br />
<br />
<strong>6. Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?</strong><br />
<br />
The world of self-publishing has changed. It really has. It isn't your grandmother's world of self-publishing, anymore. There's more to self-publishing now than people hawking cookbooks and memoirs in the back rooms of conferences. But I want an agent. Agents know things. They know smarty-smart-smart things. Also? I work better with a buddy. <br />
<br />
<strong>7. How long did it take you to write the first draft of your novel?</strong><br />
<br />
A freakishly long time. I foolishly thought the transition from nonfiction to fiction would be easy. Aren't I kind of cute when I'm all innocent and naive?<br />
<br />
It was not easy. I'm a huge reader, and I thought I'd instinctively know how to write fiction because of it. But I didn't. People know a book is bad when they're reading it, but they don't know why it's bad. I had to learn the <em>whys</em> of the bad, and then I worked on the <em>way</em>s of the good. Like a Jedi.<br />
<br />
It took over two years. Don't judge! I did it while dealing with the sexual irresponsibility we like to call our five kids! And during this time, one of them had brain surgery. <em>That's right - I'm playing the brain surgery card. </em><br />
<br />
The novel I'm writing now is progressing at lightning speed in comparison. Thank God.<br />
<br />
<strong>8. What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?</strong><br />
<br />
I like my romance steamy, but I like my characters to have depth. I like layers to dig through, and humor is a must. If you like the novels written by Susan Elizabeth Phillips or Rachel Gibson, you'll like <em>Just a Little Sting. </em><br />
<br />
<strong>9. Who or what inspired you to write this book?</strong><br />
<br />
As I stated above, I met two musicians with synesthesia and that got the ball rolling. <br />
<br />
<strong>10. What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?</strong><br />
<br />
The characters in this story are trying to reconcile who they used to be with who they want to be, while who they really are slowly creeps up on them. It's what we're all doing, really. Only my characters are prettier than we are while they're doing it. Also? Sex scenes where a synesthete is involved are colorful, to say the least.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<strong>Excerpt</strong></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em> This situation was annoying as hell and hadn't gone at all according to plan. The plan had been to whip off his sunglasses and cook the redhead with a smoldering look even though nobody wearing a stained t-shirt and some sort of horrible men's trunks deserved one. In no part of his plan was he supposed to be wearing women's clothing while suffering the scathing scrutiny of an unimpressed pint-sized bundle of bravado.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em> He lifted his eyes towards hers and did what he did best; a highly perfected sexy glance, followed by a boyish gaze through the lashes. He deliberately pulled his eyes away from her brilliant green peepers for a greedy stop at her mouth, where he noticed she was nervously biting her bottom lip. Cute. Then he let his eyes drift intentionally lower to make the obligatory pause at the breasts. Okay, more than a pause. White t-shirt. No bra. Very nice.</em></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<em> When his eyes made it back to hers, he was gratified by a furious blush spreading across her cheeks.</em></div>
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-77823325583038898392012-11-14T17:30:00.000-08:002012-11-14T17:30:19.055-08:00When it's NOT Harder Than a Femur.Something just happened and it made me question everything I thought I knew about anything. <br />
<br />
Song lyrics. We humans are famous for getting them wrong in hysterically entertaining ways. I, myself, am no stranger to this phenomena. In fact, Jeff and I have had HUGE FIGHTS over song lyrics. And just last week, I was writing in a coffee shop when a song came on that reminded me of Ellie. It was by a band she'd really liked back when we were travelling around looking at music schools and it made me miss her. So I immediately facebooked her:<br />
<br />
<em>Hey Ellie I'm in a coffee shop and they're playing that song by that French band you used to like and now I miss you. It's that one that goes: Like a rhine, like a rhino! Or maybe it's</em> <em>like a wine, like a wino!</em><br />
<br />
And she responded something like:<br />
<br />
<em>Oh my God, Mom! It's like a riot, like a riot, oh!</em><br />
<br />
Whatever. I was close. Also, I really liked my version better - the one about rhinos.<br />
<br />
So this sh*t happens, sometimes. But you <em>don't </em>screw up the lyrics for Your Band. If it's Your Band, you know their lyrics like the back of your hand, even if Your Band is the Red Hot Chili Peppers and their lyrics are Somewhat Nonsensical. They're lyrical (<em>lyrics!) </em>and poetic and they mean something, even if it's only <em>Hey This Rhymes! </em>and you don't mess around with them!<br />
<br />
Sir Psycho Sexy is a dirty song. It really is. And it isn't dirty by implication, it isn't nasty by nuance, it's just really filthy smut. In my younger years, as a new mommy, I didn't appreciate Sir Psycho Sexy. It was disgusting in a frat house sort of way. But now? Well, now that we're all grown up and keeping our socks on our feet where they belong, it's just kind of funny. And funky. With some great grooves. It makes me grin. And my favorite part? Was this line:<br />
<br />
<em>Harder than a femur!</em><br />
<br />
Harder than a femur! That's freaking hilarious! Especially if you're talking about an erection, which I have assumed, since 1993, that we were! <em>Harder than a femur! </em>WHAT A LINE. <br />
<br />
Whenever I face a difficult task or a trying time, I might say, "Geez, this is harder than femur." DO YOU SEE HOW PERFECT A LINE THAT IS???<br />
<br />
Sure, it bothered me a little that it didn't <em>quite </em>rhyme with beaver (don't over-think that - I know this is supposed to be a family show) - it <em>almost </em>rhymed with beaver in the same way that Dora <em>almost </em>rhymes with Explorer if you say it like you're from New Jersey.<br />
<br />
Anyway - back to the boner - of the femur variety, specifically. How can I say this? How can I say that the most perfect phrase, the best ever little witty line in that entire stupid song - the adorable word-tangle that redeemed Sir Psycho, DOESN'T EXIST? <br />
<br />
It doesn't exist. <br />
<br />
<em>Harder than a femur</em> doesn't exist. Not even a little. What Anthony Kiedis wrote, and what he sings, is the way way way less impressive and non-noteworthy and So Been Done Before <em>Hotter Than a Fever.</em><br />
<br />
Hotter than a fever? HOTTER THAN A FEVER?!? Really? Are you kidding me? That's not funny! That's not original! That's not anything I can say when encountering a humongous obstacle of enormous proportions! I wouldn't even say it IF IT WERE REALLY REALLY HOT OUTSIDE. <br />
<br />
It's That Much Meh.<br />
<br />
It does rhyme with Beaver, though. <br />
<br />
So tell me, people. What else do I have all wrong?? Do I even know anything at all anymore? Other than the fact that sometimes, finding something to blog about is HARDER THAN A FEMUR! <br />
<br />
<br />
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-51643670049107483142012-11-04T10:16:00.001-08:002012-11-09T07:20:44.187-08:00Riding the Curve and the End of the CanToday, we're trading in the Sardine Can for a small little pop-up camper. That's right! The very can that started this blog is heading for greener pastures, hopefully with another adventuresome family.<br />
<br />
Our camping life over the years would look like a Bell curve, I guess. We started out as two in a backpacking tent. We thought about nobody but ourselves and it was ROCKING AWESOME, don't kid yourselves. Jeff proposed to me on the Pine Canyon Trail in Big Bend National Park. At the time, we didn't consider the possibility that one day we'd hike that trail with babies on our backs or strapped to our chests with dirty diapers outweighing our water bottles. But we did.<br />
<br />
Tent camping with a baby basically sucks. So we bought a little pop-up camper. Eventually, the pop-up camper was overflowing with 7 people. It was pretty bad, and smelly, too. So we traded up to what became known as our Sardine Can. <br />
<br />
Man, it was like we'd moved into Trump Palace! A bed for everyone! A heater! A freaking refrigerator, stove, microwave, and shower! A stereo system that regularly blasted out Red Hot Chili Peppers and, if my dad was with us (and he often was) Pink Martini or Herb Albert or on one very long evening involving tequila, Axl Rose singing "Since I Don't Have You" over and over and over while my dad tried to learn the lyrics. We were always popular with the other campers.<br />
<br />
Then a weird thing started to happen. The kids got bigger and wanted to sleep in tents. Sometimes they (gasp) didn't want to go at all. Maybe they had to work, maybe they had something planned with friends, and then Ellie abandoned ship and left for college. <br />
<br />
The event, however, that sealed the Sardine Can's fate was the selling of The Bus. Like the Sardine Can, the 12-passenger van I drove started out with 2 car seats, a booster seat, 2 big kids, 2 parents, a friend or two, and The Grandpa. But for the past two years, it mostly drove me and Camille into the city for ballet. It was a HUGE waste of gas and more than we could afford. It was also the only thing we owned that could pull the Sardine Can. I replaced it with a small, red car that rocks on the gas mileage.<br />
<br />
And we are now the proud new owners of another small pop-up.<br />
<br />
Bell Curve. We start out small, we expand to near bursting, and then we deflate and end up back where we started. You can't really see the curve when you're riding it, you know. Everything is Now and Permanent and The Way Things Are. Of course, maybe if we knew that was all an illusion we'd cherish moments more, but we're not wired that way. Maybe if we knew we were riding a curve we'd never make the climb. Maybe if we knew we were only going to end up right back where we'd started, we'd just stay where we are. It's ingenious, really, the way these things work.<br />
<br />
I'm sad, watching the Sardine Can go. It was at the top of the curve, baby! It really was. And on that very first trip to California, the one that started this blog, it taught me a lesson about what's really important. Maybe I don't remember everything about that trip as clearly as I remembered it last year, or the year before. But I'll tell you what I do remember:<br />
<br />
I remember being in the camper beneath the stars, the second week into the trip. I remember the feel of a baby nursing at my breast, the love of my life cuddled up against my back. A mere few feet away were the other four children, asleep in bunk beds. It felt as if everything that was good and important and necessary in the universe had been titrated down to it's essence and poured into a 26-foot camper. Nothing existed outside of that little cocoon that mattered at all. And I was totally cognizant of it. I was <em>lucid</em> - and come on - how often does that happen? It was a gift, that night.<br />
<br />
My life is different now. With every milestone of independence the teens and tween take, part of me evaporates. I'm stretched, watered down, I feel...<em>diluted. </em><br />
<br />
They've grown, and I've shrunk.<br />
<br />
I'm learning to live with this new version of myself. The version that has held tight, let go, and lived to tell the tale. It has some scars. It's smarter than it used to be. It's more...<em>grateful.</em><br />
<br />
Good things are ahead for all of us, I'm sure of it. There are new Bell curves to ride; I just need to find where my next one begins.<br />
<br />
And for the love of God, that does not mean I'm pregnant.<br />
<br />
If you want to see what we were like when it all began, you can check out the very beginning of the blog. Or you can just wait and see where we all go from here.<br />
<br />
Signing off now, as the Sardine Mama Without a CanCarol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-31440169293217173962012-10-25T18:16:00.000-07:002012-10-25T18:18:53.913-07:00Petty Pointless BaggingI've been a mess, friends. Some Big Things have been going on and I don't do well with Big Things. <br />
Big Things like:<br />
<br />
MY NOVEL. Query-writing sucks so bad. It really really does. You know what's worse? The rejections that follow. I've received a couple. You know what's worse? The Requests for Fulls that I'm convinced are flukes because I want Everyone (!!) to Love Me (!!) All the Time (!!)<br />
<br />
Neurotic Much?<br />
<br />
Anyway - so I have fulls out. That's good. But it makes me insane for reals. Like I go from being all sad and morose and wallowing like a BOSS to YAY! Hooray! This is WONDERFUL!! I'm toying with the idea of becoming bi-polar. Like full-up total bi-polar. I'll let you know what I decide.<br />
<br />
Also? POLITICS. ELECTION. I know I'm just a silly woman but I have concerns about these things anyway.<br />
<br />
Also also? Ellie had a solo recital and it went really well but you guys know I psychically hold that concert grand together with my BRAIN while she plays. It's exhausting. And Jasper tortured me throughout the entire thing by loudly squeaking his seat - it was one of those that pops up when you're not sitting in it so yeah - he did that. A lot. In several seats. When it was over, he curled himself up in the fetal position during the reception, alarming at least one college student who seemed to want me to do something about it. I slid a plate of crackers over to him (he was on the floor) and a few minutes later the crackers were gone. I looked hopefully at the college student but he remained dubious of my parenting skills.<br />
<br />
He didn't realize Jasper needs time to "acclimate." Last weekend I took him on a roller coaster and as it climbed up for the first drop he yelled, "I'm not acclimated!!" He's like that.<br />
<br />
Also also also? I have a sick friend. Like really sick. As in chemo sick. Chemo sick sucks.<br />
<br />
So let's talk about Petty Things, shall we? To take my mind off it all?<br />
<br />
I got a new car. It is red. If you look in my closet you will find exactly ZERO red things. There's a reason for that. I look like sh*t in red. I won't wear it in a t-shirt, a lipstick, or a nail polish. But apparently it's okay to drape myself in tons and tons of it and then become mobile. If you see me, I totally apologize for looking washed out. It's red! Gah.<br />
<br />
Also? I have a pet peeve that has nothing to do with red cars and everything to do with our culture's obsession with bags. As in plastic bags. Or paper bags, really. Why is it that people want to put everything they buy in a bag? People buy a bag of chips - it gets put in a bag. A bag of bread? In a bag. A bag of potatoes? In a bag. WHY?? Why can't you just carry the bag of bread you carried to the register out to your car? Why must you place it in another bag first? I just watched a guy buy a soda at a convenience store. A single soda. That he was going to drink on the spot. It was put in a bag, first. He'd taken it out of the bag and tossed the bag in the trash before he was out the door. It stayed in the bag for like two feet, people. <br />
<br />
And when I take my pinko commie canvas reusable bags in the store? They try to slip a plastic bag in anyway! God forbid the Q-Tips end up right up against a package of spaghetti - all naked and rubbing right up against it. We need to put it in plastic bag first, and THEN put it in the commie bag. Because it's technically a toiletry item. Or some such nonsense. OR the bagger will put like one item in each bag so he can run out of my reusable bags and be forced to pop out plastic for my remaining 900 items. This happens while the cashier is distracting me. It's like a THING THEY DO ON PURPOSE.<br />
<br />
And why, you ask, does this petty sh*t bother me? Because it keeps me from worrying about queries, kids, my rights possibly going down the toilet, and sick friends. <br />
<br />
STOP THE POINTLESS BAGGING FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY!!! Seriously. I'm hysterical about it. <br />
<br />
Keeps me sane.<br />
<br />
Oh mah God - I almost forgot. I'm on The Twitter. I say that in the voice of an old, Jewish man. <em>I'm on The Twitter. </em>I have No Idea What I'm Doing. And there's always the chance I'll go all Courtney Love on The Twitter and you wouldn't want to miss that<br />
<br />
Signing Off @sardinemama<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-81453197194739810262012-10-09T09:20:00.000-07:002012-10-09T09:20:30.939-07:00The Pointe Is...Recently, Camille stood at a barre, surrounded by boxes of painful torture devices disguised as pretty, pink slippers. <br />
<br />
"It's important that they fit," the sales girl said. "She's way too young to have her feet disfigured." <br />
<br />
<em>When,</em> I wondered, <em>is it ever okay to have your feet disfigured?</em> I wanted to snatch my child away. I've seen the pictures of dancers' feet - I've seen Black Swan and other ballerina angst films. Why was my daughter about to start on this journey of pain and OH MY GOD EXCUSE THE ALL-CAPS possible disfigurement? At the age of ten?<br />
<br />
I'm no dance mom. This dance business, it's no dream of mine. Flashdance only inspired me to wear leg warmers, for crying out loud. So how did I end up here, in the dance store, about to buy pointe shoes for my child? Only the most driven dancers, the itty bitty percent, end up on pointe shoes. Even fewer stick with it for the long haul.<br />
<br />
Camille has talked about this moment since she was old enough to talk. Shortly after she began walking, she began dancing. And while other kids loved PBS for Elmo and Big Bird (strongly resisting the urge to talk about Romney here), Camille wanted to know when the next ballet or opera would be on. And then she'd watch it. Actually, that's an understatement. She'd <em>become </em>it. And it didn't matter if it was in German, Italian, or English - she was absorbed by it. <br />
<br />
We were treated to endless den performances - tutus, tickets, dramatic lighting - all before she'd set foot in a ballet studio.<br />
<br />
She put a lot of work into making the tickets.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimerx7ai2C1ou2oly0_X3NvR6iGWgoR2mjFVUOGvHnUTqskiyCr-olrwIYRJBlJUIzUV0w4YiV_MQtaFH_Te2YV6gWTaEEaFqPB9BAOhe8oo-GF9ygTQqjj7piUYWejiGMZKLKtXn5vI/s1600/dance+tickets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiimerx7ai2C1ou2oly0_X3NvR6iGWgoR2mjFVUOGvHnUTqskiyCr-olrwIYRJBlJUIzUV0w4YiV_MQtaFH_Te2YV6gWTaEEaFqPB9BAOhe8oo-GF9ygTQqjj7piUYWejiGMZKLKtXn5vI/s400/dance+tickets.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
And of course into the performances.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhSEqV78YVXjhwkJfyNLODSs1LdRVeglS_XxqJfK7LK05LEyCmHOeQRwj3ClF0GhK_yyIdQ9hn6c7pGhpWFyHhqHrF9qIr-SDCAtpoCZ39nUGD5r70y5_taqaDlZUnfssnON6Ye91bVE/s1600/den+recital.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXhSEqV78YVXjhwkJfyNLODSs1LdRVeglS_XxqJfK7LK05LEyCmHOeQRwj3ClF0GhK_yyIdQ9hn6c7pGhpWFyHhqHrF9qIr-SDCAtpoCZ39nUGD5r70y5_taqaDlZUnfssnON6Ye91bVE/s400/den+recital.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Who knew that only a couple of years later she'd be backstage, waiting to dance in a professional production of Copellia? </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<em>She knew. She always knew...</em></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nmNb1nzfn3tN3ANV0ofa5SJqhnSTvf7dduplw_iYaek5_ni5Mr1eZYKurPqBFykiqw5aXYYzitHpojEOi_Dia5vVkzJAdvrfteGIEcbPypTtU4__CFwpgYyPVb6nNLY3D-OMqJQ91jg/s1600/copellia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1nmNb1nzfn3tN3ANV0ofa5SJqhnSTvf7dduplw_iYaek5_ni5Mr1eZYKurPqBFykiqw5aXYYzitHpojEOi_Dia5vVkzJAdvrfteGIEcbPypTtU4__CFwpgYyPVb6nNLY3D-OMqJQ91jg/s400/copellia.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
</div>
<br />
"Tell me if it hurts when you go up," the girl said last week. "First position..."<br />
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
It all seemed so casual - as if this were not the moment she'd dreamed of pretty much her entire life. It was just a store, these were just shoes....it was all so technical - getting the right fit - no music, no celebration, no fireworks. </div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
And then the girl said, "Go up."</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIu9F6FjGu9e6CUhwHmGAS6XUOiT9psBxcxaPIbNrbAlitDXIbBnHLclT3uETTFj9YZ67csVmdMYxEiG3dl5Lj3vZ3zltiahyphenhyphen1KuTusH-uxxHYOet25mBY-fWd0-GXcgJeu5QTk_hy0k/s1600/2012-09-27+16.20.22%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" nea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZIu9F6FjGu9e6CUhwHmGAS6XUOiT9psBxcxaPIbNrbAlitDXIbBnHLclT3uETTFj9YZ67csVmdMYxEiG3dl5Lj3vZ3zltiahyphenhyphen1KuTusH-uxxHYOet25mBY-fWd0-GXcgJeu5QTk_hy0k/s400/2012-09-27+16.20.22%5B1%5D.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
<br /></div>
Everyone, obviously, was looking at Camille's feet. The sales girl, my dad, Camille's friend who'd come along to watch, and the other people shopping in the store. Everyone stared at her feet. But for some reason, my eyes flitted up to her face - at just the right moment. <br />
<br />
She didn't gasp, she didn't squeal, she didn't even smile. She looked...surprised. <br />
<br />
I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but we humans are not meant to be on our toes. We're not meant to balance on them, we're not meant to spin on them, we're not meant to hop across a stage on them. And Camille's face reflected that - not the pain of it - sadly, I'm sure that will come, later. It reflected the surprise of achieving the unexpected. <br />
<br />
Her eyes met mine, briefly, in the mirror. <em>Did you see what I did? Wasn't that spectacular? </em><br />
<br />
It was spectacular. And it was spectacular in a way that I will never truly understand. Because her dream is not my dream. But I got a small glimpse, in that tiny dimple that appeared out of nowhere on her right cheek, of what it might feel like to suddenly balance on your toes. To achieve, for the very first time, that which you feel you were quite possibly born to achieve. <br />
<br />
Actually, I think I might have felt what she felt at that moment. The shock, surprise, realization, and awe of your own badass self. <em>Yes, I have! I have felt it before!</em> Five times, to be exact. Because five times my body has done something unexpected, something that it seemed it shouldn't have been able to do. Five times I've surprised myself. And each time, I held my newborn and looked at Jeff. <em>Did you see what I did? </em><br />
<br />
It was, indeed, truly spectacular each time. And it was also incredibly and unbelievably painful. And frightening. Because creation isn't easy. And we surprise ourselves with it each time. Even when we knew it was coming. <br />
<br />
These are miraculous things we do, and we do them every day. We rise on our toes, we paint, we sing. Sometimes we squeeze words out of the ethersphere. <br />
<br />
We give birth.<br />
<br />
It's worth the pain. <br />
<br />
I'm so glad I was not looking at her feet. She will rise on pointe many times over the next few years. But she only rose for the first time, once. And it was all in her eyes.<br />
<br />
<br />
I won't feel badly for letting her do this. I'll do what I can to get the best-fitting shoes possible. I'll make sure she has the best teachers to guide her. But I won't stand in the way of creation. Because I saw her eyes when the girl said, "Go up,"...<em>and </em><em>she did</em>.<br />
<br />
Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-14087765730985068742012-10-06T18:24:00.000-07:002012-10-06T18:25:16.259-07:00I Yam What I YamSo I went to a writer's workshop on social media. I hate workshops, and I hate social media if it is any kind of social media I'm not already using and comfortable with. Also - I went as a newbie/non-member to this workshop - cold turkey without a buddy and I am a better with a buddy. In general. <br />
<br />
I walked into the room, signed in, paid, and was given a name tag which I promptly stuck IN MY HAIR. People tried not to notice as I began the tiresome process of separating my bazillion hairs from the name tag while acting like it didn't hurt. I hate being the new girl and I particularly hate being the new girl with a name tag in her hair.<br />
<br />
Anyway - the workshop was great in that it affirmed some things I already thought in regards to writers' blogs, websites, and social media. The things it didn't affirm....whatevs. I didn't understand that stuff anyway. In fact, I actually lost consciousness several times - a little condition I suffer whenever anyone tries to force-feed me instructions on how to use electronic devices or whenever I'm forced into the plumbing/electrical aisle of a home improvement store. <br />
<br />
<strong>Writers' Blogs</strong>: I kept wondering why I needed one. I mean, really. Who would read it? Other writers? What could I possibly say that would interest them that they haven't already said themselves? Like, I just didn't get it, you know? I don't like reading writers' blogs much, myself. And when I do, I rarely buy the book(s) they're pushing because I buy books by authors I already read or authors my friends suggest - maybe I hear about it on NPR - something like that. To buy a book from every writers' site where someone is hawking a book would be ridiculous and would possibly result in Inspirational Romance ending up on my bookshelves and I DON'T WANT THAT. Not that there's anything wrong with Inspirational Romance - I just don't want to read it. <br />
<br />
So the workshop presenter said my blog needs to be about things other than writing. <em>It is! </em>It needs to show a unique voice that people like. <em>I have a unique voice that people like! </em>Humor is good. <em>I totally crack myself up! </em>You can talk about anything. <em>I talk about anything! </em><br />
<br />
What a freaking, amazing relief!! I cannot TELL you how sick to death I was of worrying over this writing blog and how I was going to have to deal with it in addition to writing novels AND how it wouldn't allow me to have time for Sardines in a Can and I miss writing my little old Not Really About Anything blog! Supposedly, my followers read me because they like me and they'll buy my book because they like me and then if they like the book as much as they like me they'll tell their friends and THAT is how Fifty Tons of Bullshit makes its way to the best seller list!! YAY!!<br />
<br />
I'M BACK, MAH PEEPS! And I don't even feel guilty about being here.<br />
<br />
There are a couple of things, however, that might be considered little problems, if we want to keep this here act all kinds of professional.<br />
<br />
*I'm not supposed to post pics of myself.<br />
<em>I went to TWO Red Hot Chili Peppers concerts this month SO FAR! And I wore an Off! cap like Anthony Kiedis and I really thought everyone would be wearing one but they weren't and I'm pretty sure that Anthony was looking at me. Seriously. Right in the eyes. He was all like, "Cool! We have the same cap!" or possibly, "That bitch is wearing my cap!" I couldn't tell. But anyway - here we are leaving for one concert:</em><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAr-TFcvH4eGmjMr_7vOuFKi-Tj0iCR3t2OrH7Ng7x2HCLSn450uaNpPCTl-B3aCuZPvzuOLnnc1uoIn5byh6twVCtnm0oAjGva1lbkbSjxIO7Fkbu2bXCpP8xZffhmCFPuRJjn4TjVE/s1600/off+to+concert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyAr-TFcvH4eGmjMr_7vOuFKi-Tj0iCR3t2OrH7Ng7x2HCLSn450uaNpPCTl-B3aCuZPvzuOLnnc1uoIn5byh6twVCtnm0oAjGva1lbkbSjxIO7Fkbu2bXCpP8xZffhmCFPuRJjn4TjVE/s400/off+to+concert.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<em>And here we are in the car leaving like the groupies we are to follow the band to the NEXT concert. Because we are not amateurs, that's why.</em><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNdLzZZsE-XomvqO7ise-AkjQBx3h-56zsRLvQbJJ5kDzXa7plEhEVlcfhET_Bm5E5unTJi4WLOIe-pI2XrR8yVCpHFRerNw65IozeTGIh8mJquep5AIpME8sPHHwjdcyUGCnHZuys3bI/s1600/2012-09-29+19.10.48%5B1%5D.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" mea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNdLzZZsE-XomvqO7ise-AkjQBx3h-56zsRLvQbJJ5kDzXa7plEhEVlcfhET_Bm5E5unTJi4WLOIe-pI2XrR8yVCpHFRerNw65IozeTGIh8mJquep5AIpME8sPHHwjdcyUGCnHZuys3bI/s400/2012-09-29+19.10.48%5B1%5D.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
In addition to not posting pictures of myself that could be interpreted as anything other than strictly professional, I am also supposed to abstain from mentioning religion, politics, or using any form of possibly offensive profanity. Um...that would be no, no, and f*ucking hell no.<br />
<br />
Honestly, though, if my followers are any indication of my offensiveness - I'm not too concerned. I love you guys! You are liberal, conservative, parents, non-parents, straight, extremely not-straight, religious, and atheist. Some of you are several of these things at once. And you keep coming here - even though I am prone to making fun of Rick Perry and Sarah Palin (GOD HOW I MISS SARAH PALIN - I MISS HER LIKE I MISS MEL GIBSON AND CHARLIE SHEEN). You come even though I don't share your faith. You come even though I don't send my kids to school, nor do I school them at home, and you might be a teacher or a principal or the president of your PTA. You come even though you can't possibly understand why one woman would have five kids - or why one woman would have <em>only </em>five kids.<br />
<br />
I think you come here because you like what I have to say, or how I say it. Or because you're bored and I've become part of your procrastination routine. <br />
<br />
You come. And so I'm not changing a thing. <br />
<br />
Much. <br />
<br />
I might change <em>some </em>things. Probably will, in fact. But for the most part, you're going to get what you've always gotten. Me.<br />
<br />
The End.Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-20040292585802110222012-08-19T11:36:00.000-07:002012-08-19T11:37:29.091-07:00How I Spent My Summer Vacation Worrying About Other PeopleOh dear. How to do this without overwhelming myself? Where do I start? <br />
<br />
1) Writer's Blog is under construction. And it is called <strong>Fight for Your Write</strong> (thanks Heidi!). It will be linked to a Facebook Author page, where I will be optimistically referred to as a pre-published author. <em>I can't tell you how badly that little bit of optimism goes against my natural tendencies. But that's what we say nowadays! We don't say "un" published. We're pre-published, by God! </em>Ack. It makes me cringe. I can't help it. I'd rather don black and retreat to my tower to willfully wallow in statistics of unlikelyhood. Pre-published...as if believing were enough. Honestly, people. Some of us just can't write - and saying we're pre-published doesn't change that. I mean - technically - my dog is pre-published. And he can't write at ALL. So much for terminology elevating my objectivity.<br />
<br />
2) Did I mention my book is finished? My book is finished. <br />
<br />
3) To quote Jack White, I just don't know what to do with myself. Well, that's not true. There is a lot to do around here. But I kind of walk around in this haze of expectation. As if Something Big is about to happen because of #2 up above.<br />
<br />
4) Somehow, in between all of the writing delirium - non-fiction kept happening. (It's sometimes referred to as <em>life</em>.) Jules had his surgery. He was a freaking trooper, believe me. And, since I'm sure you're wondering, you should know that I WAS ALSO A TROOPER. I know! Surprising, right? I did really well! <br />
<br />
There were 3 surgeons. The one who had the most difficult job was the one who was charged with finding and harvesting fat from Jules' body to plug into his head after the tumor was removed. Jules is 5'10" and weighs 117 pounds. He is all muscle. And he now bears an impressive C-Section type of a scar across his belly. He tells people he got it in a sword fight. Or he'll show it to them when they ask to see his brain surgery scar, just to enjoy the looks of utter confusion. <br />
<br />
The surgery was easier than we'd expected, in some ways, and harder in others. ICU was hard. They kept telling me he was okay but he certainly didn't <em>look </em>okay. He looked like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDlWrzEWKbuCAZynJiwfRUFwAreZcsNdacvMPcuy6WUNk82UQqomFHmIOyOLi0Y2PJPIugckxmiScYD-PTp4N04gk9yEmubEZ3jQKfdBJfxdwd9VtLjiDeaQTW4W-WAb0t9S8v5qu17I/s1600/Jules+brain+surgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" mda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDDlWrzEWKbuCAZynJiwfRUFwAreZcsNdacvMPcuy6WUNk82UQqomFHmIOyOLi0Y2PJPIugckxmiScYD-PTp4N04gk9yEmubEZ3jQKfdBJfxdwd9VtLjiDeaQTW4W-WAb0t9S8v5qu17I/s640/Jules+brain+surgery.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
If you don't know by now - I am squeamish. I don't like sick or injured things to be in my general vicinity. But let me tell you - I was all over this kid and into his business 24/7.<br />
On his first night in the ICU, the nurse went to give him a dose of steroids directly into his line. She warned me that it might make him nauseous. Well, as soon as she depressed the plunger he projectiled. And he was flat on his back. She tossed me a hose and said, "Suction his mouth!" AND I DID. Brilliantly and heroically I suctioned vomit out of his mouth!<br />
<br />
He hadn't really spoken yet - but he looked at me after I wiped his mouth, and he raised one of his beautiful, delicate eyebrows to show how <strike>surprised</strike> impressed he was by my performance. I knew then that he really was going to be okay. And so was I. Life's a crap shoot - and for reasons I can't explain - I just keep winning. Charmed, blessed, whatever you want to call it. I don't know whether it's because the Universe likes to Smile Upon Me, or if it's because I've just been trotting along unnoticed and have thus far avoided its wrath. <br />
<br />
5) Ellie went to Europe. By herself. She participated in two music festivals; one in Innsbruck and one in Vienna. In addition to Austria, she visited Germany, Italy, and Slovakia. I can't tell you how far the heartstrings were stretched during this month that she was gone. This was a huge, momentous mothering event for me that far surpassed the Going Off to College drama. And you know what a drama that was - you read about it for like two solid years! But this - sending her so far away - it was really setting her free, letting her go, <em>trusting her to be okay, </em>trusting the Universe, trusting, trusting, trusting....very difficult. I somehow kept breathing.<br />
<br />
She tries to be really strong around me because any sign of weakness and I'm a melting mess of enormous proportions. I think she's terrified I'll try and force her back in the womb, where really, she should have stayed to begin with. Letting them out is a huge mistake, when you think about it.<em> Once they're out - they want to go to Europe by themselves.</em> Anyway - I could tell she was a little frightened and it killed me. But as usual - she swallowed it down and got on with it. She's always been the bravest person I know. Here she is in being brave in Strausburg.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBYE-KH720J6y3t1YNG7R2m1-FJJzvsHUW4WRLPpvqeTiqkkhFPsNsUW_tZsM8QMaEm5YOWvCrpI9yssooCIxhOfULyaqSvw_bCMzU0_BKlHf6denGBMRGRqer5mVrNLSmbjVmJgQZUs/s1600/ellie+castle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" mda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcBYE-KH720J6y3t1YNG7R2m1-FJJzvsHUW4WRLPpvqeTiqkkhFPsNsUW_tZsM8QMaEm5YOWvCrpI9yssooCIxhOfULyaqSvw_bCMzU0_BKlHf6denGBMRGRqer5mVrNLSmbjVmJgQZUs/s640/ellie+castle.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
6) Other notable things happened, as well, but I'm tired of noting them.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Until Next Time!</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Sardine Mama</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-16620573328503368372012-05-13T13:00:00.002-07:002012-05-13T13:00:41.184-07:00It's TimeI know. It's like I fell off the face of the earth again. Actually, I fell into writing my novel. Like I totally wrote and wrote and rewrote and rewrote. And while I wrote I felt incredibly guilty because I had kids running around somewhere. I was pretty sure I did, anyway. It was all rather vague and blurry as far as that went. Because I was writing.<br />
<br />
While I was writing, the house fell apart. The laundry piled up, as did the dishes. The food rotted in the refrigerator. The dust grew thick. The cobwebs invaded. The trash spilled over. You get the idea.<br />
<br />
The children did not bathe. They played video games all day. They ate corn with a spoon out of a can and called it dinner. They grew taller. Older. Different. And yet I kept writing.<br />
<br />
Why?<br />
<br />
I don't know. But today is Mother's Day, and I'm reminded again that if everything in the world were to be titrated down into the only thing that mattered to me, it would be these five little souls skittering about, growing up, forming opinions...shaping the world. They're everything to me. Even on the days when my mind has chosen to hole itself up with far less interesting make-believe people.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I thought about blogging. But then I'd quickly become overwhelmed. There was just So Much Going On. All of it was blogworthy. Where to start? Nowhere. So I didn't.<br />
<br />
Jasper had a birthday. Joel shaved his head. Ellie made travel plans. Brain surgery was scheduled for Jules. Camille auditioned for a dance ensemble. Women watched (many idly) their rights slip away while their men stood silent. Rick Santorum happened. Then he un-happened. North Carolina did what it did. And Obama did what he did. Mitt Romney forgot about bullying a gay boy - it was just something teenagers did, after all. I was accosted at a stoplight over my Obama bumper sticker and came home and peeled it off. Trayvon Martin was murdered. I went to a Jane's Addiction concert. <br />
<br />
All of the above? Blogworthy. But I was busy writing escapism romance. Apparently, people (women, in particular) need a little bit of that. <br />
<br />
And then the Time Cover happened. And I really wanted to blog about that. But everyone else has already done it. I spent an entire decade of my life breastfeeding. And I breastfed toddlers, usually standing up, because that is how they roll. In fact, if I were younger, blonder, and thirty pounds lighter, that could be me on the cover. In my head I looked every bit as bad-ass as the chick on the cover of Time Magazine. Making food with your own body is sort of a super human power, after all. In fact, when the children come to me asking for the occasional this or that, and I tell them I'm writing and they should ask their father, and they say they asked their father and he's busy and said they should ask me, I'll sometimes say, "Tell Daddy I used to make food for you with my very own body. He can certainly wash a bowl of grapes."<br />
<br />
The Time picture has started a flurry of Blogger Activity. <em>The child is too old! It's abuse! </em>Um, no he isn't and it's not. More people than you realize are closet nursers of Not Really So Tiny Children. I bet you ten bucks you know some. They're just not doing it in front of you. Unless, that is, they belong to one of the zillions of cultures of people who nurse children beyond infancy. I don't really think that's the problem with the picture, though.<br />
<br />
People (men) like their breastfeeding women to resemble the Virgin Mary Whist Feeding the Baby Jesus. That's the only way they can justify such a blatant misuse of <strike>tits </strike>mammary glands. If a woman dares to bare it and feed whilst looking all bad-ass and Distinctly Un-Virginal and feeding a toddler way too big to fit in the Christmas Nativity Scene ...it causes all sorts of uncomfortable feelings....quite possibly in the nether regions. And there is to be no mingling between nurturing and nether regions. The fact that women are talented, multi-dimensional, multi-taskers SHOULD equate to their breasts being so, as well, but <strike>men</strike> some people would prefer that breasts and their purposes proceed along in a linear fashion...as in now they're sexy, now they're matronly and nurturing, and now they're sexy again...not willy nilly sexy/nurturing all at the same time. The reason for this is simple: People are massively screwed up when it comes to sex, feminism, and did I say sex? Yes. <br />
<br />
Speaking of sex and things that set the blogosphere abuzz: Fifty Shades of Grey. If I see one more word about it I'm going to set my hair on fire. Unless, of course, it's on my Very Own Brand Spanking New Writer's Blog. The one where I'm going to break the First Cardinal Rule of Unpublished Writer's Blogs and criticize a published writer. The only thing holding me back is the fact that I haven't a name for my new blog. I'd appreciate any suggestions you might have. And by the way, all witty little titles incorporating the word "write" have already been used. <br />
<br />
I'll draw a winner from the people who send me suggestions, and that lucky winner will receive his or her very own copy of Haruki Murakami's novel, Kafka on the Shore. I will never criticize Murakami. Because he is perfect in every way. Every single way. <br />
<br />
If you've never entered a contest of this nature before, now is a good time to do so. I suspect you might be the only one who responds, and this greatly increases your odds of winning. <br />
<br />
As soon as I have a Blog Name - you will be able to read my thoughts on Shades of Grey, the BDSM Erotica novel you've seen, oddly enough, gracing the shelves of your local neighborhood Costco.<br />
<br />
You guys were my guilty pleasure today. I'll try not to stay away so long next time.<br />
Sardine MamaCarol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-64582298453669925752012-03-18T10:43:00.000-07:002012-03-18T10:43:48.914-07:00To Stone or Not to Stone? That is (not) the Question.It's the Lord's Day and I've been thinking about religion a lot lately. We are living in strange times.<br />
<br />
I think I've talked a little before about my spiritual journey on this blog - how I was raised in a secular home but in a religious society - how I longed to be part of the private club - how I joined and then left the club - and how I am now trying to raise my own children in a secular home that exists within an increasingly fundamentalist society. I'm hoping they won't feel that "longing to belong" that always nagged me growing up.<br />
<br />
As homeschoolers, we are even more saturated with religion than the average Texan. Most people here homeschool for religious reasons. Even so, we have found a circle of friends who accept us and love us for who we are....some of them are religious and some are not. But the Culture of Homeschooling here is definitely religious in nature. There is a definite feeling of families homeschooling to protect their children from what they see as evil secular influences (although honestly, the public schools here aren't exactly free-thinking hot spots), or to raise Christian soldiers or prepare for the Rapture or because they were "called" to homeschool by God Himself. Families homeschooling for these reasons do not tend to be a very welcoming bunch. <br />
<br />
For example: On Facebook I belong to a group that consists of local homeschoolers. They post activities, seek advice, share information, etc. And the general assumption among them is: If You're Homeschooling You're Christian. But the group, itself, is secular.<br />
<br />
Recently, a woman posted about a field trip she was organizing at a trampoline place. It was a great price and sounded like something Camille and Jasper would want to do - so I read the info. This caught my eye:<br />
<br />
<em>Disney music will be played. There will be no secular music!!</em><br />
<br />
Do I need to point out the obvious error here? No? OK. I won't.<br />
<br />
Next it said: <em> Invite all the Christian Homeschoolers you know!</em><br />
<br />
People immediately began asking questions...you know...normal questions like dress code questions. They wanted to make sure their sons would not witness shoulders, etc. Because that would drive them mad, I guess. Make them begin raping and pillaging and plundering - and it would be all because of those bared shoulders or the possible glimpse of cotton panties up the leg of a jumping girl whose mother didn't think to dress her modestly for a trampoline place. We are all Eve, after all. We're temptresses....it is our responsibility to make sure we do not cause evil thoughts in the minds of men with our nasty, filthy shoulders. Wait...I've digressed.<br />
<br />
So I posted a simple question. "<em>Is this field trip open to all homeschoolers or is it just for Christians?"</em><br />
<br />
Silence.<br />
<br />
All posting about dress codes and secular music ceased. <em>If we're all very quiet, maybe she'll just go away.</em><br />
<br />
Later, I was told that the original poster responded with four comments, one of which began with, "<em>I'm not trying to start a faith war, just plan a field trip..."</em><br />
<br />
Before I could respond that I also was not trying to start a faith war, just wanted to know if we were welcome to come jump on the trampolines because it's an hour-long drive for me and if we were going to be asked to leave when we got there because we don't go to church I wanted to know that up front - well, before I could say that - she'd deleted all of her comments. I didn't get to see them, but I'm betting that each one became more and more defensive and hysterical.<br />
<br />
Needless to say, we didn't go on the field trip.<br />
<br />
So this woman had been totally, completely, and thoroughly blown out of the water by me. She hadn't expected me. I'd surprised her. How can you be constantly worried about the throngs of evil atheists who are waging a war against you and persecuting you and trying to take away your rights - how can you claim to exist in the middle of this Huge Majority of Evil People - and then freak out when you actually hear from one? Either we're everywhere you look or we're not. And all I wanted to do was take my kids to jump on trampolines. It was way more likely that your kids were going to try and indoctrinate mine than the other way around. <br />
<br />
I have really nice kids, by the way.<br />
<br />
So that irritated me. And then this irritated me:<br />
<br />
A young man who had recently announced on Facebook that Liberals Are Hitler, took offense when someone else (not me) made a joke about something from Leviticus in regards to Marriage Equality. The post didn't call anyone out, didn't use insulting language, and it was obviously meant to be humorous. The young man took it as a personal attack on his faith. A conversation ensued about what from the Bible was to be taken literally and what was not. A man not lying with a man IS to be taken literally. Other things, obviously, are not. Like not wearing mixed fibers, for example. This is all nonsensical to me, but I can relate to how it might not be nonsensical to someone else. Like I totally GET the fact that people have a right to their faith, and a right to live their lives according to their faith, as long as their faith doesn't dictate that they make me do the same (which is obviously where the problem currently lies in our country). Anyway, I brought up the stoning of adulterers and how the Bible dictates that we should, you know, do that....and I knew full well that this young man would have a Biblical explanation for why we shouldn't stone people in this day and age. He was not a casual Bible-Reader - it was obvious from his language and the lengthy discourse that he was very educated about his faith and the Bible.<br />
<br />
I was right. He launched into 3 main reasons why we don't stone adulterers. They were detailed and involved a deep understanding of Torah and Talmud and Rabbinic Law. He went to a lot of trouble to explain all of this to me - and honestly - I appreciated it because at least he could make a valid argument, as opposed to someone who really doesn't understand his own faith while he's trying to defend it. <br />
<br />
But after he made all of the points, all I could think of was:<br />
<em>I think we shouldn't bash people's heads in with rocks until their brains ooze out their ears because it's MEAN and amoral, not because we are living outside the borders of Israel without a jury of Biblically Ordained Aaronic priests. </em><br />
<br />
People wonder how atheists can have a moral compass...yet if you read the Bible, you wonder how religious people can. Obviously, religion isn't the cause of morality, and often, it is the cause of atrocities. And while I know some great religious people who walk the walk - they would be good people regardless - they're not good BECAUSE of their faith. <br />
<br />
I'm a good person and I'm raising good people. We will not exclude you from coming on our field trips. We will not try take your faith away, we just ask that you not force it on us (and I realize that the basis of many Christian faiths is spreading the Good News and saving people and such - and so yeah - makes it hard on folks like me for you to live out your faith). <br />
<br />
And I don't need to look up the answer in a book and ponder it at length when asked if people should stone other people. My moral compass is just too firmly grounded for that.Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-4028690816371094822012-03-13T11:46:00.000-07:002012-03-13T11:46:04.680-07:00Story #2: Holed Up on President's DayI told you I'm going to do a post per day this week! This is Day 2 and here I am! <br />
<br />
Stories. I'm still on blogworty stories.<br />
<br />
Jeff had the day off for President's Day last month even though he doesn't have a government job. He works for a Japanese company and they take take this President's Day business seriously. For some bizarre reason, *back when we used to homeschool, we would do all sorts of craftsy crazy dorky homeschooling activities on President's Day. This year we just went hiking. <br />
<br />
<em>*back when we used to homeschool....a phrase used by my sons when they talk about the "early days" of our homeschooling adventure. they actually remember very little of it, which is why I quit that nonsense. </em><br />
<br />
We headed for Enchanted Rock, which is a huge chunk of granite jutting out of the ground. Like HUGE. Not Half Dome Huge - but big enough to be fairly impressive in the Texas Hill Country where we're talking about, you know, hills.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDS7h6FDRCL7Xg4uMollEwZOhYTYtMHj1Nt0QsbUw2Aqt30bFSznQdbSGOmvnbYpi_yOqJsbEnhfpn1w9KWviiI1Tw7_W4Nlt1p9WjOQlD1eMaeyyWXWeyd8ohY_uZxCDHdUsOOpEr00/s1600/P2200069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDS7h6FDRCL7Xg4uMollEwZOhYTYtMHj1Nt0QsbUw2Aqt30bFSznQdbSGOmvnbYpi_yOqJsbEnhfpn1w9KWviiI1Tw7_W4Nlt1p9WjOQlD1eMaeyyWXWeyd8ohY_uZxCDHdUsOOpEr00/s640/P2200069.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
On our way, we stopped to pick up Austen - so right away - things were bound to be exciting.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><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="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jgqwXrM0ZWPjQ3_QDQc1i6AyY37FJVmftfyxRacd8_5DmWK_cGWCTWbRLd9LvEjf21M_TGqe233EG6R-SPJHMSF5yy-Qt2aYbC_bW6ALLJqTGVTfaWV4zvrhBZLZ7zFKRd-ZjYK9wCg/s1600/Austen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7jgqwXrM0ZWPjQ3_QDQc1i6AyY37FJVmftfyxRacd8_5DmWK_cGWCTWbRLd9LvEjf21M_TGqe233EG6R-SPJHMSF5yy-Qt2aYbC_bW6ALLJqTGVTfaWV4zvrhBZLZ7zFKRd-ZjYK9wCg/s640/Austen.jpg" width="528" /></a><br />
<br />
<div align="left">As you can see, he's always upside down. </div></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7CtFCtXHkyJq1RiCklbVFoNyb9IjsN8qwNnvfmkYpIHjqCOjfnonPvbPi_ufAk-9fbFznoaj21bPUpg2DYT4TKiXdxkUl4O3TXBTz68PGn5eX1SorliU_d_0R9Zy3QMTHIjaRAQIlBQc/s1600/also+austen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7CtFCtXHkyJq1RiCklbVFoNyb9IjsN8qwNnvfmkYpIHjqCOjfnonPvbPi_ufAk-9fbFznoaj21bPUpg2DYT4TKiXdxkUl4O3TXBTz68PGn5eX1SorliU_d_0R9Zy3QMTHIjaRAQIlBQc/s640/also+austen.jpg" width="640" /></a></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table> After a picnic, we headed up The Rock. I mentioned it's granite, right? And it's all uphill. Parts of it are slippery. If you fall, you are going all the way back down in a fraction of the time it took you to get up. So when the teen boys said, "Later..." and took off, I was hoping they weren't going to roll past me as I made my way up. The three of them are more than a little adventurous, but I had Jasper with me so I couldn't waste a lot of time worrying about them. Jasper, at the age of 7, began to run up the hill as if he were being chased by a herd of lions. Now then....I CANNOT RUN UP THE HILL. Jeff took off after Jasper, but he's just not as good at being neurotic as I am. I disapproved of his calm demeanor in light of Jasper's full-speed jaunt up the rock, but I was too out of breath to properly express my discontent. Camille also headed up at quite the pace, but being a girl, she LOOKED WHERE SHE WAS GOING as opposed to RUNNING BLINDLY AND INSANELY UP A STEEP AND SLIPPERY CHUNK OF GRANITE. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpvOVGW7Nmh6MQcm_8P4Xm7Bu6tzLEBCX5sm2lzuGtOleF_vubFpE_m7WqZV-7XwEeXxbC0dQ0X9cTIUtcHjwaWIZnQsCN96mMFlU09XMZhFhQomnIEFUR04fZoN-EjoYXH_f7Shdtr4/s1600/P2200061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxpvOVGW7Nmh6MQcm_8P4Xm7Bu6tzLEBCX5sm2lzuGtOleF_vubFpE_m7WqZV-7XwEeXxbC0dQ0X9cTIUtcHjwaWIZnQsCN96mMFlU09XMZhFhQomnIEFUR04fZoN-EjoYXH_f7Shdtr4/s640/P2200061.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>I forgot all about the teen boys because I was entirely focused on being ready to catch Jasper in the event that he stopped, dropped, and rolled on down my way. <br />
<br />
Did I mention I was a tad out of breath during all of this? 'Cause I was. At one point, a little kid took a tumble and came up all kinds of bloody and started the wailing and although Jasper saw the poor kid I could tell he drew no conclusions as to what that could mean for him if he continued running across/up the granite - so I was trying to yell, "See what happens?" but it came out as a sad little whisper and he didn't hear me.<br />
<br />
Did I mention that I did this climb without oxygen? Nor was I strapped to the back of a Sherpa. I know, it's impressive. I give all the credit for my being able to reach the summit to Jasper and his perilous climb. It's what kept me going.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>When I finally reached the summit I plopped down and pretended to appreciate the view of the clouds while my pulse thundered in my head and I heaved for breath. I heard some commotion and lifted my head to see the SAS Shoe Crowd heading my way. If you're unfamiliar with the SAS Shoe Crowd, let me just say that SAS Shoes are a type of shoe manufactured in San Antonio that is favored by the senior crowd. You see SAS Shoes retirees running all over the damn place and they're hardly ever out of breath and it's freaking annoying.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXud9a45mONKuVyNOTMnY59d5FTB9EC1N9Oos4WmuwNXVLIdHUgAR1DbsSGYp0Oc1iV-LZMu9fmZy9hftvpLXSy8mCKO1XmCv3-efeFdU5AQWPAnojQ4_P1vCRGgDN6ZDTV5GYV_6osac/s1600/SAS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXud9a45mONKuVyNOTMnY59d5FTB9EC1N9Oos4WmuwNXVLIdHUgAR1DbsSGYp0Oc1iV-LZMu9fmZy9hftvpLXSy8mCKO1XmCv3-efeFdU5AQWPAnojQ4_P1vCRGgDN6ZDTV5GYV_6osac/s1600/SAS.jpg" /></a></div>"Lovely day!" they said as they stepped over me. Since I couldn't speak I opted for a friendly finger gesture behind their backs.<br />
<br />
Eventually, I managed to stand up, but it was probably a little too soon because I immediately suffered a hallucination. In the hallucination, Joel ran up to me and said, "Jules is in the finals!"<br />
<br />
"The finals for what?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"The Limbo Contest!" Joel said. Then he ran off.<br />
<br />
"Aha. The Limbo Contest," I said to my hallucinating self. "Of course."<br />
<br />
I looked across the top of the chunk of granite, past the SAS Shoes Hikers, to where it appeared a group had gathered. In my hallucination, it looked a lot like this.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wrDGYWocNI3IKPWY5izaTFvammZxyVRXDgHr_9YwFtZ06V_mt3y6xi9uCpcbnVWd5P8cx3hKa5gJicDKTji_IpRZhzEqOSfQTGMybi1lgCz2bwh9lZn1IYSGBtbGT-iVNSjTnSmA97U/s1600/P2200040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-wrDGYWocNI3IKPWY5izaTFvammZxyVRXDgHr_9YwFtZ06V_mt3y6xi9uCpcbnVWd5P8cx3hKa5gJicDKTji_IpRZhzEqOSfQTGMybi1lgCz2bwh9lZn1IYSGBtbGT-iVNSjTnSmA97U/s640/P2200040.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>You can't make it out, but two kids are indeed holding a limbo stick, and three people are still in the running and one of them is Jules. That's right - you make it to the top of Enchanted Rock and there stands a Church Youth Group (like the SAS Shoe Crowd they're freaking everywhere and also hardly ever out of breath) and they've already indoctrinated your kids by luring them into the fold with a freaking limbo stick. You can't turn your back for ONE MINUTE. <br />
<br />
Seriously, these were some nice kids. Jules came in 2nd, and then we all went our separate ways. And when I say we all went our separate ways, I mean that the three teen boys screamed, "We're headed to the cave!" and then disappeared on the Other Side of the Granite Rock.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbJjNNuE2BRP0ApuPIrMSRKyX2XAVjMVQqF6zjCn1p1bqAdzNSzN8VdEuBNoP-YQNYivxbxeHR0FYQ_46SjD0XEbTobJu2kQvSB-tYxCqeDrE-sZsMbThyFmdiXZSCopDMxEf9KCQnhA/s1600/P2200055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqbJjNNuE2BRP0ApuPIrMSRKyX2XAVjMVQqF6zjCn1p1bqAdzNSzN8VdEuBNoP-YQNYivxbxeHR0FYQ_46SjD0XEbTobJu2kQvSB-tYxCqeDrE-sZsMbThyFmdiXZSCopDMxEf9KCQnhA/s640/P2200055.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Jasper yelled, "Me too!" and took off.<br />
<br />
I yelled, "JEFF!" and he yelled, "I'm going!" and Camille said, "Can I come?" and then they all disappeared and I brought up the rear. By the time I arrived at what is known as The Cave, I found Jeff and Camille staring at a hole. Jasper was climbing out of the hole.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_PvYXCpVPHyoFgkiztQoOM2FMFsJKDMy20KdF67w6pds6pr9OCY1K2TgnLpXqB9hzgmksnUpVEA3wl832DVb2gHeIuhY81swcw15iPEdqPRE_FUqCeh36b_rGZGN5i1EGb-I3uObmhU/s1600/P2200051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja_PvYXCpVPHyoFgkiztQoOM2FMFsJKDMy20KdF67w6pds6pr9OCY1K2TgnLpXqB9hzgmksnUpVEA3wl832DVb2gHeIuhY81swcw15iPEdqPRE_FUqCeh36b_rGZGN5i1EGb-I3uObmhU/s640/P2200051.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>"What's that?" I asked.<br />
<br />
"That's the cave," Jeff said.<br />
<br />
"That's not a cave, that's a hole."<br />
<br />
Jeff pointed to a sign that said The Cave. Jasper said it was very dark in there and that he lost the boys. Hmmm...I looked at Jeff. "They said they'd be out in ten minutes or so."<br />
<br />
About that time, Jules comes climbing out of the hole. He looks a little panicky - he's claustrophobic. "I'm not going back in there," he said. "It's pitch black and I could barely squeeze through some places."<br />
<br />
I looked into the hole. I am not claustrophobic, but I do have a strange and intense fear of being crushed by boulders. I immediately broke out into a sweat. "So they get to the end of the hole and they come back out, right?" I asked Jules.<br />
<br />
"I don't think it ends," he said. "It just goes on and on and you can't see anything and you have to crawl through tight spaces..." he stopped there so he and I could share a spontaneous shiver. At that point I yelled into the hole. Nobody answered. I looked at Jeff and he looked guilty in the way that he always looks guilty when the boys are having fun.<br />
<br />
"Give them ten minutes," he said.<br />
<br />
I gave them ten minutes. Then I gave them ten more. And ten more. Then I started to get a little excited. I was perfectly reasonable with the excitement. I began walking in circles and repeating over and over, "Oh my God, they're lost, they're never coming out..."<br />
<br />
Jeff took a swig of water and said, "I'm going in after them." It was dramatic. I would have been turned on except my boys had disappeared in a hole.<br />
<br />
He squeezed on in through the hole....and disappeared. He didn't come out. Jules had a dark, faraway look in his eyes as he said, "It just goes on forever and ever..."<br />
<br />
I started yelling into the hole again. No response. I began the pacing business, and Jules, being the little barometer that he is, became alarmed and began pacing, as well. We began feeding on each other's panic. I yelled down the hole some more. Jules yelled down the hole. Jasper offered to go in after them. I finally took in a deep breath and yelled one last time and then I heard a faint response. "Oh my God...WHAT? Would you stop yelling at me?!?"<br />
<br />
Jeff was still alive! And he was bringing out my boys! Jules and I did a happy dance. We'd been so silly. Hilarious. Ha ha...we'd laugh about it later. We thought the boys had disappeared into a hole - how ridiculous! Jeff climbed out and he had an adorable smudge of dirt on his face. I threw my arms around his neck. My hero! I looked expectantly at the hole. <br />
<br />
Nobody else came out.<br />
<br />
"Seriously?" I shouted. "You freaking LOST MY KIDS IN A HOLE? Who told them they could go in the dang hole in the first place? You dared to come out without my boys? Really? <a href="http://www.sardinesinacan.blogspot.com/2010/09/survival-in-wildnernessor-something.html" target="_blank">AGAIN</a>?" <br />
<br />
"They're not lost," he said with a grin. A GRIN. "They're down there in that hole."<br />
<br />
"You mean the way Baby Jessica was not lost because she was down there in that well?" I shrieked. Yes folks, I shrieked. Then I started mumbling a bunch of nonsense and insisting that Somebody needed to Go Get Help. "Find the Baptists!" I shouted. "Send them in after my boys!"<br />
<br />
"Dude, I think you're having an actual Panic Attack," Jeff said. "Like not a fake one. An actual panic attack! Cool!" Then? He tried to hug me. And then? He began describing to Jules how he'd crawled down multiple levels and had to use the flash on his phone in order to keep from falling and dying. He had thoroughly enjoyed himself.<br />
<br />
"My babies are trapped in a hole," I said through gritted teeth. "And one of them isn't even mine. YOU call Nicole and tell her we lost her kid down a hole."<br />
<br />
"They'll come out eventually," he said. That made me crazy. "You want a granola bar while we wait?" That made me crazier. Camille and Jasper each took a granola bar and settled down as if they were at the circus. They were not alarmed at all - I've completely desensitized them to trauma and I feel badly about that, believe me. But what I feel worse about was how Jules was spinning and looping and worried as hell. I couldn't help him at the moment, though, because his brother and friend were MISSING. In case you haven't figured it out by now, I am not anybody's idea of a Calming Presence.<br />
<br />
I started to cry. And then?<br />
<br />
"Hey guys, what's happening?" Joel and Austen stood on a ridge above us. They had come out a DIFFERENT HOLE. <br />
<br />
They were quickly filled in on the drama they'd missed. They found it amusing. As we climbed back down the rock, yelling at Jasper to slow down the entire way, I told Jeff, "You have to promise me, PROMISE ME, that if I die in a fiery crash..."<br />
<br />
"Because it would totally be in a fiery crash," Jeff said.<br />
<br />
"When I die in a fiery crash, you will not let the kids jump off a cliff because they think it might be fun. I have to know that someone will be responsible for their safety."<br />
<br />
"Sure thing," he said as Jasper climbed up a boulder with his full approval.<br />
<br />
I just have to live forever. No problem.<br />
<br />
Here's a picture of Camille heading back down the rock after a full day of hiking and hysteria. Because that's how we roll.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTT44eeSbcOFgGrcb_rV3Ee4_i5sDmJJSCeZqAaTifTLW_e5Dq8ZrlUyoSEB7VMxrMqpUAGMcuCj0pqp8HEF5H1cIyFneXmi_kNQ9M505QkNHogGPLV991ULHoPBfIiY-3vaTm25NP8EY/s1600/P2200057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTT44eeSbcOFgGrcb_rV3Ee4_i5sDmJJSCeZqAaTifTLW_e5Dq8ZrlUyoSEB7VMxrMqpUAGMcuCj0pqp8HEF5H1cIyFneXmi_kNQ9M505QkNHogGPLV991ULHoPBfIiY-3vaTm25NP8EY/s640/P2200057.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>The boys were waiting for us as we approached the trail head. See how close to the edge of that boulder Jules is precariously balanced? I was all out of adrenaline so I just shrugged it off.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJBoFJb_4i_A6IFyjTjZrHWVSucw3ToWsXNfwxXteOz_rRzWbJiwbyGK2ual_KxV0DDi1PdBeRlXFycIVDqXB0z5lrptuiUfBhN4sUrH4vJtFhRqfKvs74oOBCsoGdbBeIbI2SxwSQqA/s1600/P2200058.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwJBoFJb_4i_A6IFyjTjZrHWVSucw3ToWsXNfwxXteOz_rRzWbJiwbyGK2ual_KxV0DDi1PdBeRlXFycIVDqXB0z5lrptuiUfBhN4sUrH4vJtFhRqfKvs74oOBCsoGdbBeIbI2SxwSQqA/s640/P2200058.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>Until tomorrow,<br />
Signing Off as Sardine Mama, the Fairly Lame Protector of Teenage BoysCarol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-39195603488628780192012-03-12T14:12:00.001-07:002012-03-12T14:16:16.854-07:00It Takes Some BallsSo during my blogging break things kept happening and I would think, <em>this would be funny to blog about, </em>only I wouldn't because I was taking a blogging break. I probably can't remember all of them, but I can remember a few. Since it is Monday - I'm going to try to do a M thru F Things I Should Have Blogged About And Didn't series. What do you think?<br />
<br />
I'm spinning my Mental Wheel.....and I've landed on what I shall call the Balls in Politics Story.<br />
<br />
Oh! And I'm NOT going to blog about Rush. I'm so totally not going to do that. Although, if I WERE going to do that - I would say he's an A-Hole. Right now, at this very moment, I'm strongly resisting the urge to talk about Rush. Like....trying REALLY hard not to. <br />
<br />
I resisted! I did! My pulse is still up a bit - but I resisted. I'm going to talk about Texas Politics as I experience it on a daily basis. Here's my blog-worthy story:<br />
<br />
I had pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store and was gathering up all of my Liberal Commie Canvas Reusable Bags. My door was open while I did this, and a gentleman approached me.<br />
<br />
He had an impressive ZZ Top beard, a gimme cap, and a big smile. I wasn't alarmed at all - he was grinning from ear to ear. Honestly, I thought he was going to ask me if I had jumper cables or something ridiculous like that - I mean - I'm sure I have some but honestly.... <br />
<br />
"Howdy," he said, tipping his gimme cap and grinning.<br />
<br />
"Howdy," I said. Because we're in Texas.<br />
<br />
Camille pokes her head over from the back seat. And we wait, expectantly, for this gentleman to ask us if we have jumper cables or possible $1 for the Mad Dog Fund.<br />
<br />
He chuckles a little, winks, and says, "Girl, you got some balls with them bumper stickers."<br />
<br />
I had not expected that. He walked off, shaking his head and chuckling, and when he drove off? He had Honest To God Balls hanging from his truck.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zZ_tvutSWCXtg6MdLNg_N1is92mP-m5WuPJWm5P9PTzTFKvUxfxMVmJREDz3p357mncHYswPlgynkypFH0JVIRMshyphenhyphenLGx2DAqTKlRjzP-3OiS6J5rR6-8KtpaAZHIySza69OlGyvIpM/s1600/bbblue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7zZ_tvutSWCXtg6MdLNg_N1is92mP-m5WuPJWm5P9PTzTFKvUxfxMVmJREDz3p357mncHYswPlgynkypFH0JVIRMshyphenhyphenLGx2DAqTKlRjzP-3OiS6J5rR6-8KtpaAZHIySza69OlGyvIpM/s1600/bbblue.jpg" yda="true" /></a></div>I wanted to shout, "No, dude! YOU have balls!" But I was kind of in shock from the attack on my bumper stickers. Now then, unless this guy has something against large families or the Red Hot Chili Peppers...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1Tu_p-Jne3H9a_u25P3j_cMhELpZr7ll-pAB7oMOqODINDStxqN-Q-UYM79bLfLM56Zg7EDVuf2g0RN8mLUqUvHxVx_Y_bgAtL77RbtQ9m4zrrOEUYuzQTp9QjJEOPSKj7-KzlDGgfM/s1600/P3120069%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt1Tu_p-Jne3H9a_u25P3j_cMhELpZr7ll-pAB7oMOqODINDStxqN-Q-UYM79bLfLM56Zg7EDVuf2g0RN8mLUqUvHxVx_Y_bgAtL77RbtQ9m4zrrOEUYuzQTp9QjJEOPSKj7-KzlDGgfM/s400/P3120069%5B1%5D.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></div>I think he might have been talking about these...<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguZJyfset1z1W1QqQ6T2rDH4U8O5u6f2dUZnFPqYxN79xiKfSFqPJUPmZftTok9dHMlwKQ4UWn-S4w0-Z6aTn91z-vTLxz5BWc1rpIUESZuLqXVH9y9T6QNhpJppxw_Yr5XwReR9uhyphenhyphen00/s1600/P3120070%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguZJyfset1z1W1QqQ6T2rDH4U8O5u6f2dUZnFPqYxN79xiKfSFqPJUPmZftTok9dHMlwKQ4UWn-S4w0-Z6aTn91z-vTLxz5BWc1rpIUESZuLqXVH9y9T6QNhpJppxw_Yr5XwReR9uhyphenhyphen00/s400/P3120070%5B1%5D.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></div>They're old and I need new ones. But seriously, I think this is what he was referring to. 'Cause we're in Texas. And this was seen as unusual and alarming. And it's just the beginning, because once the Republican primaries are over - I'm going to start getting The Finger on a regular basis and I really hate that. Especially when I have my kids in the car and people whiz past (often with a Christian Fish Symbol) and flip us off with all kinds of class and whatnot. At least the parking lot guy didn't do that. He just said "balls" in front of my precious 9-year-old daughter. By the way, when telling this story, I am often asked what I said in response. I do not recollect saying anything, but Camille assures me that I said Thank You. I can believe this because, when push comes to shove and I am speechless, I can totally see myself falling back on my sweet southern girl manners.<br />
<br />
"You've got balls, little lady!"<br />
<br />
"Why, thank you sir!"<br />
<br />
Yeah. Apparently, it went something like that.<br />
<br />
While I'm bizarrely posting pictures of my bumper stickers online, let me show you the rest. This here is PROOF that I didn't wait until Rick Perry made a national spectacle of himself before withholding my support. I voted for Bill White for governor - and I keep the sticker up because I'm: a) too lazy to remove it and b) just a tad bit obnoxious.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgiDapP53bsGZp9B1try17ly45drY9u1TZvfFefHjdwOIcKILt-_wMACPgRkQIh2BhlVgXXymugdosKC_ZgSBOn_jOlmfEHc1Al9IE-51xTw-0rHFCgH_vTAItk0YC43fh_lpUZp2psc/s1600/P3120071%5B1%5D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikgiDapP53bsGZp9B1try17ly45drY9u1TZvfFefHjdwOIcKILt-_wMACPgRkQIh2BhlVgXXymugdosKC_ZgSBOn_jOlmfEHc1Al9IE-51xTw-0rHFCgH_vTAItk0YC43fh_lpUZp2psc/s400/P3120071%5B1%5D.JPG" width="400" yda="true" /></a></div>Signing Off With Balls,<br />
Sardine MamaCarol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-52318105334574300452012-03-01T18:45:00.001-08:002012-03-01T18:47:44.995-08:00Remember Me?Someone begged me to blog today. So here I am.<br />
<br />
I wasn't kidding when I said I wasn't going to be blogging as much, was I? Like I totally wasn't bluffing. It was not an Idle Threat. I mean, I haven't blogged since Jan 14 and now it is March 1 and that is crazy.<br />
<br />
Really, it's been so long since we've spoken - it's a bit awkward, no? <br />
<br />
Whenever I have time to write - I work on my manuscript. Or I sit and think about working on my manuscript. Or I read writing blogs or e-mail my writing buddy about how much writing sucks or I read books that I like to pretend are worse than mine. And really, that's kind of all I've been doing. Ask the kids, they'll tell you.<br />
<br />
Well, maybe I've been doing a few other things:<br />
<br />
I've gone vegan. For reals. I'm having a soy mocha at this very moment. Watched Forks Over Knives and that did it for me. I dropped 14 pds - easiest weight loss of my life. Jeff's dropped about forty - which is insane. Speaking of vegans and the Red Hot Chili Peppers - oh my - were we talking about the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Well, we are now. Look at this pic and see if you can spot the vegan!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_X2mMiYBWPszIk7U7ktDZg5BS2GsUv271cSm74mFIuqlyGkCQCpc7WB0haxjudfZwPip3-GqHMWcu-f3wED6CdD2tGLptz3VQr12htvi5l57jvXF6A386CVJsh385HpLzGutqNmra8M/s1600/vegan+on+the+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="312" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim_X2mMiYBWPszIk7U7ktDZg5BS2GsUv271cSm74mFIuqlyGkCQCpc7WB0haxjudfZwPip3-GqHMWcu-f3wED6CdD2tGLptz3VQr12htvi5l57jvXF6A386CVJsh385HpLzGutqNmra8M/s320/vegan+on+the+beach.jpg" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>Since we are now talking Chili Peppers - you guys know we have floor seats for the upcoming concert, right? The one that is supposed to be next week? Well, it's been postponed due to an injury Anthony obtained from the Stadium Arcadium tour (a million years ago) that never healed. I'm telling you - OLD ROCK STARS SUCK. I should dump those guys. But who wants to start all over? <br />
<br />
Speaking of concerts - last week we went to see Matisyahu. We took Joel because he's a big fan. My sister got the tickets without really paying attention as to what they were for - which is no big deal because we'd go see him regardless - but I wasn't prepared for a theater full of Chabad Lubavitchers and an Acoustical Evening of Inspiration. This was a fund-raiser in an extremely small theater - really amazing. It was just Matisyahu and his guitarist - awesome, awesome, awesome. I could have done without the opening act, which consisted of rabbis talking and talking and talking and talking about what I can't tell you because I'm really not an opening act sort of girl - I'm a let's do dinner and miss the opening act kind of girl. And then the one time I show up on time it's a bunch of rabbis.<br />
<br />
So now I have a God Awful Confession. I really do. You're going to hate me after you read this. While we were watching everyone stream into the theater for the concert, I couldn't help but notice two young men walk in who looked different from everyone else. I wasn't TRYING to look for people who stood out. I was innocently minding my own business and trying not to stand out myself. So yarmulke after yarmulke strolls in and then, as I said, these two guys and they are definitely Middle Eastern but not Israeli Middle Eastern. One of them was wearing an Actual Members Only Jacket. And all I could think of was that every Jew in S. Texas was currently in this theater - trapped in this tiny theater - crammed into this theater - and you know, these two guys walk in and I started to sweat. They sat four rows in front of us. I didn't say anything because DUH - that would make me a HORRIBLE PERSON. Well, I didn't say anything at first. But remaining silent (about anything) is not something I've ever quite gotten the hang of and so I leaned over to Joel, who was sitting silently next to me staring straight ahead because that is what teenage boys do when they're sitting next to their mothers, and I said, "So..." and that's all I said! I swear! And he says, "Don't be a racist." Which technically makes him a racist or he wouldn't have know what I was going to say. But anyway, I told him I wanted to trade seats because they had a clear shot at him, and he's my baby, after all - and he refused to trade seats with me but did promise to reach over and use me as a human shield if the need arose and that, of course, made me feel much better. I forgot all about those young men as soon as the music started. But still - yeah, I carry the Shame.<br />
<br />
It reminded me of the time Jules and I were in line to go through security at LAX when a Middle Eastern man was pulled out of line. He looked extremely irritated, as he had every right to be, and I went on and on to Jules about how his human rights were being violated and it was racial profiling and somebody should do something and we shook our heads and felt all indignant and outraged over the injustice being inflicted on that poor man. We talked about it all the way to our plane. And we talked about it as we sat on the plane, waiting for a final passenger, about how awful it was and what we had just witnessed and we were maybe going to write some letters and then the final passenger got on and it was The Poor Middle Eastern Man and I leaned over and said to Jules, "God, I hope they did a cavity search...." I KNOW! I already said I'm a horrible person! Go ahead, I said you could judge me.<br />
<br />
I'm on a roll now. Just free-writing, as they say.<br />
<br />
We had an anniversary! Our 26th. Remember last year's? It was not that exciting. Thank God. We rented a little house in the Texas Hill Country that was supposed to resemble a tiny chapel, and it did. These were the front windows.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcnFIzOYfdKJa04swcAlHe_lg5mXQ3wffwdxKE4pmjMfnHpw2h6VVvapt1fRpULp8Lv-FDQHWs8kO2usZ7tewhanO6F192HBntC-1nMHrZI1n8tkGcBB1dzXbHxTuGlv4jV7wCO_XGyZY/s1600/P2110041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcnFIzOYfdKJa04swcAlHe_lg5mXQ3wffwdxKE4pmjMfnHpw2h6VVvapt1fRpULp8Lv-FDQHWs8kO2usZ7tewhanO6F192HBntC-1nMHrZI1n8tkGcBB1dzXbHxTuGlv4jV7wCO_XGyZY/s320/P2110041.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>There were angels at the tops of the windows.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUhkX7S-I45vW3MAAPRBfEzuN-wlaxMD2m6FUrVMjmUFVUlijOrpHNCe94sEWpMtBCgjGdVAKe8cwT0Eajl5hC2yaBK6PMZHJs7ZdOSQ-pHgQSjYLYdWzpC_A38LWNYc3_wXbCG2rOzU/s1600/P2110042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzUhkX7S-I45vW3MAAPRBfEzuN-wlaxMD2m6FUrVMjmUFVUlijOrpHNCe94sEWpMtBCgjGdVAKe8cwT0Eajl5hC2yaBK6PMZHJs7ZdOSQ-pHgQSjYLYdWzpC_A38LWNYc3_wXbCG2rOzU/s320/P2110042.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div><br />
The chapel part isn't what drew me (although it was a lovely little home), it was the private hot tub on the deck. From the hot tub you could look out at a flowing creek with a small waterfall. It was quite lovely from that angle.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrL4P-ZoVYYI-Tgg1ehMEmGB3wRRid3S881dPwE5mEDyQ2WesUDJb4BzP76JqTgp6P-GxTyAkBV-TCiyMZ-PgmWf2dkg7MAqZ-_XyfhieghzlLtuPVJLn34FPM_shKKWsWOaBwNOIukQ/s1600/P2120050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcrL4P-ZoVYYI-Tgg1ehMEmGB3wRRid3S881dPwE5mEDyQ2WesUDJb4BzP76JqTgp6P-GxTyAkBV-TCiyMZ-PgmWf2dkg7MAqZ-_XyfhieghzlLtuPVJLn34FPM_shKKWsWOaBwNOIukQ/s320/P2120050.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>From that angle. From the other angle? I had to look into the house whose backyard we were in!! Argh. I hate that. I said I wanted secluded, and the agent told me this was secluded. Dude - we live on 150 acres so I guess my idea of secluded is a little different than other folks' ideas of secluded. Mostly the couple in the Big House just watched TV. I know because I couldn't stop watching them watch TV. Jeff would say, "Just come sit over here. Stop looking." And I was like, "I can't. Look, she made popcorn." And then he would look and we would both agree that she had made popcorn.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqcwH0wQuf_P6ywE6LxroO_GVr1AMZ5Umdgo64DPtSLB7O1wbnjogYX4QQRwy2ikNkGDX9qU2gFsEl04K9HRP-wt8suD92JOvtHX4Y_sR2aZMAjXeKK6zuv9D2uoBJc8jxRh8pwG5bDI/s1600/P2120052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMqcwH0wQuf_P6ywE6LxroO_GVr1AMZ5Umdgo64DPtSLB7O1wbnjogYX4QQRwy2ikNkGDX9qU2gFsEl04K9HRP-wt8suD92JOvtHX4Y_sR2aZMAjXeKK6zuv9D2uoBJc8jxRh8pwG5bDI/s320/P2120052.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>There was a guest book in the house. I refuse to sign guest books because it just seems weird. But I read every page. People wrote where they were from, why they had come, what they did, where they ate....yada yada. Everyone who wrote in the guest book talked about how nice the owners, Pat and Sandy, were. <em>Pat and Sandy were so nice! Loved Pat and Sandy! Hope to keep in touch with Pat and Sandy! </em>So Jeff and I couldn't relax at all because we kept waiting to be ambushed by Pat and Sandy. Anytime a twig snapped, we thought it was Pat and Sandy. Seriously, you know, do you want to be in the claw-footed bathtub celebrating your anniversary when Pat and Sandy finally decide to make their move??? It was nerve-wracking. It was a relief when it finally happened, although I don't think it was a relief for Pat. Or maybe it was Sandy. Those are very sexually ambiguous names. <br />
<br />
Jeff was running around the creek bed at 2 in the morning with a headlamp on, you know, like most normal men do...looking for kindling to keep the fire going in the fireplace. And Pat (or Sandy) saw the light and thought maybe it was suspicious and he came sneaking up behind Jeff to see what he was doing and they startled each other and I'm not entirely sure that Pat/Sandy believed that he was looking for kindling instead of burying a body but nobody came looking to see if I was dead, which come to think of it, Pat/Sandy should have because he very well could have drowned me in the hot tub while they were busy eating popcorn - and then he was trying to dispose of the body because HELLO - it was 2 am and he was wandering around the creek bed with a flashlight strapped to his head! <br />
<br />
Although, after 26 years, I think I'm safe. If he was gonna do it, he'd have done it by now. Jules took this picture on our anniversary when we took the kids hiking. And I like this picture.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaj5vUHT1hsB0XynPadg5SRCF6XLolQkknN47cKKLHjloxXWdf9uibMWgiKSSLY5ZfMGvaLie6AM_T2FUmUS9l1v7yu3K9rVymSSnXhoJk2PUc1M16wcR8DuxIFda8aNmpW-V4SrlPQI/s1600/P1040046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzaj5vUHT1hsB0XynPadg5SRCF6XLolQkknN47cKKLHjloxXWdf9uibMWgiKSSLY5ZfMGvaLie6AM_T2FUmUS9l1v7yu3K9rVymSSnXhoJk2PUc1M16wcR8DuxIFda8aNmpW-V4SrlPQI/s320/P1040046.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>Other News:<br />
Camille danced in Copellia. Here are pics. I hated being backstage - I am not good at it. She was precious and beautiful and perfect and I cried. <br />
<br />
Here are some pics of Camille - backstage.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTWJzPkV13pJSYOPfBpjHPtnummu8Sba0Kmq__CTBrdHARPIh-nHEeICfyXSxb6rNH6PrWGCPqHuJOfAwcnbbMN4VJsV_HXnx50BNFvgHVjnXinu2oKgAix7mWgUZZlw2F9y1Ex2o8EWM/s1600/P2040022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTWJzPkV13pJSYOPfBpjHPtnummu8Sba0Kmq__CTBrdHARPIh-nHEeICfyXSxb6rNH6PrWGCPqHuJOfAwcnbbMN4VJsV_HXnx50BNFvgHVjnXinu2oKgAix7mWgUZZlw2F9y1Ex2o8EWM/s320/P2040022.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi11y_RmZwY1aJXpBUFs_rhjmXBYHWPXB9oWSrof34V9gawk7TKdoiFND-ai4zNrfXFWMUqKtL_NEK3qrTwfhodeM6XOFLOcF_SAoZmNL5fRcx4NTb6a4iD18TexHIhWqBvxXt5xY59B94/s1600/P2030196.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi11y_RmZwY1aJXpBUFs_rhjmXBYHWPXB9oWSrof34V9gawk7TKdoiFND-ai4zNrfXFWMUqKtL_NEK3qrTwfhodeM6XOFLOcF_SAoZmNL5fRcx4NTb6a4iD18TexHIhWqBvxXt5xY59B94/s320/P2030196.JPG" uda="true" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCxj8m9we_vYNwcQBwT0aJBuORqRzZ0yotcXXSCXHTfx40MS9snGGftJB4Z5ti3IuAzG-Z0XH5ZYZTKElPOyn5YEkXqgL63fCTsmbY4w7AAG08QP9v1PJ8QMEyrcCkVNdsqzrNwje2_k/s1600/P2030202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeCxj8m9we_vYNwcQBwT0aJBuORqRzZ0yotcXXSCXHTfx40MS9snGGftJB4Z5ti3IuAzG-Z0XH5ZYZTKElPOyn5YEkXqgL63fCTsmbY4w7AAG08QP9v1PJ8QMEyrcCkVNdsqzrNwje2_k/s320/P2030202.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTMmFrjb9mV9mQTx_7KV4bGPeybIJIyUsZxmEbo0QWRR2Kc38FeoDGQ9IjSMI0_FCYN5IPXO-tEV9WdkxlnQ-UCN6BSjt-W3XQ-Or_Mqakxjhi3bf-sle2U00IB26NLkuMDJo2YZ8oLE/s1600/P2030212.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtTMmFrjb9mV9mQTx_7KV4bGPeybIJIyUsZxmEbo0QWRR2Kc38FeoDGQ9IjSMI0_FCYN5IPXO-tEV9WdkxlnQ-UCN6BSjt-W3XQ-Or_Mqakxjhi3bf-sle2U00IB26NLkuMDJo2YZ8oLE/s320/P2030212.JPG" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div>And that is all....For Now. Let me know what you've been up to.Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-89863908278646949232012-01-14T19:13:00.000-08:002012-01-14T19:13:49.574-08:00My Friend MarkYou've probably read his comments on my blog. He always signs off as Your Friend, Mark. Actually, I'm not sure if he uses the comma. I thought I was super special-like but then I found out he signs comments on Other People's Blogs as Your Friend, Mark. But on mine sometimes he just says, "m" and so that means I'm special, right? Does he do that on your blog or is it just mine?<br />
<br />
No matter. Mark is funny. That's what you all love about him. He's also a good husband and an exceptional father and a fine photographer. <br />
<br />
His family is facing an unbelievable struggle right now. A ridiculous, inhuman, nightmarish struggle. You can learn more about his family's situation from this CNN feature. YES THEY WERE ON CNN! It would be all fun and exciting if only it were about something else...like how their dog saved the neighbors from a burning building or how they found buried treasure in their backyard. But it isn't. It is about their desperation to keep their family together. <br />
<br />
Please watch. And you can drop Mark a note to wish him good luck and tell him how handsome he looked on<a href="http://www.oursimplelives.com/" target="_blank"> his blog</a>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="374" id="ep" width="416"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="wmode" value="transparent" /><param name="movie" value="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/apps/cvp/3.0/swf/cnn_416x234_embed.swf?context=embed&videoId=us/2012/01/14/pkg-candiotti-gay-man-faces-deportation.cnn" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#000000" /><embed src="http://i.cdn.turner.com/cnn/.element/apps/cvp/3.0/swf/cnn_416x234_embed.swf?context=embed&videoId=us/2012/01/14/pkg-candiotti-gay-man-faces-deportation.cnn" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" bgcolor="#000000" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="416" wmode="transparent" height="374"></embed></object>Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5777572921251253526.post-56449132256155602212012-01-01T11:49:00.000-08:002012-01-01T11:49:08.485-08:002011 - It's a Wrap2011 - Be Gone With Ye! What am I saying? It wasn't that bad. It wasn't bad at all. It had some rough patches but every year does.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Let's wrap it up, shall we? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">2011 was the year Jeff and I celebrated our 25th Wedding Anniversary. Remember that? We snuck off for a weekend and Ellie wrecked my sister's car and then hours later Joel broke Jules' hand during a Matrix Re-enactment. So we hit the year running with a jolt of adrenaline and we just skidded into 2012 last night with nary a catastrophe. On Wednesday we'll celebrate 26 years of marriage - but we're not sneaking off until sometime in February. We have to align the planets first and make a few other arrangements - like alert the orthopedic surgeon we keep on retainer. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">In 2011 Jules turned 13 and Camille turned 9 the very next day due to poor planning on our parts. It seemed all momentous at the time, but now, here they are turning 14 and 10 this coming weekend. Whoosh! Times goes by so quickly. Jules looks like a totally different kid. BIG TIME CHANGES. For one thing, he's almost as tall as his brother now. This picture was taken in August, and now, just a few months later, Jules is only about an inch shorter than Joel. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T10ym7tx39Y/TwCKE3t5VgI/AAAAAAAACAg/Izg0G_p699c/s1600/P8050403.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T10ym7tx39Y/TwCKE3t5VgI/AAAAAAAACAg/Izg0G_p699c/s400/P8050403.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">And quite a bit taller than me!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T8u7dN2rtew/TwCK4DrTGxI/AAAAAAAACAs/VusNYVqfyfY/s1600/PB240633.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-T8u7dN2rtew/TwCK4DrTGxI/AAAAAAAACAs/VusNYVqfyfY/s400/PB240633.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">For Jules 2011 is also going to be embedded in our memories as the year his brain tumor finally woke up. After six years of monitoring, we'd begun to let ourselves hope that maybe it was just going to stay asleep - like - FOREVER. But it didn't. Puberty startled it awake. The last trip to the House Clinic and St. Vincent's Hospital in Los Angeles was a traumatic one. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CPL5ZsaQmYw/TwCX2fBWMbI/AAAAAAAACB0/G7hCSIwe_D8/s1600/P7220380.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CPL5ZsaQmYw/TwCX2fBWMbI/AAAAAAAACB0/G7hCSIwe_D8/s400/P7220380.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Below is a pic I snapped of Jules heading down the hospital hallway with Jeff. I remember being struck by the image of the two of them together; by how tall Jules was compared to the early days of the tumor, when he was but Jasper's age and oh-so-tiny. But somehow, as I watched them walk away from me all I could see was how small and fragile he still seemed. And really, how small and fragile his daddy looked, too. Because that's how we feel as parents when faced with something like this: small and fragile and vulnerable and helpless - no matter how big and strong we appear on the outside. <a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JAU0IzluWUE/TwCSnkh1RCI/AAAAAAAACBQ/l9s3APhVEPg/s1600/P7220387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JAU0IzluWUE/TwCSnkh1RCI/AAAAAAAACBQ/l9s3APhVEPg/s400/P7220387.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So 2012 will be the year we finally rid ourselves of the brain tumor. It's a relief - but also a bit overwhelming, as you can probably imagine. We head back to Los Angeles in April, and then surgery will probably happen in May. It'll just be the three of us making the trip - being away from the other kids for something so intense will be difficult, but we're confident this is the group of doctors we want operating on our son. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iIb9YCuyEsc/TwCVh7S0dXI/AAAAAAAACBc/Sen3gkqrMNc/s1600/P8160432.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iIb9YCuyEsc/TwCVh7S0dXI/AAAAAAAACBc/Sen3gkqrMNc/s400/P8160432.JPG" width="400" /></a>2011 was also the Year of My Abandonment....Ellie left for college - a long, drawn-out process of grief that you people suffered through the entire year. After all the work of auditioning and interviewing and meeting and greeting - not to mention all of the hoops we jumped through as homeschoolers - she decided on a music school (the full scholarship plus money for summer European music festivals heavily influenced the decision). So off she went and guess what? I lived. And she's doing GREAT, of course. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"> 2011 saw Joel go from THIS:</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ibkSPEN1AcA/TwCN2UsOUYI/AAAAAAAACA4/TLskSpJhz_Q/s1600/Joel+hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ibkSPEN1AcA/TwCN2UsOUYI/AAAAAAAACA4/TLskSpJhz_Q/s400/Joel+hair.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;">To THIS:</div><div align="left" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TkJxHbmAiIs/TwCOW2yb6gI/AAAAAAAACBE/I8h75-ujzCY/s1600/P7200378.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-TkJxHbmAiIs/TwCOW2yb6gI/AAAAAAAACBE/I8h75-ujzCY/s400/P7200378.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">He did it in stages, it didn't all get sheared off in one sitting - that would have been too much for him. But he likes it short now. He also got his first summer job (lifeguarding at the city pool), bought his first car (Ellie's old pimp car), and EARNED HIS FREAKING BLACK BELT!!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ckma4i1-wdc/TwCZxRKoiiI/AAAAAAAACCA/m8i7_yxhOGk/s1600/P5280326.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ckma4i1-wdc/TwCZxRKoiiI/AAAAAAAACCA/m8i7_yxhOGk/s400/P5280326.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">He's still making movies with GimliSnort - is saving for a better camera and can't wait to start playing with some new editing software. He likes to do animation, but at a recent homeschool co-op meeting, he and his GimliSnort cohorts produced this little dandy in just a few minutes during lunch break. So now they're hoping to branch out into Live Action (!!) films. I love that you can hear our turkeys throughout the entire thing, inappropriately entitled, Chicken Kicken.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/txIfvgTAw4A" width="420"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">For Camille 2011 meant More Dancing. She started the year with a promotion in ballet. She now dances six hours/week at the studio and that is sure to increase with the next promotion. But I'm hoping that won't happen during 2012 - at least not before we can sell The Bus and buy a smaller, more efficient car. 2011 was also the Year of the Cast for Camille. We saw the same orthopedist we saw with Jules. There are still two of our kids the man hasn't met. Hopefully he won't meet them in 2012 or EVER.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J8E_doXsgow/TwCdSP7DnzI/AAAAAAAACCM/c3MIc1B4Uks/s1600/P8080409.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J8E_doXsgow/TwCdSP7DnzI/AAAAAAAACCM/c3MIc1B4Uks/s400/P8080409.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Poor baby had to audition for The Nutcracker while wearing that cast! And swim, too, of course. Casts have come a long way since I was a kid!</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6xQ7qW63yFg/TwCdqp3BhYI/AAAAAAAACCY/-4dUDObAiY4/s1600/P8220451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6xQ7qW63yFg/TwCdqp3BhYI/AAAAAAAACCY/-4dUDObAiY4/s400/P8220451.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">For Jasper, 2011 was just one more year of Being In Charge of the World. The little guy has it made. He does what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants. There can't be anything better than being seven years old in a non-authoritarian unschooling household. His days are endless hours of playing and fun all strung together. He has two older brothers who don't mind him following them around and acres and acres of land to explore. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Jasper's never been a "joiner" - eschewing any and all attempts at encouraging him to participate in anything with set rules or expectations, but 2011 saw him taking on his first "Organized Activity" as he calls it. He asked to try Tae Kwon Do - a request I readily heeded. He's doing very well and has already earned his gold belt.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w2CcEpy5IxE/TwCiIRvZbDI/AAAAAAAACCk/7M3Mx-oPVQ8/s1600/PA250580.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w2CcEpy5IxE/TwCiIRvZbDI/AAAAAAAACCk/7M3Mx-oPVQ8/s400/PA250580.JPG" width="300" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">He also began some spotty participation in Homeschool Co-op in 2011....tackling Spanish, Sewing, Science, and Ancient History. Here he is in his first attempt at mummifying a chicken. </div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hpuqqi_eZ2Q/TwCjSLIs_rI/AAAAAAAACCw/thjdo04PyPM/s1600/PA140548.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Hpuqqi_eZ2Q/TwCjSLIs_rI/AAAAAAAACCw/thjdo04PyPM/s400/PA140548.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">2011 also saw the some of my Faves getting All Kinds of Active. The Red Hot Chili Peppers released a new album, I'm With You.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mGcnFgpiEcY/TwCmCCN2MzI/AAAAAAAACC8/apyWkQFGJqw/s1600/220px-RHCP_I%2527m_With_You_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mGcnFgpiEcY/TwCmCCN2MzI/AAAAAAAACC8/apyWkQFGJqw/s400/220px-RHCP_I%2527m_With_You_Cover.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">AND for 2012 we already have tickets for two of the shows on the tour. For the San Antonio concert??? We have FLOOR SEATS. Just sayin'. Also? I received 3...count 'em...3....new Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirts for Christmas. Although I am thrilled to death with the new album and the upcoming shows and my new t-shirts....2011 was NOT the year I got over this:</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5e2tH1LgrWU/TwCnlsMbFbI/AAAAAAAACDI/jUtJWks-LcM/s1600/better+with+johns.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="365" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-5e2tH1LgrWU/TwCnlsMbFbI/AAAAAAAACDI/jUtJWks-LcM/s400/better+with+johns.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Sorry - but they were better with Frusciante. Plain and Simple. </div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Other Faves? My favorite author I love to love wrote a new novel!</div><div align="left" class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LfYTkkHaSYk/TwCp9Cv_J9I/AAAAAAAACDU/H5kQO4FrVd4/s1600/200px-1Q84bookcover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LfYTkkHaSYk/TwCp9Cv_J9I/AAAAAAAACDU/H5kQO4FrVd4/s400/200px-1Q84bookcover.jpg" width="276" /></a></div><div align="left" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Haruki Murakami's 1Q84 was actually published in 2010 in Japan as a trilogy, but it was published in the US as a single volume in 2011. I'd pre-ordered it and BOOM! in my Kindle the moment it was released. It looks like it's IQ - as in "eye" Q - but it isn't. It has connections to Orwell's 1984. In Japanese, the letter Q and the number 9 are homophones....and so what is a witty play on words in Japan is merely hard to say in America. I mean, the title is awkward. I say it as One Q Eighty-four. But I can't say it and look at it at the same time or I say Eye-Q Eighty-Four. Sometimes I say 1984. Anyway - I LOVE 1Q84 - no matter how you say it. I understand it was nominated for the <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/25/haruki-murakami-bad-sex-award" target="_blank">Bad Sex Award</a>, but it only makes me love Murakami even more.</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Speaking of Bad Sex and Authors and 2011 - The Author I'm Embarrassed to Love to Hate (and read) also had a new novel. That's right, Laurel K Hamilton (I know - I'm pounding on my chest right now) released Hit List, the ninety-billionth book in the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series. I read every page in one sitting. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">And speaking of vampires (how DID we end up speaking of vampires?), 2011 was also the year Jeff and I became COMPLETELY ADDICTED TO "V". That's right mah friends, we are hooked on True Blood. I know! We just keep getting classier and classier over here! But how can you not love it? It's like those guys on the History Channel who wrassle gators only they HAVE FANGS. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Other than that, we haven't expanded our horizons too much. We pretty much ended the year the same way we started it, which of course, is always the anti-climactic catch to New Year's. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: left;">Nonetheless - the New Year brings a new calendar (albeit with many of the exact same commitments and appointments that dotted 2011's calendar). It's sure to be challenging - the year I'm not challenged with something or by someone is the year I'm dead - and it's going to be a bit frightening at times - but there are going to be plenty of sweet parts in between. At least, that's the way it's worked EVERY SINGLE PREVIOUS YEAR. Call me crazy, but that's what I'm 'specting for 2012. And I'm wishing the same for you!</div>Carol Pavliskahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03368979644107669048noreply@blogger.com13