tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39634562244784410102024-03-14T01:01:42.736-06:00Wicked ThistleI can't explain thisWicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-66139385198090844132014-05-23T11:57:00.000-06:002014-05-23T19:48:32.049-06:00Well, So Much For That<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Day 2 of solitary splendor, and the spell has been broken. </span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">El marido is home sick today, which means that baby boyo also stays home since he works with his dad and apparently cannot yet be trusted alone in the office. Poor kid, his reward from graduating from college last weekend is to study his arse off for the hardest test in all mankind--the CPA exam (<i>duh duh duh DAAAAAAH</i>). His Friday will be spent with his nose in a book and taking online practice exams. And Max, well, poor Max, too. He caught a boomerang cold--you know, the kind that gets better right before it rebounds into the mother of all illnesses. He is consoling himself with a hot toddy, for which I broke open the really good single malt, and his favorite computer strategy game. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I guess this means I better make some soup. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It's a good thing I went to the store yesterday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The domestic thing, well, now, there's a trick. Given my lingering habit of thinking all my time is my own, it's still something of a surprise when plans change and I need to Do Something Important for other inhabitants of the house, like, say, cook. Fortunately, high levels of practice have almost eliminated my anxiety (although not confusion) about cooking practices. It helps tremendously that boys will snorf up anything in the blink of an eye and not complain a bit about the quality. It also helps that meat is off the menu now, which I never got used to touching, much less cooking, ew. Thank goodness we have a big pot to just throw all the veggies into. Stir, stir, spice, spice, stir again, and voila! Food and stuff. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think everyone will be okay today, so you can quit your worrying. Max will rest and recuperate with a kitty nearby. Boyo will get caught up on his studying, which may free up his weekend for some fun things. And me, I'll get the joy of taking care of some of the most important people there are to me, on top of some experimentation with spices in the kitchen. I just wish they wouldn't eat it so fast so I could enjoy the look of blissful culinary delight on their faces a little longer.*</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">* I would take even just one moment of blissful culinary delight. Just...one...</span></i>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-83523487510418824782014-05-22T12:03:00.001-06:002014-05-22T12:03:33.059-06:00Place Yourself on High Alert...<div style="text-align: center;">
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">...BECAUSE TODAY, FOLKS, IT IS PANTS-FREE THURSDAY!</span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yes, indeed, I am writing this post sans pants, and you know why?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Because I can. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">And so can you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Take 'em off.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The school year ended yesterday for me, so now here I am enjoying the most glorious day of the year in a pantsless condition. Important notes on the subject:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">#1: I'm alone in the house. This is critical, and here's why: being alone in the house is a mighty rare occurrence for me. In my past life, before I caught a bad case of Thrasher, I had all the time alone I ever wanted or needed. Maybe even a little more than was good for me. Frankly, though, I kind of got used to it, and pants-free was just a normal condition as long as the shades were drawn. Now, though, not so much. Don't get me wrong, it is absolutely great to have people around to talk to, laugh with (or about), and just hang with. It does put a damper on the whole wearing pants thing, though. So today, while everyone is at work <i>(sorry, boys)</i>, I am celebrating by loosening the household dress code. Woo hoo! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Also, I am not the kind of stepmother who doesn't wear pants around her kids. Ew. Really. Stop thinking about that. Right now.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">#2: It is so much easier to dance without pants. Don't believe it? Take off your pants, put on the music, and get your dance on. AmIright?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">#3 and possibly the most important reason: FREEEEEEDOM, SWEET FREEEEEDOM!!! The day after the last day of school is sacred and beautiful. Once a year, school folks have the pleasure of saying, "Whew, well, I guess <b>that's</b> done, then." We get an 10-week reprieve from the daily grind of planning, organizing, managing, running, paperworking, meeting, and putting off those things that we need to do for ourselves but for which we simply can't find the time. It is a great relief to put away the to-do list and the crap-I-still need-to-do list for a bit. We can stop worrying about things, set our brains free, relax, and find ourselves again. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><b><i>It is time for us to put on the music, take off our pants, and dance.</i> </b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So, in honor of all teachers and staff in the school system, I give you the greatest day-after-school-is-out song ever: </span><br />
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<br />Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-50716040983088690102013-05-28T07:03:00.001-06:002013-05-28T07:04:05.940-06:00An Ode to Carin, Who Hung This Poem on Her Office Door<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I bit my tongue and stood in line</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">With not much to believe in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I bought into what I was sold<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">And ended up with nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I looked about and soon I knew<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That I was not alone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The mass of empty faces<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Gave appearances of clones.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">How long, I wondered, do we wait<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Before one of us breaks,<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Will it be the man with narrowed eyes<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Or the dreadlocked granola flake?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The light stopped flashing and soon
there was<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A quiet collective gasp<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">The line that snaked ten people back<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Dared think that they might grasp<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Some tenuous hope that they just might<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Get through this line of pain<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But as I yawned all I could think was<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">“I’ll never shop
Wal-Mart again.”</span></span></div>
Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-40698036197430048582013-01-20T08:44:00.002-07:002013-01-21T12:02:01.013-07:00Thank You, Anonymous Posters, For Saving My Bacon<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Around this house here it's the early hours of the morning. At 8:13, not a creature is stirring, nor will one be for quite some time. Ahh....mama gets some me-time. I've turned the pellet stove on, fixed myself a cuppa cuppa, and have managed to convince myself that this cold in my nose is just serious enough to take myself out of the food preparation arena for the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I don't know about you, but I've been slammed with spam in my comments sections over the last few days. Since I've pretty much abandoned blogging, I only know this because blogspot faithfully deposits a message containing each comment in my email inbox. It's helpful, because otherwise I would never know about my growing throng of supporters and their deep devotion to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">To wit, there is a particularly popular post that my anonymous sweethearts have enthusiastically reacted to titled 'Your Educational Crap For Today.' Here are a few examples of their adoring praise:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"That is very fascinating. You are a very professional blogger."</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"<b><i>Greetings! Very useful advice in this particular article! Many thanks for sharing!"</i></b> (and then I am urged to quit smoking, which<b> is</b> very useful advice)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><i style="font-weight: bold;">"Ridiculous story there. What occurred after?" </i>(I'll admit it: this one's a favorite.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"It's a shame you don't have a donate button. I'd definitely donate to this excellent blog!" </i></b>(this guy's going to share my blog with his Facebook group! omg omg!!)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"In these untested times, we should all be wearing Ugg boots."</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i>"I read your article and loave it."</i></b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Where else can you get that kind of good old-fashioned honesty? We're all so afraid of putting our feelings out there, fearful of getting hurt or emotionally maimed or perhaps run over by a school bus full of 8-year-old bullies, but not my anonymous spammers. No, they just layer on the loave, and thank goodness for that. Without them I would be an insecure, babbling mess of low self-confidence and joyless existence. They are the most complimentary bunch of stalkers I've ever had! I believe they're sincere when they tell me that my blog is extraordinary. I'm sure it's true that they're having trouble subscribing to my RSS feed (</span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I have an RSS feed?</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">) and could I just click on this link to help a brother out? And where else would I get savvy advice about moistening my brush before I clean my face, but making sure to put the cleanser on my face and not the brush? I never even knew I was supposed to be washing my face with my brush! So thank you, anonymous spammers, for all your help. I'm a better person for it. Mmwyah!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-53055587159868349102012-12-09T20:03:00.003-07:002012-12-09T20:03:40.164-07:00That's What You Get For Thinking You Know What's Coming Next<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Three years and two days ago, Max got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I happily said yes, knowing that I was really agreeing to marry into a family. I gained the promise of two stepsons that night.<br />
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It was a very sweet moment.<br />
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Little could I have imagined that three years later, in the middle of dinner, my younger stepson would announce, "I've gotta go home and change. These pants are really crushing my nuts."<br />
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The moral of this story is:<br />
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<b>Right around Year 3 is when things start to get really good.</b><br />
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<br />Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-47253130637018930272011-09-13T20:20:00.005-06:002011-09-13T20:23:13.806-06:00So Maybe 5-Year-Olds Aren't So Smart After All<span class="Apple-style-span" line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yesterday I wore capri pants to school. While I was sitting criss-cross applesauce with my little group of 5-year-olds, one of the girls gave a dramatic gasp, pointed to my calves, and said, "Miss Wicked, what's wrong with your leg?!" I looked down, expecting to see blood trickling down or maybe a space alien bursting through, but just saw my regular ol' leg. I asked her what was wrong, and she said, "Your leg--it's so...WHITE!" So I got all sniffy about it and made everyone stick their leg out so we could compare, and I'll admit to you right now that I gloated just a tiny bit when I saw that her leg was whiter than mine.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;">.</span></span></span>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-74516544186421247482011-09-08T21:12:00.001-06:002011-09-08T21:36:16.200-06:00Is It Wrong to Lie When It's Funny to Me?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I have convinced a friend to go to pole dancing class with me by telling her that we're going to sample cakes for a friend's wedding.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_AfbnjHvm_L7N4H78BCWTcNrOMEZR3IHw0Pr5tfnaUz5WjUVmu4lWiZ4rszC4vDazNSfXdRBLY41N1eFtwXh4yQV_KGEMd3DYYoln9OWQSabeguvEETOnmU1xMN4o6i_c8GefmlXXQ/s1600/funny-pictures-cat-does-poledancing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1_AfbnjHvm_L7N4H78BCWTcNrOMEZR3IHw0Pr5tfnaUz5WjUVmu4lWiZ4rszC4vDazNSfXdRBLY41N1eFtwXh4yQV_KGEMd3DYYoln9OWQSabeguvEETOnmU1xMN4o6i_c8GefmlXXQ/s320/funny-pictures-cat-does-poledancing.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-75710826265809659252011-09-03T17:53:00.001-06:002011-09-03T18:10:31.596-06:00Doop de Doop...aaaaaand it's Saturday. Me, I worked today at the rehab hospital and I'm just happy to say that none of my male patients exposed themselves to me. Not that it happens often, mind you. But once is enough.<br />
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p.s. I should point out that they don't<b><i> mean</i></b> to expose themselves to me. It's a part and parcel thing, goes along with the brain injuries and whatnot.Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-51624434298099665302011-06-20T14:51:00.000-06:002011-06-20T14:51:51.241-06:00Ahem.Well, yes, it <span style="font-style: italic;">has</span> been a while. Since last August, to be specific. Lots has happened since then, including the fact that I now live in a house full of boys and go to the grocery store twice a week. Also, I play computer games, which is a huge, soul-sucking waste of time, but DANGIT, THEY GOT ME HOOKED!! It's like crack, I'm tellin' ya. Anyhoo. We can talk LOTR vs. King's Bounty some other time.<br />
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<div>There was also The Wedding and The Honeymoon, in which I became officially marrit and much better-traveled. In the interest of weaseling my way back into the blogging world, I thought I might highlight, with numerous pictures and very little text, these two events. Let us begin.<br />
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For starters, it's important that you understand just what a family of whackjobs I have entered into. Yes, they are mine own. Here are the guys on the Day Of Marriage, AKA "Wedding #1." They're trying out their gangsta poses, which took some time to perfect. Let's go through the evolution:<br />
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Here they are discussing proper technique. Apparently, at a certain point with children, the parent stops being the teacher and becomes the teachee. You can witness that here: <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgz318UWaTaF2_oIcb3zmt1sClT34X5hU9sWgvo4FjffE1QjKsdBmpAeqS0iC7wK0vzMFF4nugRR_NzBQbW57J23RAJi3-y0bXWuAKVM2oME5_Z64sFSdkLcSbim5rVTSMSmtFCpBclA/s1600/Wedding+024.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501821193579042" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgz318UWaTaF2_oIcb3zmt1sClT34X5hU9sWgvo4FjffE1QjKsdBmpAeqS0iC7wK0vzMFF4nugRR_NzBQbW57J23RAJi3-y0bXWuAKVM2oME5_Z64sFSdkLcSbim5rVTSMSmtFCpBclA/s400/Wedding+024.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Dad gets it! Nice work, Max. And Elder Son brings his own style into the mix, while Younger thinks to himself, <em>The likelihood of these pictures ending up on the internet is very high. I think I'll err on the side of coolness.</em><br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVoi3RtGoI2-dKeCSYJkWQV383-4tyttsu5UoZevz6M58FN7K_ddoM9seTCdYrg-vBBNgpwRoxZ0CyehI76p9nu0gkUJGLXb_7k8flAFrAC_j4oeYuyr4_Exb0EfbU2X8NyXqOP80Ew/s1600/Wedding+023.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501816451387714" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVVoi3RtGoI2-dKeCSYJkWQV383-4tyttsu5UoZevz6M58FN7K_ddoM9seTCdYrg-vBBNgpwRoxZ0CyehI76p9nu0gkUJGLXb_7k8flAFrAC_j4oeYuyr4_Exb0EfbU2X8NyXqOP80Ew/s400/Wedding+023.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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The younger joins in, just as the elder drops his pose. Max, of course, just goes deeper into his role. Gentlemen, this is much like synchronized swimming. Coordination gets you a higher score.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj803zRl0UipxmTC99NZNqs17HNjgkXGMnhnU_4f8djFRT8Sr5ON2AWU4MWZdJqovUVC_uOC9gy3OjSYujEd8BBwvo5aGrbpJ3tTQVwevcKOjDWK9oIbGo_OG2BrsJTu7Ka88g76Icm1w/s1600/Wedding+025.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501812000071746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj803zRl0UipxmTC99NZNqs17HNjgkXGMnhnU_4f8djFRT8Sr5ON2AWU4MWZdJqovUVC_uOC9gy3OjSYujEd8BBwvo5aGrbpJ3tTQVwevcKOjDWK9oIbGo_OG2BrsJTu7Ka88g76Icm1w/s400/Wedding+025.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Yes, they're getting into the spirit of things now! Except Elder Son, who hasn't moved. Perhaps he's thinking about dinner. Personally, I think they're starting to take on a certain<em> je ne sais quoi. </em>I see "frame-worthy" written all over this one:<br />
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<div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXvbqVMDMrZl805GkgziJr1x6gi_FSBhebPGw5auB20ZWJ_5Bjt-s08w1JJkzXxSi41zws-Hg9gQb_rgUDhpRVnvGw5iKGZEGUAcOq2SDJ6VcqRfpJZxtZaljEngBFfCXtY87cU93Ng/s1600/Wedding+026.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501803883063954" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnXvbqVMDMrZl805GkgziJr1x6gi_FSBhebPGw5auB20ZWJ_5Bjt-s08w1JJkzXxSi41zws-Hg9gQb_rgUDhpRVnvGw5iKGZEGUAcOq2SDJ6VcqRfpJZxtZaljEngBFfCXtY87cU93Ng/s400/Wedding+026.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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I can't explain this one. It's as if they forgot themselves:<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAk7IYQXBZ8iKlbjPM53xL_bOSv6ORiM5QfPqlrncU_fVLOGTcMjc0mqStrxpk_Nz83Nm7bubhDUcnQbOcuQ-4zF8I1h6LIpZG2n4p1Nq7g460QEHOiNa99PZkRqxaZAHM-qDkrZB5Q/s1600/Wedding+029.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501367517489746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtAk7IYQXBZ8iKlbjPM53xL_bOSv6ORiM5QfPqlrncU_fVLOGTcMjc0mqStrxpk_Nz83Nm7bubhDUcnQbOcuQ-4zF8I1h6LIpZG2n4p1Nq7g460QEHOiNa99PZkRqxaZAHM-qDkrZB5Q/s400/Wedding+029.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
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And now let's move into the meat of things. The bride enters:<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2EHZOlXXcRfI45MqO60HCAUwqsdP0yrSNFvmtJy2HbialorO7V6B7EJ1ieNIUm4hNvkANlLdtRTo5zyLykjRAhzpQ7Li6vmuYKK0Aq4gcUdthZ9QqvjoiRk3KTVm7YhejrwQY8cE8Kw/s1600/Wedding+033.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501360538708866" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2EHZOlXXcRfI45MqO60HCAUwqsdP0yrSNFvmtJy2HbialorO7V6B7EJ1ieNIUm4hNvkANlLdtRTo5zyLykjRAhzpQ7Li6vmuYKK0Aq4gcUdthZ9QqvjoiRk3KTVm7YhejrwQY8cE8Kw/s400/Wedding+033.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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And the minister, too! We have all the ingredients for a wedding now. This particular minister hadn't done a wedding in 30 years, but he was available on two days' notice and happened to be a very good friend of Max's. He read from The Velveteen Rabbit at the wedding, which turned him into a very good friend of mine. We got married in a beautiful old mansion-turned-restaurant, which was also available on two days' notice. The staff helped us move two tables and <em>voila</em>! Everything was ready. Behind el ministero is a big, beautiful bay window, which you can't see, but trust me, it's there.<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFPYg5qAgspg9LpBO5GUchwsdHSsfSp1bbe2wSEhO__AQ4u1kDs57HLsaOkynbmbIhaA1PGbHGWL5p7mR77amFD9bT7atVVTL0LYFxk5R3NBz2-H4tsgL5kkX_XCnPqay1QMslYHGHg/s1600/Wedding+036.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501354159464178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSFPYg5qAgspg9LpBO5GUchwsdHSsfSp1bbe2wSEhO__AQ4u1kDs57HLsaOkynbmbIhaA1PGbHGWL5p7mR77amFD9bT7atVVTL0LYFxk5R3NBz2-H4tsgL5kkX_XCnPqay1QMslYHGHg/s400/Wedding+036.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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I think this is the part where Max started quoting from The Princess Bride. If you've seen the movie, you know what part I'm talking about. Ad libbing makes weddings more fun! Is Younger Son texting over there on the left?? No, no, just getting the ring ready.<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvTrLEKNuzks9HGtO5136L3ulcoHzu-GKoWGRhq55G84k67SGaGR6jggE31S2O6mtnpG9TznmE513EBYCt5p2e8uGOSxUYTPpZwmPqjyv-jWaGh3XE-YSorOnjKw72QK_-Sv5YIS9peg/s1600/Wedding+059.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617501351512723346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvTrLEKNuzks9HGtO5136L3ulcoHzu-GKoWGRhq55G84k67SGaGR6jggE31S2O6mtnpG9TznmE513EBYCt5p2e8uGOSxUYTPpZwmPqjyv-jWaGh3XE-YSorOnjKw72QK_-Sv5YIS9peg/s400/Wedding+059.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Well, badda bing, badda bang, we were married just like that. All we said was, "I do," and we were hitched. Crazy. The seven of us then went upstairs to the lounge and had a little snacky poo and a drinky poo while we waited for the restaurant to be ready for dinner-serving, then we went downstairs and had a fantastic meal together. It was the perfect wedding. <br />
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<div>Oh, and you thought I'd just end there, did you? Nyerp. It's honeymoon time! We, of course, took Younger and Elder Sons along with us to the fabulous Greece, where much fun awaited us. It all began in the airport, where Max began a long obsession with cell phones. Here he is trying to get our international phones activated:</div><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdiLJSgGSw0v6khFqK1xSEti-YYXVk-iv1AMvDOMrKvJwUIHPXKjOyiYqqbvhkXgT-wmqh5a-yVZohkDXb-ZkqSkZNg4epjAx1oRD2WegFHQDy6IDe4FpzDDrnRtqtOM8I6WmGKwE0bw/s1600/Honeymoon+1.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617494329088347986" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdiLJSgGSw0v6khFqK1xSEti-YYXVk-iv1AMvDOMrKvJwUIHPXKjOyiYqqbvhkXgT-wmqh5a-yVZohkDXb-ZkqSkZNg4epjAx1oRD2WegFHQDy6IDe4FpzDDrnRtqtOM8I6WmGKwE0bw/s400/Honeymoon+1.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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The rest of us were enjoying a delicious airport breakfast. We flew Lufthansa most of the way, and I applaud them mightily for their wonderful service and fascinating snack crackers:<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_wBYkEGNpWcd20ZyyU4nCaeazxHDoO9DBA_IoW5uLDQOH-JYXVd8QEB-yVvpSrM-FE0NAiMBErvaotX0SmxjrjaDhEDUBrEYRoF0EJyINXF6A2TuEet8wB9GdZZ4paljA1qGC3cTBw/s1600/Honeymoon+5.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617494327058631538" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp_wBYkEGNpWcd20ZyyU4nCaeazxHDoO9DBA_IoW5uLDQOH-JYXVd8QEB-yVvpSrM-FE0NAiMBErvaotX0SmxjrjaDhEDUBrEYRoF0EJyINXF6A2TuEet8wB9GdZZ4paljA1qGC3cTBw/s400/Honeymoon+5.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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Who is she? Why was she in a snack bag? Her husband was in there, too, along with the moon and the stars. They were delicious. The crew never stopped taking care of us and all the electronics worked perfectly, such as the headphones and individual video screens. I cannot say the same for our flight back, on which we flew a non-Lufthansa airline, but I will name no names.<br />
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Here's underage Younger Son, having his first legal drink!<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5h-GdUKP8cN0gntjg22wp1HQq2z2PGs2PtY_enLPLu3U-gx653Lz4e16mo_Inav0MGJYi9MoM3cdHb2KQNyD3CoLRsmZbjCJzc2_dkDOby9WlKC4tPdvLJNIrkfYOENqRW-6HD_zvA/s1600/Honeymoon+7.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617494315601174546" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ5h-GdUKP8cN0gntjg22wp1HQq2z2PGs2PtY_enLPLu3U-gx653Lz4e16mo_Inav0MGJYi9MoM3cdHb2KQNyD3CoLRsmZbjCJzc2_dkDOby9WlKC4tPdvLJNIrkfYOENqRW-6HD_zvA/s400/Honeymoon+7.JPG" style="display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 300px;" /></a><br />
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Here we are in Athens, where we had to wait FIVE HOURS to get on our island-hopper flight. That's a really long time when you've already been traveling, like, <em>forever</em>. The guys are trying their first Greek coffee, which stunned them. Or maybe it was the really bad ouzo that they drank just prior to the coffee that gave them these expressions. It's hard to tell.<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFM5hQuZdWpErAMHK2-5aGF2uj7hXUZQeDABlD7aRuVnHj7jIzsINRqTphlFDcs1uCvwC_GuoGJFzlrZTr3Cx2zad4d08Q1MG8PONDZrhkTGESTg0xxH3m637dg31SDvhf_3P_1K8ncg/s1600/Honeymoon+11.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617494314569940850" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFM5hQuZdWpErAMHK2-5aGF2uj7hXUZQeDABlD7aRuVnHj7jIzsINRqTphlFDcs1uCvwC_GuoGJFzlrZTr3Cx2zad4d08Q1MG8PONDZrhkTGESTg0xxH3m637dg31SDvhf_3P_1K8ncg/s400/Honeymoon+11.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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This is my all-time favorite photo. It's just so doggone sweet. We were still...waiting...for the flight that would take us to Santorini. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. We were in <em>Greece</em>. I'm not sure that boy took off those sunglasses during the whole trip.<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Qrxp0NUN4cvdmNyqaEKzIP8Wo5VuVeYIYta_iv8AuHUt57V7c69Ey3HPyTaoKUhdVR5KgaVmAJRQfCZTwoPG_5DVXWDigpmeBfscCs5cNBIHwGT8_nS9x4l2hqFK3WhyphenhyphenpdNwKkOhLw/s1600/Honeymoon+14.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617494307060887522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Qrxp0NUN4cvdmNyqaEKzIP8Wo5VuVeYIYta_iv8AuHUt57V7c69Ey3HPyTaoKUhdVR5KgaVmAJRQfCZTwoPG_5DVXWDigpmeBfscCs5cNBIHwGT8_nS9x4l2hqFK3WhyphenhyphenpdNwKkOhLw/s400/Honeymoon+14.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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At some point everybody just gave up and did this. Not me, though mind you. My job was to worry about missing our flight, and I take these thing seriously. Why is it that men can sleep <em>anywhere</em>?!<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6sM3x8X2SWrOplVT53QPDcyCckjb_M7mDV1MfZhetZgL45X1GYhNs5PAJqpcWijQ2rjOrF65Vb_7QDaLB-Bk-A69bfvhJRN-V3GUNlcnMq3eTFhUe7P9hUAtnvK-EErX-aovcrqSZQ/s1600/Honeymoon+15.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617493672622197074" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-6sM3x8X2SWrOplVT53QPDcyCckjb_M7mDV1MfZhetZgL45X1GYhNs5PAJqpcWijQ2rjOrF65Vb_7QDaLB-Bk-A69bfvhJRN-V3GUNlcnMq3eTFhUe7P9hUAtnvK-EErX-aovcrqSZQ/s400/Honeymoon+15.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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At last! Aloft! These are just two of the many, many little islands we flew over on our way to ours. The sea was every bit as blue as better pictures than these show. It was elegant, it was beautiful, it just called to be swam in. Pity it was so cold.<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-NiZ8PqMaQ9ptw0JYchvszm6a4l73bcDnQw8887TnBnXJ-TUJqb6Dmtc_98fn5r_dB3iNreYBWBHMgUASgaYqpEc0YLJrM1sjGTOPa2xgBb6fYC70VoqXroIBAIDNPjadfgns2WKMQ/s1600/Honeymoon+20.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617493667498740162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-NiZ8PqMaQ9ptw0JYchvszm6a4l73bcDnQw8887TnBnXJ-TUJqb6Dmtc_98fn5r_dB3iNreYBWBHMgUASgaYqpEc0YLJrM1sjGTOPa2xgBb6fYC70VoqXroIBAIDNPjadfgns2WKMQ/s400/Honeymoon+20.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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This is the descent onto Santorini. Max and I stayed near Oia, which is the quieter and better-for-old-fart-couples part of the island. The boys stayed in Fira, which was the action-packed party area. Relatively speaking, anyway. This picture shows neither of those areas. <br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-RMZJCeBDN30nC9ofLyvX0LX6lo42mqdpFmTIHaAdquQzdygXjdTKKNXa-LnsWSI5yyDwYyaqzkUj9kOofmSC49URmLETTD7QPI0pfit6WbUrtf0dQ8sniFvolp1nGL5qq2Cj9p1mA/s1600/Santorini+1.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617493386920461122" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjh-RMZJCeBDN30nC9ofLyvX0LX6lo42mqdpFmTIHaAdquQzdygXjdTKKNXa-LnsWSI5yyDwYyaqzkUj9kOofmSC49URmLETTD7QPI0pfit6WbUrtf0dQ8sniFvolp1nGL5qq2Cj9p1mA/s400/Santorini+1.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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We were happily exhausted by the time we got there, but that didn't stop Max from immediately touching base, checking in, updating and figuring things out. He'd never admit it, but he's an Organizer. Also, he looks pretty comfortable on that couch, eh? We did manage to go out to dinner, but that was the end of the adventures for the day. Zzzzzzzz.......<br />
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<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpBRKDayvVSgAo7zxGuLxsMuidzKcvod0c297VXH3yycx35h5FoUJpgMm-QDrkI1MAQvOhoGfOhfwUwTQIwbdmb5wXoJO0Rex_BG7Tm-9v3jVS4Zj0AcvfoJSJCzTIf_eXchsP1tx2w/s1600/Santorini+4.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617493258072805058" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPpBRKDayvVSgAo7zxGuLxsMuidzKcvod0c297VXH3yycx35h5FoUJpgMm-QDrkI1MAQvOhoGfOhfwUwTQIwbdmb5wXoJO0Rex_BG7Tm-9v3jVS4Zj0AcvfoJSJCzTIf_eXchsP1tx2w/s400/Santorini+4.JPG" style="display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
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So that's it--Day One. Over the course of the trip I took about a thousand pictures, every one of which I will share with you. Don't panic!! Just kidding! But I will share some, cause they're perty. Opa!<br />
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<div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-3511076197780374052010-08-28T08:28:00.002-06:002010-08-28T08:33:50.809-06:00Testing, uno, dos, tres, kick left, kick right!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7trqX1CB1dqG-UuYpA3XI17Mn7i4nSswjLhUZAFdoduz0qUKWO54J9bbstm_8vjXaGRDQvID7ZMrkzYyZHoGfTH1c8b3iBfE12Vr1qClAuO67wr7JjgNOze2gLx6xhYKAbwzyYzxYCg/s1600/Mandy's+pictures+002.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5510468429234721266" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7trqX1CB1dqG-UuYpA3XI17Mn7i4nSswjLhUZAFdoduz0qUKWO54J9bbstm_8vjXaGRDQvID7ZMrkzYyZHoGfTH1c8b3iBfE12Vr1qClAuO67wr7JjgNOze2gLx6xhYKAbwzyYzxYCg/s400/Mandy's+pictures+002.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-37970428437633205732010-08-11T21:28:00.004-06:002010-08-11T21:34:16.088-06:00Hello, Little Children! Hello!! Little Children?? Come Back! It's Miss Wicked!!Tonight I bid adieu to summer and bonjour to the little children (well, technically I'm bidding bonjour to an all-day training tomorrow, but that's a much less dramatic statement).<br /><br />The good news is that I shall be back at the elementary school this year, the Home of Stories, where I will be with students closer to my own age.<br /><br />BWAAAA HA HA!!! I crack myself up. You see why I fit in so well there. If you think that last joke was juvenile, you should see my reaction to fart humor. Anyway, see you soon...with stories!!Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-67897404412553970012010-07-13T18:28:00.017-06:002010-07-13T20:40:57.143-06:00Simple Peace<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPYEAKynyY8WBFtSa9lIRSa5Bn-cxfftgCIAckZgk9yOTjLwma5QmD7zJNT8gLQThlEg4KpcgTJrtbM2Cu4FZC0HKcaulTccSDMLlKau8omu69Z96kLjKTfHNU8V62-CiDvO8953PQMw/s1600/300px-Kitcarsonthefighting.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 256px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493574860711939970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPYEAKynyY8WBFtSa9lIRSa5Bn-cxfftgCIAckZgk9yOTjLwma5QmD7zJNT8gLQThlEg4KpcgTJrtbM2Cu4FZC0HKcaulTccSDMLlKau8omu69Z96kLjKTfHNU8V62-CiDvO8953PQMw/s400/300px-Kitcarsonthefighting.jpg" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div>In my opinion, there is nothing so pleasant as a cemetery. These hallowed grounds have such a special feel to them--in these places, there is nothing due, nothing to rush off to, and no one asking you questions. You'll never find someone trying to sell you a hot dog or a timeshare there. Cemeteries are a hassle-free zone. In them, you can just be. They are simple peace. </div><div></div><br /><div>New Mexico has such an interesting array of them. There's a small one located just at the on-ramp to the freeway to I-25 as you leave the airport. It's small and untended with lots of cement, and I do sometimes wonder how those souls there feel about their location. I'd prefer a more pastoral place, myself, but then again, I suppose the venue itself is more for the living than the dead. After all, I intend to be steadily employed in my next life as a cuddler of kittens and rescuer of squirrels, and will have no time for sitting about by my headstone plucking at flowers.</div><div></div><br /><div>I love to stop at cemeteries and wander around, saying hello to those who reside there and marveling over things such as their names, their life spans, their military service, the children they have buried near them. I feel it's a moment of recognition between us, as if the veil gets lifted for just a moment so that we can give a single nod to each other. I see you, I say, and I think they say the same right back.</div><div></div><br /><div>This is all brought to mind by the fact that I'm sitting a stone's throw from the Kit Carson Cemetery in Taos. I happened to have some meandering time, and what better place to go when you're feeling a little <em>poopy la la</em> and need some perspective? (Also, and very importantly, <em>I have found the free parking in Taos</em>.)</div><div><br /><div>I suppose it's obvious to say Kit Carson is buried there. Kit was a fighting man who had his own share of controversy, as any decent man of the wild west does. It's a little hard to figure out which one is his grave--there are several with his name on it, who I suppose are his descendants. I had to look up his dates of birth and death to ferret out the right one, which is here:</div><br /><div></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493571688187142834" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjssf30u9kGWBz38kaM3OhTFZsWMYS372EuT7Qkl2D4VRTN2QaHL_MYijMc2z6fME8yu7sUz1zMaC8wB_YoV75O-XaksaH0gtTdEHXsyQsMjF06YBy3tadFpwAzxp6QD5thePxEch1zCA/s400/IMG_1012.JPG" /><br /><div></div><div></div><div>Kit gets all the attention, of course, but nestled next to him is his wife, Josephine. I think she's worth a mention. One wonders just who she was, and how she lived her life married to this man. The best part about cemeteries is that one can make up stories to suit one's purposes, so I've decided to characterize her as a saucy woman who didn't take anything lying down, no sir. She gave as good as she got, and when the rebellion came, she was out front fighting with the men. Probably with a baby under each arm.</div><br /><div></div><div>But keep in mind I made that up.</div><div></div><br /><div>And speaking of temperament, take a look at this lady:</div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvnywaaHlLRfqz4gqpvrcfDxUp6weRZ_q5nsQiIKm6BY0JG98JcQPH9yKv5zf3bamnaclCxncIAlv1JlM45GJ8hNX3NbOAaFTpQ_CR48oXYxtJHeJwmfzNrvXudVlfO6pKxSkb873mQ/s1600/IMG_1015.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493570052028455026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUvnywaaHlLRfqz4gqpvrcfDxUp6weRZ_q5nsQiIKm6BY0JG98JcQPH9yKv5zf3bamnaclCxncIAlv1JlM45GJ8hNX3NbOAaFTpQ_CR48oXYxtJHeJwmfzNrvXudVlfO6pKxSkb873mQ/s400/IMG_1015.JPG" /></a><br /><div><em>Benigna. </em>Do you think she lived into that name as a delicate and sweet woman who never uttered a word that was not soaked in kindness, or did she spend her life railing against it? I'd like to have known her. Honestly, that's a heck of a name to saddle a gal with, unless you're trying to give her the element of surprise in a bar fight.</div><div></div><br /><div>One of my favorites at the Kit Carson Cemetery was a fella who just unabashedly put it all out there:</div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzgn9joOL1EHyHp5oBnVSwugL6QB7j3LrdZLEJqDAU5jZyxRpgaWi-F7mcVtV04FiKPKygdFpdl_i1HvuyKqO5qqNtt5HGnVEtbRTL-yvfrEdQQmhhXr90kjXQ20i38aZST-sub4vxw/s1600/IMG_1009.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493568788024438546" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVzgn9joOL1EHyHp5oBnVSwugL6QB7j3LrdZLEJqDAU5jZyxRpgaWi-F7mcVtV04FiKPKygdFpdl_i1HvuyKqO5qqNtt5HGnVEtbRTL-yvfrEdQQmhhXr90kjXQ20i38aZST-sub4vxw/s400/IMG_1009.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div>"I am at rest for an eternity near my idol Kit Carson." Way to go, John McCurdy. Just say it like you feel it.</div><div></div><br /><div>Another favorite:</div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0N6y4kIpNCXVmISo1z_iu-KL9wy2dZzQmudwCnKzA686UMP0449KyMDfJ_URZyMEs0owTFVsB36IKFlB5UnIphv_qp915lMfWYYauBmvAgwYaVilxG56qirszZJ1R1jYat5qah_YIvA/s1600/IMG_1010.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493566857765838034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0N6y4kIpNCXVmISo1z_iu-KL9wy2dZzQmudwCnKzA686UMP0449KyMDfJ_URZyMEs0owTFVsB36IKFlB5UnIphv_qp915lMfWYYauBmvAgwYaVilxG56qirszZJ1R1jYat5qah_YIvA/s400/IMG_1010.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div>Unknown to end. <em>Unknown to end. </em>Oh, what greater way to whet the curiosity of the idle observer? Was this truly a stranger buried here, unknown to anyone but himself or herself to the end? Or perhaps it was someone who chose to live a life of taciturnity, and this was his or her spouse's way of getting even for all those long, silent nights? It truly does beg wondering, doesn't it? Interestingly, he or she was buried near Kit Carson. Very near. <em>Closer even than John McCurdy. </em>The plot thickens.</div><br /><div></div><div>Keeping with the theme of mystery, I found this marker tucked back by the fence:<br /><br /></div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1SEYQ9Q63U2sfaYBTDqmDXRVW-BpRhqEjzI3Evzc5si4M-vctw0gmswWb-pL-wjVpxGSVBCVaEMaqxYQV-HPnigbnPPD8qIwcHYXyPO4RCIfVs1W-k7UlT16nKgXL2BVyX5yqiMgjw/s1600/IMG_1016.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493565404057105922" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn1SEYQ9Q63U2sfaYBTDqmDXRVW-BpRhqEjzI3Evzc5si4M-vctw0gmswWb-pL-wjVpxGSVBCVaEMaqxYQV-HPnigbnPPD8qIwcHYXyPO4RCIfVs1W-k7UlT16nKgXL2BVyX5yqiMgjw/s400/IMG_1016.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div>Clearly it's a headstone of sorts, but for who? And when? It was near a marker for Mister Solomon Grubb, who had no issues with declaring himself: </div><div></div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmHxp9DH9SxZCM_6GfGh-vZPfuxRbCGUYN4ND3mzflraWJn5P5NoS57aZualSeWjKf5HzQIMtGRZN2Wa33buwB7Bp3i7idSQutzhBX2glxd0SE9I0HmW_u8rkbj9NipmPOed-D6z2lA/s1600/IMG_1017.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493564766718376258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmHxp9DH9SxZCM_6GfGh-vZPfuxRbCGUYN4ND3mzflraWJn5P5NoS57aZualSeWjKf5HzQIMtGRZN2Wa33buwB7Bp3i7idSQutzhBX2glxd0SE9I0HmW_u8rkbj9NipmPOed-D6z2lA/s400/IMG_1017.JPG" /></a><br /><div><div></div><div></div><div>At historical grave sites, you get to learn things. I found this marker, and while the type is too small to be read here, allow me to summarize:</div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbK-M_-gHzN3MF315X7CQHNjrr_fhXH59-G9juAJVOV3xGGXjTd9UlRqZVVORIneOYz9yHs5dkPrgX4vJiIDSplvMKcZvwW0pvnLU5uL8IlS1BhWVOeZoeWrJeJgl_nJxgWwvrb4e7Q/s1600/IMG_1018.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493563653356334146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDbK-M_-gHzN3MF315X7CQHNjrr_fhXH59-G9juAJVOV3xGGXjTd9UlRqZVVORIneOYz9yHs5dkPrgX4vJiIDSplvMKcZvwW0pvnLU5uL8IlS1BhWVOeZoeWrJeJgl_nJxgWwvrb4e7Q/s400/IMG_1018.JPG" /></a> <div></div><div></div><div>Antonio joined the seminary following the death of his wife and child. He became a major religious leader and was famous for "obtaining the abolition of tithes." Srsly. He also established the first co-ed school in New Mexico and published textbooks and one of the first newspapers in New Mexico. It may not surprise you to know he had a few religious differences with the Bishop, and was ultimately defrocked and excommunicated from the Church. Rome better pay attention because I guess this is what happens when you let married men wear the collar. They go all modern and <em>change </em>things. </div><br /><div></div><div>Another famous name in this neck of the woods, aside from Kit Carson, is Mabel Dodge Luhan. She was a philanthropist and entertainer to the stars, but check out her grave marker:</div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5k9UH3v9afeGGilHui4xcaKTG2Q6MK7Kb9UaoNNK-74lV9_Q4i9KmUJ54zY9hUcAHPwOQmC_FZQN_DfVji-mX453UwFfl_sY5R9SdUV1PWJJBnjHdHRU_fymNKdr63ok2WDuHUwStYw/s1600/IMG_1020.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493557140690697970" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5k9UH3v9afeGGilHui4xcaKTG2Q6MK7Kb9UaoNNK-74lV9_Q4i9KmUJ54zY9hUcAHPwOQmC_FZQN_DfVji-mX453UwFfl_sY5R9SdUV1PWJJBnjHdHRU_fymNKdr63ok2WDuHUwStYw/s400/IMG_1020.JPG" /></a><br /><div></div><div></div><div>One word: understated. I love the candle and the flowers--somebody's still looking after Mabel.</div><br /><div></div><div>There were families buried there with beautiful names: Soledad DesGeorges, her husband Esteban DesGeorges, and their DesGeorges children. Aloys Liebert came to Taos in the 19th century, dying there in 1905. His descendant, Alois Liebert III, illustrates to us how subtle spelling changes take hold and create a slightly altered lineage. Severino Martinez. Ney C. Galaway. And another favorite:</div><div></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSc6AjFIpDrOKoof9GFdJFDYNteDM4ir50KrAqcLm3JUeZCmQCdmQHdsKY7Dyt81kstoKLS0M89TFsj3d3pkEczDaGOLt2HVkkaQq4resG0UqnN71MDyGRLhyphenhyphen3SuASZvwO5xxCClw9w/s1600/IMG_1023.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493554451811582194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheSc6AjFIpDrOKoof9GFdJFDYNteDM4ir50KrAqcLm3JUeZCmQCdmQHdsKY7Dyt81kstoKLS0M89TFsj3d3pkEczDaGOLt2HVkkaQq4resG0UqnN71MDyGRLhyphenhyphen3SuASZvwO5xxCClw9w/s400/IMG_1023.JPG" /></a><br /><div>Yes, Hipolita. The head had come off the animal that was topping the marker, but do you think it was--dare I say it?--a hippopotamus? I hope she had that sense of humor. At all times we must laugh, even in repose.</div><br /><div></div><div>Thank you for joining me in my journey beyond. The earliest date of birth I saw was 1820, and the latest death was in the 1970s. These folks may be long gone, but certainly not forgotten. At least not by me. </div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div></div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-46763915932776772572010-04-22T19:02:00.005-06:002010-05-04T11:36:14.076-06:00Oh! A Story! I Have a Story!Oh, I do miss the little ones. They just <em>exude </em>stories...along with a truly astonishing amount of disgusting bodily fluids, but that--thank heavens--is not what I'm here to talk about. Middle schoolers are not so full of stories, at least not the kind that don't end with you calling social services. <em>(Shudder...you have no idea</em>.)<br /><br />BACK ON TOPIC, then. As I was saying, there are no stories to be had with middle schoolers. At least none that don't end with a fantasy of me wielding a big ol' whackin' stick. There. That's better.<br /><br />(<em>On a side note, I would just like to say that there is nothing that makes you feel more like a middle schooler again than being a hormonal, 44-year-old woman working in a middle school.)</em><br /><br />So today I went to the elementary school to evaluate the heck out of a first grader. He had been described to me as "quirky" and "odd," so I liked him right away. In the interest of protecting his identify, and just in case any of you shop at the Smith's grocery store in Edgewood where no doubt he is right now putting together a pirate's shopping list for staging a mutiny, I shall call him...Tad. Tad Pole.<br /><br />Tad Pole and I had a lovely introduction. He had absolutely no qualms or reservations or concerns or even a snippet of thought about going anywhere with someone he had never seen before in his life. I had barely gotten out my usual introduction--"Hi there, Tad, I'm Miss Wicked and I've got some pictures to show you" (<em>OMG, I had no idea how creepy that sounded until just now</em>)--before he jumped up and started giving orders. "Okay, where's my favorite pencil it's purple with little stars and I have to take it and you carry my jacket except I don't want to take my jacket and hey, put my jacket back, Billy, you come with us we're going to look at <em>pictures</em>--" and so on and on and on until my head was spinning and I was totally confused. This was followed by him charging into the hallway and yelling, "HI! WHAT'S YOUR NAME?!" to sixth grade girls looked at him like he was a glob of spit.<br /><br /><br /><div align="center">Wow.</div><br />After Tad ran full force down the hallway, leaving both me and Billy with confused looks on our faces, I did a quick trot after him and caught up just before he went outside with the fourth graders. As you can probably imagine, with this sort of high energy, Tad's feet lived in a continuous state of hotness. They are practically <em>on fire</em> all the time, I'm sure. So once we got settled into my office, naturally his first question was, "Can I take my shoes off?" And naturally, my first response was, "No," because boy's feet are stinky, no matter what their age, and also very gross. So Tad proceeded to take his shoes off. And here is a transcript of our ensuing conversation:<br /><br />Me: "Tad, put your shoes back on. I told you to leave them on."<br /><br />Tad: "But my feet are so <em>hooooooooot</em>."<br /><br />Me: "Bummer, dude. Leave that to someone who cares. Put your shoes back on."<br /><br />Tad: "Can I keep them off for just for a few minutes, <em>pleeeeeeease</em>?" (<em>blink blink</em>)<br /><br />Me: "No. Put your shoes back on."<br /><br />Tad: <em>sticks out his lower lip and gives me a glum look. Then, in a strange turnabout of emotion, he suddenly smiles and says,</em> "Okay!" <em>This is followed by a magical shuffle of his feet, and he again announces</em>, "Okay!" <em>I look under the table at his feet.</em><br /><br />Me: <em>Sigh.</em> "Tad Pole, put your shoes back on."<br /><br />Tad: "I did!"<br /><br />Me: "No, you didn't. Put your shoes on."<br /><br />Tad: "Okay!" <em>Shuffle, shuffle.</em><br /><br />Me: "Tad, I'm about to look at your feet. Is there anything you want to do before then?"<br /><br />Tad: "Nope." <em>Smiles sweetly at me.</em><br /><br />Me: I look under the table. <em>Deep sigh.</em> "Tad. Put. Your. Shoes. On. Now."<br /><br />Tad: "Okay!"<br /><br />This went on for some time before I finally got my big ol' whacking stick out and gave the boy the business end of it. Ha, ha, not really, I don't hit kids, that's illegal! Ha, ha! No, let's just say that Tad and I came to a sort of <em>agreement</em>, which he immediately broke, and then I pitched a fit and cried and threatened to take away every reward I had ever offered if he did not PUT THOSE SHOES BACK ON IMMEDIATELY!! WAAAAAA!!<br /><br />Somewhere along the line during my little rant he took on a really bored look and put his shoes back on. It really took the fun out of everything. Still, I can't wait to see him again. I've got a whackin' stick with his name on it. And I am ready for some more stories.Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-90678984708953148792010-02-21T20:33:00.006-07:002010-02-22T21:21:36.141-07:00A Rant, Then Rest<div align="center">Hello, all (3 of) my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">cyberworld</span> friends!! </div><div align="center">You doing okay? That's great.</div><div align="center">Now let's talk about me.</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left"><br />At 2:00 this morning, I was driving down a dark, dangerous, foggy road in eastern New Mexico with a snoring man in the passenger seat and a semi truck carrying a load of hay flashing his lights on and off at me in my rear view mirror. Well, I exaggerate--the semi driver only flicked his lights once, and that was to let me know I was clear to pull back into the lane after passing him, but still...some serious Stephen King stuff. I'm pretty sure we were just one wrong turn from ending up in a murky forest where a man with a hook for a hand was waiting patiently for us to get a flat tire. <em>Scratch, scratch....</em></div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left">It will relieve your hearts, no doubt, to know that I'm lying in bed now with popcorn, a glass of wine, and a cat, so obviously the above terrifying teaser has a happy ending. I feel compelled to reassure you, as I do so hate leaving anyone in a state of worry, plus I don't plan on really explaining that story so it seems only fair to let you know that it all worked out. (FYI, this is not the rant portion of this blog, merely a stream-of-consciousness that will likely be very unsatisfying in the long run, induced by oh, so very little sleep (reference above paragraph).)</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">So we'll start with the story of my weekend (which, despite the big lead-in, doesn't really have much of a supporting story), followed by my Big Rant, then off to bed. </div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">You know I'm the big advocate of getting out of the house and experiencing your community. I have a whole blog that I've written (<em>in my head</em>) about small venue concerts. I love 'em. There's nothing better than getting to know the performers you're going to see, and what better way to do that than by sitting two feet from the stage in the company of a small crowd of other equally non-mainstream (<em>read: weird) </em>people? It's supportive in a very personal way and forces you to be present to what you're experiencing, which is kind of nice in these veg-out-in-front-of-the-TV-only-talk-to-your-friends-on-the-computer times. It's also possible to take that intimacy right to the limit. </div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Friday night the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Maxter</span> had, as is his way, bought tickets for a concert but did not tell me for whom. That's okay--I like surprises, and his track record is excellent for homing (honing?) in on the good finds in the city. So off we went, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">putzing</span> happily down the street until he pulled into a Unitarian Church parking lot. This in itself was not weird, but the fact that there were only three other cars in the parking lot was. You can guess the conversation that followed--<em>are we too early? is it the wrong date?</em>--but ultimately we decided there was only one way to find out.</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">I will tell you this about small venue performances: once you walk in, there's no discreet walking out if you decide it's just <em>too</em> small for your tastes or maybe you think you walked into the wrong room by mistake. As we approached the glass doors, we could see that there were only a handful of people in there and it was looking suspiciously like a church service. Me, I would have been happy to do a U-turn at that point and spend the evening on the sofa watching a romantic comedy. Max the Intrepid don't put up with that pansy kind of behavior, though (plus he had two tickets waiting at will call, so I guess he was what you might call <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">incentivized</span></em>), so we just waltzed right in and, after a lengthy three-second search, found two seats near the front.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="center">In total, there were 13 people in the house. </div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">That included the three performers and their spouses. I think five people were good friends of the performers and were just there to support them. So that really just left us.</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">No pressure, but could you all clap really <em>loud</em>??</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">We ended up sitting behind one of the performers--all of whom were piano players, by the by--and had a lovely conversation with her before the show started. First of all, she had more hair on her head than I've ever seen on a person. I didn't know it was possible to have hair that was that thick. It was mesmerizing, which made it difficult to fully participate in the talky talk, but that's why Max and I are a team. He talks while I gaze and have important conversations with myself, and sometimes other people, in my head. By the end of the night, not only had we heard three very delightful and diverse performances, but we were also good friends with all the pianists. And their spouses. And their five friends. <em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Tres</span> cool. </em></div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">There is no moral to this story, it was just a good time and I wanted to let you know all about it. So we're done with that now. It is now time for me to put on my ranting hat (sound of footsteps as I step up to my soapbox). Prepare for a complete change of topic and tone (I'll give you a moment).</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="center">.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">Yesterday the front page of the local newspaper heralded this headline: "Snow Area Tragedy." The article was about a 12-year-old boy who suffered a spinal cord injury while at a nearby snow play area. Before I go any farther, let me say that I have great compassion for this boy and his family, and for what they're facing as a result of an unfortunate accident. My diatribe is not about what happened to him, but about the handling of the incident in the article. It happened at a designated snow play area on the mountain. On site there's a sign that lists rules for playing there, then notes that <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> area is unsupervised. <em>Unsupervised,</em> in case you didn't catch that the first time around. This poor kid was standing up at the bottom of the hill when another sledder ran into him, knocking him to the ground and, unfortunately, causing a spinal cord injury. In most circumstances, he would have probably just had the wind knocked out of him or suffered a sprained ankle. This time, though, the odds weren't in his favor and he ended up with a big-ticket injury. It sounded to me like the very definition of a horrible accident. </div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">I guess not everyone saw it that way, though. The article was about how, despite the warning that there was no supervision there, <em>someone </em>should have been responsible for protecting the boy from getting hit. <em>Someone </em>should have made sure that every person there was safe every second, that no accidents occurred, that no injury befell anyone, despite the fact that it was a large group of people moving at breakneck speeds down a frozen hill. Who is that someone? Who is this mysterious person who can save us from all our foibles, our momentary distractions that put us in harm's way, or just our bad luck at being in the wrong place at the wrong time? I'd like his number. (I don't know why I would refer to this person as a "him." If ever there were a magic person who could protect us from All Bad Stuff That Ever Existed without so much as breaking a sweat, it would totally be Lynda Carter, and she's a "her." I think.)</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left">There were further complaints that cell phone coverage was spotty, making it difficult to call for help. Folks, it's a <em>mountain. </em>Having perfect, round-the-clock-in-every-location cell phone coverage was not promised in our constitution. It's. a. mountain. Then there were complaints that it took 25 minutes for the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">EMTs</span> to get there. Folks, it's a <em>mountain. </em>An icy, snow-packed mountain that does not have a city, complete with speedy ambulance service, located at its apex. The reason you go up there to play in the snow is because <em>it's a mountain and it has snow. </em>Playing in the snow comes with risks. It's not necessarily <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">anyone's</span> fault. These things sometimes happen. There isn't always a reason.</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Sigh..I sound so <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">curmudgeonly</span>, don't I? I just get frustrated at the human need to find someone else at fault for everything. I believe that bad things sometimes happen, regretfully, things that change our lives and put things forever into 'before' and 'after.' And I don't believe that there's always someone or something to blame.</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">On the other hand, blame is one of the stages of grieving, isn't it? So maybe it's the most natural thing in the world. In which case, never mind this rant but still POO on the media for contributing their piece.</div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">It are 10:15 and I was going to try to wind this up in a coherent fashion (HA HA HA HA!!) and maybe even circle back around to my opening paragraph, having been trained in the journalistic fashion and all, but now I don't wanna. I'm going to bed, and I wish you all a very good night and the very best of sleep.</div><div align="left"><br /></div><div align="left"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">(You see this is the problem with just anyone being able to blog these days, they will just <strong>carry on </strong>to no end.)</span></em></div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-32696805011267034802010-01-26T12:51:00.003-07:002010-01-26T13:27:31.289-07:00Middle School Teaches Me About Gender Differences<div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">From one 8th grade boy to another, while matching wits in a game:<br /></div><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">"I think you'll get this one, and I don't mean that offensively at all"</span><br /><br />Read<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">: It's easy enough even for <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">YOU, </span>loser<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">.<br /><br /><br /></span></span></span></span>Turns out 8th grade boys do <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">not </span>get offended about things like that at all, they just laugh and high five.<br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">An 8th grade girl, on the other hand, would have sheared off the top of his head with her teeth.<br /><br />Just sayin' is all.<br /><br />In other news of note, yesterday was marketed by Tom Joles at Channel 4 news as BOTH the Most Depressing Day of the Year AND National Bubble Wrap Appreciation Day.</div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-74606894167171745722009-12-04T14:43:00.004-07:002009-12-04T15:24:12.485-07:00Did I Mention You Asked For This?First of all, I would like to thank my three readers for being so wonderfully encouraging to me to get off my arse and git writing. I appreciate that you still check this site; I really do, since I certainly don't anymore. I deserve some flogging with a wet noodle and constant browbeating, and that's just to get me through my morning.<br /><br /><em><strong>Since you asked, though,</strong> </em>I'll share all my random thoughts with you right now. Prepare for a big, fat stream of consciousness. Remember, you requested this. And since my latest theme has been alllllll about being a tourist in your own state, we'll just co-opt that and call this Being a Tourist In Your Own Head. Or mine, in this instance (although feel free to turn inward at this point and entertain yourself with your own thoughts). Hey, is anybody still reading?<br /><br />First of all, it's freakin' cold outside. (I would love it if someone would chime in with an <em>It's so cold</em>... joke here.) Auntie M, I heard that even Dallas got snow, and it's not even 2012 yet! And speaking of 2012, is anyone really going to go see that movie? Do we honestly need any more fear and hysteria running loose in our brains? Maybe we do. I'm often thinking along a straight line and neglecting to look at the grayer possibilities, so maybe this movie will actually encourage us to be nicer to each other for the next two years or something.<br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>BWAAAAAAA HA HA HA HAAA!!!</strong> <em><span style="font-size:85%;">>wipes tears of laughter from eyes<</span></em></div><br />Moving on. I realized yesterday that among the many postings I have not made here lately, there have been none about The Children. Now that I've been placed in middle and high schools to atone for my sins, I really don't have anything cutesy to share about them. The teenagers, not so funny. Dramatic, yes; emotional, yes; annoying, yes; but funny, no. And they are annoying me mightily this week, just let me say. They are whiny and unmotivated and not-direction-following and <strong><em>we can only have one of us like that in the classroom, now can't we</em></strong>? These teenagers have a responsibility to be a role model for the adults around them. We're tired. We're tired of <em>them. </em>We have worked for many years and right about now, that fire of enthusiasm is juuuust about extinguished. We need us some winter break, and we need it bad.<br /><br />But I don't mean to sound cranky. I just miss the hugs at knee level and the sweet smiles. As much as I miss those little elementary critters, though, I do not miss the planning that it requires to therapize them, mm-mm. And speaking honestly, I really do enjoy the bigger ones, as long as I remember that their aberrant behavior and general annoyingness is a normal stage of development. (Not one that I went through, of course. I was all sunshine and roses as a teenager, just ask my mother. Also, I toot butterflies. And please don't really ask my mother, it will put her in a terribly awkward position, as it makes her uncomfortable to lie. Thank you.)<br /><br />What were we talking about? Oh, yes, Christmas shopping. One word: <em>online.</em><br /><br />Wow, we are just cruising through today's topics. What else ya got? I know you all want to talk about the cats & wabbit, but I simply must refuse. Except to say that Bugs' foot is just fine now, although his attitude remains unimproved.<br /><br />Um...I'm all tapped out now. Again, as a disclaimer, I must remind all three of you that you asked for this. Now go talk amongst yourselves and start planning the intervention. Smooches!<br /><br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411509303165248690" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3juocCm3dpn-4ebTmtvd1o9Uu-Qr41vanO4u-tlJmKFNsNQ680fxjTTnzmrheGStlUYCiWwoiAsxUpivJSWY4GDoTQkBriOSRmsZnGHx-gjJBKWsnTfP0XlNylkGCL6Qxw7-VD2ZBNA/s400/IMG_0611.JPG" />Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-14991588631431185732009-10-29T19:50:00.006-06:002009-10-29T21:27:50.241-06:00R.S.V.P. to Your State, Part II: Look to the Sky<div align="center"><em>Cheap and guaranteed beautiful. </em></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><em>But beware the wrath of the birds, for they eat well and have good aim.</em></div><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398207355618185986" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAURWeFi2yKbR5YIa-_EwYcFGOZ7hHwuZ5DJcpujHzPYke0ugRU5YART8MJahdRx7wVPsHh4Jtxds0hFIIAsA3PLK52YchF9_CV9NpQTR-DsTcpvTzGHMx15FZZQzUwlN2C5H3Ro58Q/s400/IMG_0561.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398207369011910562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxIkGPN6HsXZugNYA91jNLLFzY5LMiYjgtMdwdt7nHI7iShadVKf857dsicTRr7IrBNFr9p24yAqlBWgr1B8x-HLkLnR3KyPrnh0XZbQJzisRgyx3-qjO1IQQ6IUs6_JW1cj00OM9kXg/s400/IMG_0616.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398207362910557362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBhxQp7N9z6ELNrOo5R08GTTTmZbtgM3gskDUvfP_l4uGn7lr3RnwG2-vZ1V1zVjtg8nKzo1DaLf-s2tFWSavKaYUpOwrDPdBACao0jWYYzbbrTM9kEQObjhMMyzmCxtPBdbulF2ddfw/s400/IMG_0567.JPG" border="0" /><br /><br /><br /><div><div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESwYw6AkkNMHOKFrcfJIYKVJj23XPvuv_vNeO0YKLQle7FuzqT5wgRD4FtoQPmrsYLo1mU5Hu9f99Y2SXUG12P8QZbnwBlDxn5_5SMrY7hcMB2ruMiGBlBnn88jWu4cBay4BSbT8VSw/s1600-h/IMG_0564.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398207350176116482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhESwYw6AkkNMHOKFrcfJIYKVJj23XPvuv_vNeO0YKLQle7FuzqT5wgRD4FtoQPmrsYLo1mU5Hu9f99Y2SXUG12P8QZbnwBlDxn5_5SMrY7hcMB2ruMiGBlBnn88jWu4cBay4BSbT8VSw/s400/IMG_0564.JPG" border="0" /></a></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div><br /><br /><br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398227008589802706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiowLK8_fMUUBa1imOoExyQwgZ1rndIg4nVxxWW6Yu0j059vVanl-jS530kbpT0X6csQyJX67q4aAXt1J5k4WuTwk7OqDerF7UlBT5p7cCa60UhM7rPuXnzk2ecmrmPumaq5PIKeRKUcA/s400/IMG_0540.JPG" border="0" /></div></div></div></div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-76207808866964800882009-09-14T20:25:00.011-06:002009-09-20T08:49:58.617-06:00Please RSVP to Your State, Part I<div align="center">Well, hellooooooooo, everyone!</div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">Nice to see you. </div><br />For some months now, I've had it in my mind to do a blog about touristing in your own state. Typically, when we take vacations, we dream about far off destinations, saving our pennies for months or even years so that we can go to some distant place and explore new cultures and risky cuisine.<br /><br /><div align="center">Don't get me wrong. I'm all for that.</div><br />But what about destinations that are right out our front door? How about a trip that takes relatively no planning, limited cash, and can be done in a day? I suggest to you now that you commit to strapping on a camera and becoming a state tourist . Your own city, if you wish to start small, or perhaps just your neighborhood, if you're comfortable right there on the patio with your margarita.<br /><br />There's so much to see and do just outside our front doors, and it's easy to forget that trembly-on-the-inside excitement when you move to a new place. Remember how that was? You could hardly stop yourself from seeking out cultural stimuli and calling everyone you knew to tell them about that fanTASTIC band you just caught at the AWESOME coffee shop that's been in the SAME hip downtown location for the last 20 years that's shaped like a UFO and has the most AMAZING art on the walls and did you know that you can eat green chile EVEN IN PIE and PEOPLE WILL ACTUALLY GIVE YOU THEIR NEWSPAPERS WHEN THEY'RE DONE WITH THEM and isn't everyone just so nice here?? Where does that excitement go, anyway? When does that subtle shift over to complacency take place? It is so easy to forget about all the great things there still are to do, not to mention the new things that are popping up all the time. It becomes so darn easy to slip into a rut of <em>not </em>going out, <em>not </em>exploring your community, <em>not </em>checking the local alternate rag for new local bands, and finding yourself slipping into that comfortable spot on your sofa that just happens to be shaped like your ass.<br /><br /><div align="center">Dangerous stuff, that.</div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">I'll admit to falling headfirst into that rut.</div><br />When I moved to New Mexico, I was out every weekend checking out everything New Mexican I could find. I went hither and yon, visiting all the cool places I could find, and setting my schedule by whatever the <a href="http://alibi.com/index.php">Alibi</a> said. It was groovy. But gradually, through the years, I somehow stopped seeking out all the fun things that Albuquerque and its surrounding areas had to offer. I'm not sure why; I guess I just lost the rush. I've been hot on the trail of rediscovering New Mexico lately, though, and have been having the best ever time finding new things to see or revisiting old favorites. And it's gotten me inspired to inspire YOU. So I'm inviting you to get on board the tourism train, wherever you live. Let's all make a pact to find some new things to do, either something as yet undiscovered or perhaps something you enjoyed that you haven't done in a long while.<br /><br />We'll even start simple. I suggest that next time you're out and about, keep your eyes open for goodies like this:<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381531869410649042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnaIB3_T-SkFDCKlr3vE0dgmQhzYZhoP8AAJ1nP6b1PHZNpWRR2digVkSB-fLE_ZJ5ftEt0jb_nCiBHoUidqzCfmFTz1qtk28mUODW3lGsglIgtgG3g-fx5AszRiJOuX_qxK9izmg0mw/s400/IMG_0434.JPG" /><br />I found this while driving to work one morning and it brightened my commute to no end. For thems as don't know, Blake's is a hamburger joint. Usually boards like these are used to advertise a special or disparage the competition, but someone had a stroke of creativity that I would have applauded had I not been using my hands to steer my car.*<br /><em></em><br />So I urge you to do this: simply open your eyes and look around next time you're out doing errands. Seek out the unexpected; I promise you it's out there. You just might end up with a smile on your face. And that, my friends, is our first step into local tourism. Stay tuned for more installments!<br /><br />*<em>Note:</em> <em>Although I am a vegetarian, I will not be planning a press release, interviewing with Katie Couris, or starting a reality show to express my outrage at this blatant discrimination against me and my peeps. Live and let live.</em>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-35009747734823834682009-08-20T20:55:00.005-06:002009-08-20T22:41:36.244-06:00Oobala, Oobala, OobalaHi, friends! How've you been? I've missed you. It's been a great summer, hasn't it? Some people--particularly those crazy academic folk--might tell you that summer is over because school has started, but NO!! I defy it to happen! What ever happened to relying on the calendar, anyway? We've got one more month to go, my peeps, so let's make the most of it. We got some shizzle to look forward to. Let's check it out:<br /><br /><strong>*Santa Fe Indian Market:</strong> THIS WEEKEND! Ride the train up, my fancy french donuts, and enjoy a day with the masses secure in the knowledge that traffic is your bitch today.<br /><br /><strong>*Great American Duck Race:</strong> ALSO THIS WEEKEND! Go root for your favorite duck and practice your waddle. You know you want to.<br /><br /><strong>*New Mexico Wine Festival:</strong> September 5-7. Mmm. Wine. Drink it, my lushious little pinot noirs. Sip from the vine of happiness.<br /><br /><strong>*Zozobra: </strong>September 10. <a href="http://wickedthistle.blogspot.com/2008/11/everybody-turn-back-your-clocks.html">Check it.<br /></a><br /><strong>*29th Annual Pietown Festival!</strong> September 12! You know how I feel about pie, and I know you feel exactly the same way! Call me! We'll carpool!<br /><br /><strong>*New Mexico State Fair:</strong> September 11-27: All right, technically it crosses seasonal lines, but it's going to be hot out there and I'm still counting it as summer. Nyeh. Funnel cakes trump autumnal equinoxes any day.<br /><br />That's just a small smattering of what's to come here in New Mexico over the next several weeks. For a look at a hardcore calendar, check <a href="http://www.newmexico.org/calendar/events/">this</a> out. It'll make your head spin.<br /><br />And speaking of calendars, has anyone else heard that the Mayan calendar ends in 2012? Just saying. Am I the only one who feels nervous about this?<br /><br />Enjoy these last days of summer. I'll be around, drinking a margarita on the patio and enjoying the sensation of warmth. Hope to see you there.Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-40958384554229786122009-07-31T14:38:00.002-06:002009-07-31T14:44:18.135-06:00Joy<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8iqmffOOzflg2Q6hba9GYfDvNr2m8w87MN__Ea1TLSABXH72hqpbSLU1B1-GcE_FdV6sopAQzP96kII_lHpUZa6rqptiecsAWzyC8fMPCuEcYd0Bw7aBy5F503j7boyhRC60k05uaw/s1600-h/IMG_0315.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364727846483079090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT8iqmffOOzflg2Q6hba9GYfDvNr2m8w87MN__Ea1TLSABXH72hqpbSLU1B1-GcE_FdV6sopAQzP96kII_lHpUZa6rqptiecsAWzyC8fMPCuEcYd0Bw7aBy5F503j7boyhRC60k05uaw/s400/IMG_0315.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div></div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-80683012419458058562009-07-22T11:16:00.013-06:002009-07-23T15:56:09.355-06:00In the Epic Battle Between Bugs & Wicked, Bugs *Always* Wins. Harumph.<div align="left"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Da</span> poor <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">widdle</span> bunny. He has had a weird and icky foot growth for some time now. I won't go into the details; just allow me to emphasize again the <em>weird </em>and<em> icky </em>parts of the disorder. I had taken him to the vet twice in previous months to have it looked at and removed. The vet, when asked what she thought--in her overly-priced professional opinion--it was, said, "Huh, I really don't know." And apparently she wasn't too interested in finding out. Thank you, vet person! Helpful!</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361335760699326146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2mX9Hrkp0Kaco3nvDSgskIkFx3QGy5R3m778fPTbiWs2gVGsS6NXc2uBYwxbsKY_oKoXOs48mgbAVco_SUtOjh0-ys56T_8RjquBKmRf73jfICCuxhnYxkOJ_iszFzWYU9_I4sBVIAg/s400/Bugs01.JPG" /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="left">All right, I'll grant you that maybe rabbits aren't the typical house pet brought in to veterinarians. Maybe they <em>shouldn't </em>know the entire range of possible disorders, and maybe they don't <em>have to </em>waste their time looking things up in their special veterinarian medical databases. I understand. But when the growth returned for the third time, I decided to take Bugs to a vet who had ample experience with wabbits. He took one look at it and gave an instant diagnosis. Then he took a closer look and revised his diagnosis. Either way, he felt confident that it could be completely removed, never to bother the bunny again.</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Eureka!</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left">So Mr. Buns got to get <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">surgerized</span> yesterday. Bunnies are typically fragile creatures. Extreme temperatures can send them into heart failure; being approached by larger animals can send them into heart failure; being chased around the room by children can send them into heart failure (me, too); going under anesthesia can send them into heart failure. So the procedure wasn't without risks, but the new! improved! vet felt that Bugs would do just fine. And Bugs is a tough old guy; he spent the first two years of his life in a hutch that offered little protection from heat or cold or the noses of curious dogs. So he learned to chill, as well as to develop a really annoying attitude of independence. He's cute and fluffy, so why won't he let me smother him with kisses??</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left">So the strong-willed and hearty wabbit did just swell in his surgery and came home yesterday afternoon, chock full of painkillers. While the nice tech was giving me his post-care instructions, she mentioned that I should watch him to make sure he didn't chew out his sutures (bunnies are big on the chewing). I told her this was my biggest concern, and asked her what powers she thought I had to prevent this. She assured me that it likely would not be a problem, since he hadn't bothered them since his surgery. Oh, yes? I don't think she'd worked with bunnies much. Anyway, she went back to get him and was gone for a really long time. When she came back out, she wore a sheepish look and said, "While we were talking he chewed out four of his sutures, so we had to put some staples in." Mm-hm. She then advised getting some baby socks, cutting out the toe, and putting one on his stapled foot.</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="left">Which I did, because I am really, really good at following instructions. I bought these really adorable little infant <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">sockies</span>:</div><div align="center"><br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361766716143143122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMRiraS6aIUs1PZdhAjCKIgWaWL9bacf0GzJAzuRomm6Ic_jo1tM5RldhO6rgZFZj1QFgCzv0YQ1ih38Kgviz-xXQPsI9rC2ODKkIcdhyphenhyphendPAHHsXtNe1dxU83L_WySOO4FaA1mNWBM4g/s400/IMG_0278.JPG" /><br />I cut out the toe, wrestled Bugs into temporary submission, and quick-like-lightning put that little sock on his foot. Look how cute:<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361766724869258482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF4kD5_AKYs1WaEJXZnvaBuSHZtOT_40unPMZrE4r5rjC42DjDdEunWU9vPuS2AsgeNH6H3cyeb6J8Z_sY_avBhp-9h3DrqSmBc4f2tIClvQJJKn90QgtSWQUuYsLzkBiA9g4uhRfblg/s400/IMG_0282.JPG" /><br />Yeah, that puppy was off within a nanosecond of putting him into his pen:<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361766733213246610" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn6GozSOHOX5BsImgSkbMcxUsxKOt_5KBZ9IZWtxjgQ7xGWED-fzq162x21SNK-VDa4aQeS81kN8zYkfstFTxb3MZCcAvpgADviyfRGK-nnvq-pOKmQYBnH5fQ8kpEVV08BVWe416O3w/s400/IMG_0284.JPG" /> <p align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Evidence</em></span><span style="font-size:78%;"><br /></span></p>Bugs is <em>so </em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">noncompliant</span>.<br /><br />I guess if he's going to be all bossy about it, then he's on his own regarding foot maintenance. He's hiding out right now, not wanting me to even set eyes on it. He forgets that he only <em>thinks </em>he can hide from me. I have access to his little hideout from above, ha ha! Of course, this does not negate the fact that, so far, he is <em>totally </em>winning.<br /><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center"># # #</div><br /><div align="left"></div><div align="left">In other news, I came home from a recent trip to discover that <em>somebody </em>had peed on my new expensive yarn from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Taos</span>. My first thought was to blame Fiona. After all, look at her:</div><div align="left"></div><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361336398870130914" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEN_jPUz6ymD3h6ICk2pMFLGKpGuiFUk3yI6hDHe9E2k0KLeofoTgZBfJrCu3TgDQpiX4nPF4RwQadUXPde1MxY2SKxS-lMKH9JMCutAzX8xb2hVve1MeVaZGnAGiY6TH1FslTTmWvbA/s400/DSCF1117.JPG" /><br />She lives in a state of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">unremorsefulness</span>. Plus, she loves peeing where she's not supposed to. Unrepentant, that one.<br /><br />But then I thought further. Fifi does have some <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">litterbox</span> avoidance issues, to be sure, but she usually limits her bad behavior to the carpet. She's completely apolitical about it, never using her pee to make a statement. So I don't think she would have chosen fancy wool as her voiding platform.<br /><br />This one, on the other hand, has his own history:<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361336401053172258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipYrO-Dalhhuvr-ZJIU6AtiALujZ3qm59Th4TnLlphk6IJwYmXDLSSKQJfv5wRCWr-TKUL1swZavyhr1C5LXRfGNZfOnIWCEOLhgIZidMrVSoMZ_r2ifoFweDBv8c8yPTdFQ00q2yeRg/s400/DSCF2470.JPG" /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQPNRLZbd2JrjsMjNC8F4ImgDRDbXAXpl5ywQqVbZJY8AnIWIsoJczfpU7RpMcx-4afVg-JZeu3Le2YIGTsgNqyg6xDvgAlRtrNxV0sSSoUwgT2p1Fs_ojWoUsNsqI85ZsKUbQlm7og/s1600-h/DSCF2471.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361336408193473410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQQPNRLZbd2JrjsMjNC8F4ImgDRDbXAXpl5ywQqVbZJY8AnIWIsoJczfpU7RpMcx-4afVg-JZeu3Le2YIGTsgNqyg6xDvgAlRtrNxV0sSSoUwgT2p1Fs_ojWoUsNsqI85ZsKUbQlm7og/s400/DSCF2471.JPG" /></a><br />He has great litter box habits, but sometimes cannot help using another container as his potty. He's a man, after all; they like peeing in weird places. So I've decided to pin this crime on him. I think he smelled that animal scent on the wool and could not help himself. He just wanted to be close to the sheep. He's a lover, not a fighter.<br /><br />Knowing the culprit didn't make clean up any easier, though. Getting cat pee out of yarn <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">sux</span>. See, my yarn had been wound for me at the store and looked like this:<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361335754645277890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhNwSzsOoVnoO2vKp7nUzRZB2ntdtlGJXO7ZXU9z4FEXZdG68CQyz023voAWz8UmAAV8-jb9qbhuPUoDwifefyGuFKgOxFjyfVe6Vdi6QhDAP9yndo20j43DNv4d96yJVXvPdE7tRDkA/s400/IMG_0277.JPG" /><br />Pretty, eh? Well, guess what? It--two skeins--had to be completely unwound and treated, then rinsed and dried. Very. time. consuming. It's a good thing it's summer is all I can say, with lots of daylight and time available. Here's the yarn in its drying process:<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361335748100446674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7_QOL7B0TDlkWd3w2J-gv3ygh69owXVArH6g3UXg_rf-NChf-E8r-95IBSCfus1yf4IVUvuYeuzhfxfc-vycfOu5px0PyE6xNAa5igo3uYYHVIVivK40B5xxj5ADq7HfXrLuEW7yIZg/s400/IMG_0276.JPG" /><br />Note: it's very annoying to work with wet wool yarn. Also note: it's very annoying to rewind yarn after it's been set out to dry. Lots and lots of tangles, no matter how careful you are. But they're all rewound into lovely balls now, ready for that project that I probably won't get to for years. And at least they don't smell like pee.Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-14356082836913848682009-07-14T11:00:00.004-06:002009-07-14T11:46:49.506-06:00Helloooooo (echo echo echo)!!!I don't think I've ever seen a REAL-LIVE-IN-PERSON celebrity in my life. I equivocate on this because I forget a lot of stuff, and so it's possible that I spent some time with Jimmy Buffett in the 80s and just don't recall. I simply don't know.<br /><br />Anyhoo, I have a blog now to log these sorts of things in for eternity, plus telling you guys about it means that you can remind me later after I've completely forgotten (fast forward to party scene):<br /><br /><em>Me: (sigh) I sure would like to see a celebrity some time.</em><br /><br /><em>You guys: But Wicked, you <strong>have </strong>seen a celebrity. Remember, you blogged about it on July 14th of 2009.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Me: I did?</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>You guys: Yeah.</em><br /><em></em><br /><em>Me: Oh. (thoughtful pause) Who was it?</em><br /><em></em><br />So see what a public service you're all providing? Thank you from the bottom of my heart and the empty spots in my brain. We appreciate it.<br /><br /><span style="BACKGROUND-COLOR: #ffff00">Moving along, y</span>ou may have guessed by now that <em><strong>I have had what may have been my first celebrity sighting!! </strong>Woo hoo! <strong></strong></em>And it was not only a sighting, my friends, it was an elbow jostling, direct eye contact, reach-out-and-touch-the-celebrity stalker moment if ever there was one. Oh, yeah. Hollywood, here I come.<br /><div align="center">Not really.</div><br />So here's the story: I was at the International Folk Art Festival in Santa Fe last weekend. Hot as the dickens, I might add, and a parking arrangement that fell just short of a robust hike, but an adventure nonetheless. Santa Fe, as many of you know, is just so <em>Santa Fe-ey</em>. People dress like Santa Fe, they wear their hair like Santa Fe, they smell like Santa Fe. They are so them, and you are so not them. (Okay, it wasn't quite so exaggerated as all this, but what's the point of blogging if you can't use it to explore your dramatic side?) So there I was, elbowing my way through the crowd, sweating onto all the textiles and beading and tinwork and Guatemalan bags when I found myself face to face with <em>this </em>woman:<br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 332px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358366383093961570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjITWxUI_oXckWI1XTkKeII4uyQiHq9lM_oaBHo9CtqBMdI5ABPQM7keZRlejFefmiTZPi3zbSlN-Ynh9ZMod_EMo5iQfzTWtcf7ULTB3K20ncAAb_cB5ENrgw9w2qmELmhOY7Om-GpCw/s400/ali.jpg" /><br /><p>Maybe looking a little more mature, sure, but definitely her. I know because her name badge said, "Ali McGraw." Had she not been wearing a name badge, I would have thought, <em>Gee, that woman looks familiar. Wonder if we worked at the university together? </em>That's what I do now--I think everyone I see looks like they fit into some time frame from my life, and I get all caught up in figuring out how I know them. When that doesn't work--as it usually doesn't, since I've never met these folks before in my life--I just figure we all worked at the university together. It's a system that works, giving me satisfaction while reducing the stress of actually having to use my brain, so don't go judging on me. Fortunately, she had on the name badge, which diverted me from having to use any unnecessary mental energy on a hot day.</p><p>So there we were, Ali and me, looking at each other for a fragment of a second and coming close to something really meaningful. Instead, she simply shifted her glance beyond me and began talking to her assistant, with whom she does have a meaningful relationship, I'm sure.</p><p>Still, it was good for me.</p><p>If there's anyone out there still reading this blog, please do share your close-up celebrity experiences. I know you have one. If you don't, make one up; hey, I just did (ha ha, just kidding!!) Seriously, spill it. I'm ready.<br /></p>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-66342278202484873592009-06-17T17:11:00.002-06:002009-06-17T17:30:10.830-06:00For the Record, I *Am* Thinking Up a Blog<div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">Story People of the Day</span></div><div align="center"> <br /></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#006600;">Flying Naked With Jesus</span><br /></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#330099;"></span> </div><div align="center"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">When I was</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">younger, I used</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> to fly a lot in my</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> dreams. I used</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> to dream I was</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> naked too. My</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">grandma said it</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> was all because</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> of original sin &</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> that if I lived a</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">pu</span><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">re life that</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> someday I would</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> be able to fly</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> naked with</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;">Jesus & then she</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> looked at me &</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> said many are</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> called, but few</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> are chosen &</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> later on I</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> thought it was a</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> damn good thing</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> too & I gave up</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> pure living for a</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> long time after</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> that just to be</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#000099;"> sure</span>. </div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-74949473799002772652009-05-24T08:11:00.003-06:002009-05-24T08:26:02.230-06:00Sunday Morning With Fred<div align="center"><span style="font-size:130%;">From Frederick Buechner's book, Listening to Your Life:</span></div><br /><em>In Christ's parable, a third man finally did come along, of course. He looked, really looked, and saw not just a man, a man, a man, but saw what was actually sprawled out there in the dust with most of the life whaled out of him. He bound up his wounds, set him on his own beast, took care of him, and his reward was to go down in fame as the <strong>Good </strong>Samaritan, which seems to be a marvelously inept title somehow, because just as I prefer to think of the priest and the Levite as less than really bad, more just half blind, in the same way I prefer to think of the Samaritan as more than merely good. I prefer to think that the difference between the Samaritan and the other two was not just that he was more morally sensitive than they were but that he had, as they had not, the eye of a poet or a child or a saint--an eye that was able to look at the man in the ditch and see in all its extraordinary unexpectedness the truth itself, which was that at the deepest level of their being, he and that other one there were not entirely separate selves at all. Not really at all.</em><br /><p><em>Your life and my life flow into each other as wave flows into wave, and unless there is peace and joy and freedom for you, there can be no real peace or joy or freedom for me. To see reality--not as we expect it to be but as it is--is to see that unless we live for each other and in and through each other, we do not really live very satisfactorily; that there can really be life only where there really is, in just this sense, love. This is not just the way things ought to be. Most of the time it is not the way want things to be. It is the way things are. And not for one instant do I believe that it is by accident that it is the way things are. That would be quite an accident.</em></p><br /><br /><br /><em></em>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3963456224478441010.post-4689297432853672152009-04-30T15:32:00.007-06:002009-04-30T20:49:00.495-06:00You Media Potstirrers Can Just Go Ahead and SHUT IT Now<div align="center"><strong></strong></div><div align="center"><strong>Things the little children said to me today:</strong></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center">"Miss Wicked, I think I have the swine flu."</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="center">"Miss Wicked, I have the swine flu." <em>(cough, cough)</em></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="center">"Miss Wicked, my brother has the swine flu."</div><div align="center"><em>(followed by putting her snotty little hand in mine)</em></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="center">"Miss Wicked, my mom says I have the swine flu." </div><div align="center"><em>(followed by a large sneeze directed at my face)</em></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">"Miss Wicked, my cousin's friend's mechanic's neighbor's dog has the swine flu."</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /><br /></div><div align="center">"Miss Wicked, I have a bump in my mouth and I think it's the swine flu. Wanna see?"</div><div align="center"> <br /></div><div align="center"># # #</div><div align="center"> <br /></div><div align="center"><strong>Also said to me, on an unrelated-to-swine-flu note:</strong></div><div align="center"> <br /><br /></div><div align="left">Miss Wicked <em>(to a child during a mapping activity in a 4th grade classroom</em>): "Oh, you got the map from Oklahoma. Guess what, I'm from Oklahoma!"</div><div align="left"> <br /><br /></div><div align="left">Another child: "<strong><em>You're</em></strong> from Oklahoma??" <em>(long, long pause as she looks real hard at Miss Wicked) </em>"<strong>But you don't have brown hair."</strong></div><div align="left"> <br /><br /></div><div align="left">Yet another troublesome child: "<em>That's because she dyes it</em>."</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> <br /><br /></div><div align="center">Yep. That's my world, people.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left"> </div>Wicked Thistlehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03042361300908347571noreply@blogger.com3