Every since I saw the stage show Riverdance a few weeks ago, I’ve been playing the CD we bought at the show. The music is lifting, gets my energy moving and my feet want to dance.
I can’t dance.
I don’t know how to tap, but I took years of ballet as a youth.
Wish as I might, my legs don’t want to flail around like those Irish dancers.
I’m not Irish.
I detest corned beef and cabbage.
But I kind of like sauerkraut, which is sour cabbage.
Potatoes? Take em or leave em.
Except chips. And dip.
My favorite color is green though.
But that doesn’t help with the dancing thing.
I don’t believe in leprechauns.
Have you seen one?
The dude on the box of Lucky Charms doesn’t count.
I do like Lucky Charms, especially the little marshmallows.
I bet they don’t eat LC in a real Irish Pub.
I’ve never been to a pub. That I know of.
I’ve been to bars that try to act like a pub.
Without the Irish music and the fish-n-chips.
St. Patrick was Irish.
He drove the snakes out of Ireland.
I’m not that afraid of snakes.
I say that now, because I’m not face to face with one.
If I were, I’d probably drive them out of my way.
That doesn’t make me a saint.
Pretty far from sainthood I am.
I wonder if Pat danced all straight and tall, stomping.
Stomping on the snakes.
This is a strange post. Not that my readers will be driven away.
Like the snakes.
My readers are just a few, no matter what I write or don’t write.
I’m back to dancing again.
I bet that would be good exercise. If I could find an over 50 Non Irish dancing class to join.
I promise if you stick around, I won’t ramble like this.
Maybe.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Right to Bare Arms
Just what the hell is happening in the press lately regarding Michelle Obama’s choice of dress? Seems that there are some who find it necessary to consider her figure flattering style of sleeveless sheath that seems to be her favorite garment, weird garb for the winter season. Just WHAT is the big deal? Her arms are toned, she does not have wing like flaps of flab assaulting the Canadian Prime Minister when she waves an arm in the general direction of the oval office. She’s tasteful and fashionable. So just what is it that is so offensive?
We are. We like to elect officials and icons that we would fight for during the campaign, then when they are fully hoisted up for all to examine, we pick ‘em apart in the press in lieu of a slow news day or better yet, in lieu of more coverage of natural disasters and world hunger. It’s true! The old wives comment that states, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, why, sit over here by me dear.” (insert southern drawl, a la Steel Magnolia’s)
We (collectively speaking, I’m not saying that I personally do this-oh, all right, I’m just as guilty as all of you! Point, point, point.) do this same thing with our movie stars. Seems we make them popular, watch their shows/movies, buy the magazines, and then proceed to cut them apart to make our insecurities seem smaller I guess.
I blame the press. I think we need to read blogs more – because we all KNOW that blogs are more or less supportive and forgiving. BAH! That’s surely not IT!
Michelle, if you’re listening, I think your dresses are awesome, but I’ll have to wear a sweater. My arms have yet to see 20 reps of upper arm strength training and frankly, I get a little chilly
We are. We like to elect officials and icons that we would fight for during the campaign, then when they are fully hoisted up for all to examine, we pick ‘em apart in the press in lieu of a slow news day or better yet, in lieu of more coverage of natural disasters and world hunger. It’s true! The old wives comment that states, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, why, sit over here by me dear.” (insert southern drawl, a la Steel Magnolia’s)
We (collectively speaking, I’m not saying that I personally do this-oh, all right, I’m just as guilty as all of you! Point, point, point.) do this same thing with our movie stars. Seems we make them popular, watch their shows/movies, buy the magazines, and then proceed to cut them apart to make our insecurities seem smaller I guess.
I blame the press. I think we need to read blogs more – because we all KNOW that blogs are more or less supportive and forgiving. BAH! That’s surely not IT!
Michelle, if you’re listening, I think your dresses are awesome, but I’ll have to wear a sweater. My arms have yet to see 20 reps of upper arm strength training and frankly, I get a little chilly
Friday, March 27, 2009
Pesky Perky People
Thank God it’s Friday! Tadatadeetadadeedum. I’m giddy and delirious with joy.
Nah, not really, but I am unusually perky lately. Despite things like WORLD HUNGER, NATION WIDE RECESSION, the last episode of ER. So sad.
I am still somewhat perky. Don’t you hate it?
So, are all you non cult members curious to see what all the math and meal planning got me after my first week of Weight Watchers? I lost 1.2 lbs.
When I scowled and crinkled up my face, I was reminded not to be dissapointed with that loss and that 1.2 lobs could be compared to 4 sticks of butter! (BUTTER? WHERE? I shouted, and was quickly shushed.)
I’ll pretend the four sticks of butter are missing from my ass and abdominal area, but seriously, it’s from my boobs NATCH.
So, two days into week two and I’m a little over fed I must say. I’m eating more breakfast and lunch food, with a balanced dinner and evening snack and sometimes I have to cruise the kitchen to find a few extra points to make my total for the day. I’m NOT EVEN EATING THE POINTS THAT THEY SET UP FOR ME!
Seriously, I think I can do this. Course, I’m staying away from alcohol and candy. My two vices. The best perk to eating a good breakfast and lunch? Clearly, I’m not sleeping in my recliner after dinner! I actually got through the 10:00 newscast, Letterman and then caught Craig. I’m not very tired. So, this will make it easier to get a move on and exercise. Promise. Maybe next week.
Nah, not really, but I am unusually perky lately. Despite things like WORLD HUNGER, NATION WIDE RECESSION, the last episode of ER. So sad.
I am still somewhat perky. Don’t you hate it?
So, are all you non cult members curious to see what all the math and meal planning got me after my first week of Weight Watchers? I lost 1.2 lbs.
When I scowled and crinkled up my face, I was reminded not to be dissapointed with that loss and that 1.2 lobs could be compared to 4 sticks of butter! (BUTTER? WHERE? I shouted, and was quickly shushed.)
I’ll pretend the four sticks of butter are missing from my ass and abdominal area, but seriously, it’s from my boobs NATCH.
So, two days into week two and I’m a little over fed I must say. I’m eating more breakfast and lunch food, with a balanced dinner and evening snack and sometimes I have to cruise the kitchen to find a few extra points to make my total for the day. I’m NOT EVEN EATING THE POINTS THAT THEY SET UP FOR ME!
Seriously, I think I can do this. Course, I’m staying away from alcohol and candy. My two vices. The best perk to eating a good breakfast and lunch? Clearly, I’m not sleeping in my recliner after dinner! I actually got through the 10:00 newscast, Letterman and then caught Craig. I’m not very tired. So, this will make it easier to get a move on and exercise. Promise. Maybe next week.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
I’m NOT your mother, OR am I?
What are the chances that it was YOU who left a used toner drum unit near the community printer, shoved in the original box complete with recyclable sticker loafing around the inside for several months now? Huh? Fess up you slackers! All of you.
Do you wonder who’s going to post that damn package? Does someone clean up after you NON professionals at home, cause I know it’s not me!
Or is it?
I swear, if I were walking through the waiting room and found a pair of socks, I’d be sure to pick them up. I’m always making coffee after the jerk before of me left the coffee pot on, but no coffee inside. I’m always finishing up where most of you have left OFF!
YOU – WHO are you damn it! Tell me.
Do you see sucker written on my forehead. (most assuredly they do)
In fact, I think it is a lemon sucker to boot.
Happy Hump Day, two more days until the weekend you lazy asses, but I'm sure you know that. And there's much rejoicing.
Do you wonder who’s going to post that damn package? Does someone clean up after you NON professionals at home, cause I know it’s not me!
Or is it?
I swear, if I were walking through the waiting room and found a pair of socks, I’d be sure to pick them up. I’m always making coffee after the jerk before of me left the coffee pot on, but no coffee inside. I’m always finishing up where most of you have left OFF!
YOU – WHO are you damn it! Tell me.
Do you see sucker written on my forehead. (most assuredly they do)
In fact, I think it is a lemon sucker to boot.
Happy Hump Day, two more days until the weekend you lazy asses, but I'm sure you know that. And there's much rejoicing.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Auto Epitaph- You Ought Not To
So, you know that we humans are fascinating and strange creatures right? BAH! Of course you do, look at you, sitting there reading about strange creatures just as I. {insert strange creature type here} sit typing. It’s a circle of strange, maybe not so fascinating.
A little bit fascinating though and I continue, of course, but anyways, as I am an observer of all that is odd, an observer that aspires to higher heights than any normal “people watcher” classification, I came across an interesting slice of strange the other day whilst driving said ’98 Oldsmobile home from the office. (I say said, because I have considered it before en post, *Yawn* that I should soon shop for a newer vehicle, but am too cheap or frugal to do so; oh - not to mention lazy, did I elude to lazy? Yeah, that would be me)
I came off the exit ramp of my local interstate exit to merge onto a three lane highway, all lanes are pretty crowded, but no fears, merging is my strong suit, only to come to a dead stop behind a line of traffic. Nothing is more patient than a line of traffic at, oh say, five p.m. on any given work day, but whatev.
I’m wedged in between cars to the left and right of me and both in front and back of me. Now would not be a good time to pick my nose OR tweeze my chin hairs. So, I sit self -consciously glancing around. The car in front of me had the shiny back end of an old fashioned-made-new hearse. It was a type of SUV but low to the ground, beats me the make or manufacturer. But what was stenciled on the back window? A large Superman “S” in the symbol. I had to nudge closer to the bumper to read the writing. It read, Johnny Smith, Slipped into this world: 3/11/78 and Sleeps Peacefully 12/28/01. It was an auto-epitaph! I’ve seen it all! Try and trade that in. It’s not that I’m a hater of 21st century funeral practices and other such things, but wouldn’t our horse and buggy ancestors be shaking their shoulders and calling us strange?
Just sayin.
A little bit fascinating though and I continue, of course, but anyways, as I am an observer of all that is odd, an observer that aspires to higher heights than any normal “people watcher” classification, I came across an interesting slice of strange the other day whilst driving said ’98 Oldsmobile home from the office. (I say said, because I have considered it before en post, *Yawn* that I should soon shop for a newer vehicle, but am too cheap or frugal to do so; oh - not to mention lazy, did I elude to lazy? Yeah, that would be me)
I came off the exit ramp of my local interstate exit to merge onto a three lane highway, all lanes are pretty crowded, but no fears, merging is my strong suit, only to come to a dead stop behind a line of traffic. Nothing is more patient than a line of traffic at, oh say, five p.m. on any given work day, but whatev.
I’m wedged in between cars to the left and right of me and both in front and back of me. Now would not be a good time to pick my nose OR tweeze my chin hairs. So, I sit self -consciously glancing around. The car in front of me had the shiny back end of an old fashioned-made-new hearse. It was a type of SUV but low to the ground, beats me the make or manufacturer. But what was stenciled on the back window? A large Superman “S” in the symbol. I had to nudge closer to the bumper to read the writing. It read, Johnny Smith, Slipped into this world: 3/11/78 and Sleeps Peacefully 12/28/01. It was an auto-epitaph! I’ve seen it all! Try and trade that in. It’s not that I’m a hater of 21st century funeral practices and other such things, but wouldn’t our horse and buggy ancestors be shaking their shoulders and calling us strange?
Just sayin.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Flailing Limbs? Seems I'm "IN"!
What a great weekend! I saved up all my points for pizza this weekend, let me just say- it was worth it.
The husband heard that this was the last showing of Riverdance in Chicago this weekend and surprised me with tickets. (he's good that way, all full of ticket-tron-trinkets to lure me to "date him"...honey I love ya!) It was Riverdance without the Lord of the Dance Michael Flatley – but I thought he had tiny little spinning feet and you all know what they say about men with tiny little feet. What Ev.
The show was totally entertaining, and now I am consumed with dancing a good leaping jig! (in mind only, because my tapping toes did not cooperate t'all) It looked as though the dancers were flying around the stage, legs darting at odd angles with those cool ½ tap and ½ pointe shoes…it was cool. If you ever have a chance to see it – Go, do so.
Click clack, clickety click click. Tap, tap, tappidytappidytappidytapiddy tap tap. It was more rhythmic than I can type on a Monday morning. I wonder how many calories those dancers burn. Quite a-lot I imagine from their skinny little limbs a-flailing. Great end to the weekend, that dancing and the pizza. Seriously doubting loosing weight on this diet, I'm eating more than I have ever before, AND I got to have pizza points. We'll see, maybe I'm doing something wrong.
The husband heard that this was the last showing of Riverdance in Chicago this weekend and surprised me with tickets. (he's good that way, all full of ticket-tron-trinkets to lure me to "date him"...honey I love ya!) It was Riverdance without the Lord of the Dance Michael Flatley – but I thought he had tiny little spinning feet and you all know what they say about men with tiny little feet. What Ev.
The show was totally entertaining, and now I am consumed with dancing a good leaping jig! (in mind only, because my tapping toes did not cooperate t'all) It looked as though the dancers were flying around the stage, legs darting at odd angles with those cool ½ tap and ½ pointe shoes…it was cool. If you ever have a chance to see it – Go, do so.
Click clack, clickety click click. Tap, tap, tappidytappidytappidytapiddy tap tap. It was more rhythmic than I can type on a Monday morning. I wonder how many calories those dancers burn. Quite a-lot I imagine from their skinny little limbs a-flailing. Great end to the weekend, that dancing and the pizza. Seriously doubting loosing weight on this diet, I'm eating more than I have ever before, AND I got to have pizza points. We'll see, maybe I'm doing something wrong.
Saturday, March 21, 2009
Spring - Sours as the Day Grew Long
Wasn't it Garth Brooks that sang "Our lives are better left to chance", in the song The Dance? I thought so. He's right you know, not as if we have any say so in the matter for the most part. We can do all that we are supposed to do and MORE and some things don't turn out the way that we hope.
Yesterday, the first day of Spring started out hopeful, full of sunshine, birds singing, oh jeeze I had the day off work for goodness sakes, the day was already starting out great!
I've been counting my crazy points (for my new club, WW-Anon) and I'm coming in under the mark, able to eat a ton of food. I experimented with some filling breakfast ideas - seems that egg beaters a-la Aldi brand, are rather delicious with a sprinkle of cheese and a slice of tomato and mushroom. (not plural, just one, I rather hate those moldy dirty things) Very filling.
Happy and full, I took my shower and began scrubbing my bathroom, bedroom, doing laundry-you know normal Maid-in-Indiana duties. My mother, who is 79 years old, and practically homebound, called and asked that I come over. By the time I arrived, even though it was after noon, she had a small list of To-Do's for me. Washing her bedroom curtains, windows and her bathroom curtains and shower curtains, took me a few hours. Trying to scrub the Old Lady smell out of the dewy bathroom tile and tub (come on, you know the smell, I can't explain it for you) Took some elbow grease but I figured it was good for some activity points so I scrubbed harder.
What you might say does all that detailed work have anything to do with the happy arrival of spring? Nothing, it really doesn't, but yesterday my eldest Daughter was supposed to receive the results of a pregnancy test that would confirm or deny the answer to the burning question, Did the artificial insemination she had undergone the few weeks before work? My daughter and her husband have been trying unsuccessfully for a few years to conceive a child. This year she decided to go to a fertility specialist, and after a battery of exspensive testing for her and her husband, it was decided that nothing is wrong with them, they should try IUAI. Much like a chemistry experiment, plotting your cycle, watching your egg grow via ultrasound, taking hormones that wreck havoc with your moods and then injecting a serum that allows you to drop your eggs at what they think is a precise moment. The insertion of the hubby's sperm through the cervical opening (that really isn't "open" and hurts like hell) all that , and then do the same thing over the next day....then wait.
So,on this first day of Spring, my Daughter was to receive her results. I have to say she was prepared for the worst, she had a good spirit, was told that it may take several tries...all that.
She received news at work that morning that her new position as educator for respiratory therapists in clinical instruction was eliminated and she must return to a staff position. To her, that means the stress of working 10-2 hour shifts and midnights, afternoons, mingled with days. Her mostly weekday job would now include weekends and holidays. She's very upset.
Then the news that her insemination did not work. No pregnancy.
Is this all my news? You betcha. Having fell in love with that tiny face about 31 years ago, I still see all her disappointments and sadness as something that squeezes my heart and allows me to scream "It's Not Fair".
They are prepared to be optimistic about her job change and optimistic about another round of insemination. Yeah! Our lives are better left to chance? I think so, because we have so little to do with it anyways.
Happy Spring everybody!
Yesterday, the first day of Spring started out hopeful, full of sunshine, birds singing, oh jeeze I had the day off work for goodness sakes, the day was already starting out great!
I've been counting my crazy points (for my new club, WW-Anon) and I'm coming in under the mark, able to eat a ton of food. I experimented with some filling breakfast ideas - seems that egg beaters a-la Aldi brand, are rather delicious with a sprinkle of cheese and a slice of tomato and mushroom. (not plural, just one, I rather hate those moldy dirty things) Very filling.
Happy and full, I took my shower and began scrubbing my bathroom, bedroom, doing laundry-you know normal Maid-in-Indiana duties. My mother, who is 79 years old, and practically homebound, called and asked that I come over. By the time I arrived, even though it was after noon, she had a small list of To-Do's for me. Washing her bedroom curtains, windows and her bathroom curtains and shower curtains, took me a few hours. Trying to scrub the Old Lady smell out of the dewy bathroom tile and tub (come on, you know the smell, I can't explain it for you) Took some elbow grease but I figured it was good for some activity points so I scrubbed harder.
What you might say does all that detailed work have anything to do with the happy arrival of spring? Nothing, it really doesn't, but yesterday my eldest Daughter was supposed to receive the results of a pregnancy test that would confirm or deny the answer to the burning question, Did the artificial insemination she had undergone the few weeks before work? My daughter and her husband have been trying unsuccessfully for a few years to conceive a child. This year she decided to go to a fertility specialist, and after a battery of exspensive testing for her and her husband, it was decided that nothing is wrong with them, they should try IUAI. Much like a chemistry experiment, plotting your cycle, watching your egg grow via ultrasound, taking hormones that wreck havoc with your moods and then injecting a serum that allows you to drop your eggs at what they think is a precise moment. The insertion of the hubby's sperm through the cervical opening (that really isn't "open" and hurts like hell) all that , and then do the same thing over the next day....then wait.
So,on this first day of Spring, my Daughter was to receive her results. I have to say she was prepared for the worst, she had a good spirit, was told that it may take several tries...all that.
She received news at work that morning that her new position as educator for respiratory therapists in clinical instruction was eliminated and she must return to a staff position. To her, that means the stress of working 10-2 hour shifts and midnights, afternoons, mingled with days. Her mostly weekday job would now include weekends and holidays. She's very upset.
Then the news that her insemination did not work. No pregnancy.
Is this all my news? You betcha. Having fell in love with that tiny face about 31 years ago, I still see all her disappointments and sadness as something that squeezes my heart and allows me to scream "It's Not Fair".
They are prepared to be optimistic about her job change and optimistic about another round of insemination. Yeah! Our lives are better left to chance? I think so, because we have so little to do with it anyways.
Happy Spring everybody!
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Honey, I joined a cult!
I didn’t have to shave my head, wear a robe and dance around the airport asking for “alms”, but yes, my faithful family and friends, I joined a cult.
Weight Watchers.
It’s totally Fatties Anon with Math! Swear! And I can say that, because I belong!
Counting points, constantly talking about food values, desperately discussing which cereal counts for less than 2 points and tastes like a large bag of Jay’s Sour Cream and Onion potato chips.(none), get the picture?
That cult. Whoo-wee, and boy is it! You know the type, hidden acts (the weigh in) behind closed or sheltered doors and a fearless leader trying to raise our squashed egos as we climb the ladder to skinny success.
I think they hated me.
I had some difficulty converting calories to points with my little slide rule that was given to me. I didn’t really believe it was “as easy as that!” when she told me the daily point value I should eat and drop pounds en masse.
We’ll see. Skeptical that I am, I found the dietary restriction =0, the advice regarding the food intake and the sound base for getting all my nutrients in and reducing portions, well, I can live with it. I just hope I can make a change enough to loose something, to get the pudge-a-moving. For all you weight watchers out there, hook a sistah up would you? I need some 1 point ideas!
Weight Watchers.
It’s totally Fatties Anon with Math! Swear! And I can say that, because I belong!
Counting points, constantly talking about food values, desperately discussing which cereal counts for less than 2 points and tastes like a large bag of Jay’s Sour Cream and Onion potato chips.(none), get the picture?
That cult. Whoo-wee, and boy is it! You know the type, hidden acts (the weigh in) behind closed or sheltered doors and a fearless leader trying to raise our squashed egos as we climb the ladder to skinny success.
I think they hated me.
I had some difficulty converting calories to points with my little slide rule that was given to me. I didn’t really believe it was “as easy as that!” when she told me the daily point value I should eat and drop pounds en masse.
We’ll see. Skeptical that I am, I found the dietary restriction =0, the advice regarding the food intake and the sound base for getting all my nutrients in and reducing portions, well, I can live with it. I just hope I can make a change enough to loose something, to get the pudge-a-moving. For all you weight watchers out there, hook a sistah up would you? I need some 1 point ideas!
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Shout Out to My Peeps
What a great Sunday morning! Sun shining, warm breezy air seems spring is on it's way!
And there are only two things that say SPRING,
Easter and Peeps!
I love me some sugar coated marshmellowy goodness that we call Peeps. Always have and always will. Ohhh, my first memory of Easter was eating the ears off a solid chocolate bunnie and knawing on yellow chickie Peeps that had sat out unwrapped in my Easter basket forming into a stale, gooey, chewy delight.
First produced in 1953 by Just Born, Inc. (I was born in 1958, just think if I had been born 50 years earlier, I'd have never known the sugary goodness) Peeps come in all colors and shapes. The confection is only 32 calories and has 0 grams of fat! They are almost diet food!
Of course my children's best memories are of us blowing some up in the microwave...they are charming as squashed up works of art on a paper plate. Go ahead, try it sometime, right now is good if you have some on hand.
There are some of you who do not care for Peeps. Some of you, who pass them by at Easter - in all the forms that they come in. Some of you who pass them by at Halloween, shaped like ghosts or black cats or pumpkins...at Christmas, you look away from the glistening green sugar trees, but Easter without Peeps! Why, it's like Easter without boiled dyed eggs churning in your guts. It's a less memorable day when you only have Cadbury to thank for your bloat and sugar coma.
Enough said, wish the lenten fast and time for sacrifice to be soon over. I gave up candy this year (and candy for me is hard...I love it so) Won't you think about giving the needy some Peeps this year?
And there are only two things that say SPRING,
Easter and Peeps!
I love me some sugar coated marshmellowy goodness that we call Peeps. Always have and always will. Ohhh, my first memory of Easter was eating the ears off a solid chocolate bunnie and knawing on yellow chickie Peeps that had sat out unwrapped in my Easter basket forming into a stale, gooey, chewy delight.
First produced in 1953 by Just Born, Inc. (I was born in 1958, just think if I had been born 50 years earlier, I'd have never known the sugary goodness) Peeps come in all colors and shapes. The confection is only 32 calories and has 0 grams of fat! They are almost diet food!
Of course my children's best memories are of us blowing some up in the microwave...they are charming as squashed up works of art on a paper plate. Go ahead, try it sometime, right now is good if you have some on hand.
There are some of you who do not care for Peeps. Some of you, who pass them by at Easter - in all the forms that they come in. Some of you who pass them by at Halloween, shaped like ghosts or black cats or pumpkins...at Christmas, you look away from the glistening green sugar trees, but Easter without Peeps! Why, it's like Easter without boiled dyed eggs churning in your guts. It's a less memorable day when you only have Cadbury to thank for your bloat and sugar coma.
Enough said, wish the lenten fast and time for sacrifice to be soon over. I gave up candy this year (and candy for me is hard...I love it so) Won't you think about giving the needy some Peeps this year?
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
You Capture Challenge #3
The You Capture challenge this week is titled texture.
I LOVE IT.
My new photo in the Title of this blog is a photograph I took of a fall path, the textures of leaves softly blowing accross this brick trail at a local park was perfect for this challenge, however it wasn't taken recently. So, I am a collector of items that just scream TEXTURE.
This is my entry. For years I have collected baskets that are now displayed in my home, used for all sorts of things that need containing (and some that don't). The possibilities with baskets are endless. Some are a work of art and some are just functional.
But without further ado, I need to skip to the links of other creative budding photographers and check out their entries. You should do it too! Go on, you know you want to!
Try it! Comments welcome!
(taken in natural sunlight, because flash was too much for this weave to handle.)
I LOVE IT.
My new photo in the Title of this blog is a photograph I took of a fall path, the textures of leaves softly blowing accross this brick trail at a local park was perfect for this challenge, however it wasn't taken recently. So, I am a collector of items that just scream TEXTURE.
This is my entry. For years I have collected baskets that are now displayed in my home, used for all sorts of things that need containing (and some that don't). The possibilities with baskets are endless. Some are a work of art and some are just functional.
But without further ado, I need to skip to the links of other creative budding photographers and check out their entries. You should do it too! Go on, you know you want to!
Try it! Comments welcome!
(taken in natural sunlight, because flash was too much for this weave to handle.)
Saturday, March 7, 2009
You Decide
I'm fooling with my blog design. Too cheap to pay someone to do this for me, I decided to upload one of my favorite photos from a fall walk in the woods.
Then I got carried away.
I got a new background from The Cutest Blog On the Block, go there now if you want a background change.
I'm not satisfied with it, but I don't know how to change it. It's about the size and proportion of the blog title box and the length and narrowness of the posting boxes. But that's just me.
I'd like your opinion. And yours. And yours. And yours. And yours. And yours. and so on.
Please, post your thoughts/comments now.
Then I got carried away.
I got a new background from The Cutest Blog On the Block, go there now if you want a background change.
I'm not satisfied with it, but I don't know how to change it. It's about the size and proportion of the blog title box and the length and narrowness of the posting boxes. But that's just me.
I'd like your opinion. And yours. And yours. And yours. And yours. And yours. and so on.
Please, post your thoughts/comments now.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Perspective Challenge
Today's post, Perspective, was a challenge of photography by Beth.
I was inspired when I first read her challenge and shot a ton of pictures on the ol Nikon, however, today I am home sick and everything kind of has a slanted perspective. Ha, a pun sort of.
I gotta handle on things later in the day, so here's my shot. Simple-to-the-point. I love my coffee.
Check out other talented photographers by visiting Beth's site and clicking on the links. She had creatively challenged her readers to another task for next week.
I was inspired when I first read her challenge and shot a ton of pictures on the ol Nikon, however, today I am home sick and everything kind of has a slanted perspective. Ha, a pun sort of.
I gotta handle on things later in the day, so here's my shot. Simple-to-the-point. I love my coffee.
Check out other talented photographers by visiting Beth's site and clicking on the links. She had creatively challenged her readers to another task for next week.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Runaway
A radio station I listen to each morning on my winding trek to work has a question each day that they pose to the listeners who will then call in and share their memory or experience. (Much like blogging out loud)
Today’s topic or question was based on a story “ripped from the headlines”.
It was about a 12 year old boy who had an argument with his folks and sometime in the night, woke up, took their SUV for a drive and ended up in the parking lane at O’Hare airport in Chicago. With no plane ticket, no money and no plan, he called his parents to come get him. (in what? I guess they could call a taxi) The radio hosts marveled at the kid’s ingenuity and skill. A. to drive an SUV! B. to navigate his way to the airport on the risky, congested highways around O’Hare in Chicago!
The question was- assuming all young children run away, or plan to run, “how far did you get?”. The male host got to the end of his driveway. One female host got 10 miles away, and the other to a neighbor nearby.
My own children? I only remember my son running away. Embattled by a terrible, strict mother who didn’t sympathize, give in or fix the household problems as he saw fit, he took off. Walking around our neighborhood, blowing of incredible amounts of steam. He must have come home eventually, I was ready to call the police. I was scared and a little dramatic. The girls must have been too scared of me, or too scared of the surroundings – anyways they were too oppressed to take action. (that I know of, they could have quietly snuck away to run away, and before I found out, reconsidered and came home. Who knows.)
Either way, it’s a right of passage. It’s a can of worms when the “children” become around 17 or 18 – the running away is more like breaking free – proving themselves GROWN. All done, you’ve screwed me up enough, and I’m outta here. (been there done that, broken record)
When I was little, around 7 years old, I had the fortune of owning a real piece of luggage. The make-up case size once belonging to a matching set, and then when the hard cardboard like sides were scuffed up, became a hand-me-down that I used to hold my doll clothes. I was fortunate, because if someone crossed me (that someone was my mother, always trying to be the boss of me-who knew) I would plan by escape. “They” would be sorry of course, beg me to stay, feel that I was grossly ignored or misunderstood. Cheated by the world of unfair practices! I would dump out the doll clothes, pack the bag with pajamas and books or a favorite doll. And set it by the front door, which was the passive aggressive symbol for “I’m blowing this pop-stand, and don’t you try and stop me”.
I’ll need a ride.
My mom, who got sick of my threats, and who wouldn’t really, some punky seven year old with attitude, threatening to dash off when she had to clean her room, took me up on my threat one evening. She very nicely told me that she had to run to the grocery store and could swing by the orphanage near our school to drop me off.
Now, in those days, I had this dreamy vision of orphanage life. One that was fed by cool movies I watched on Saturday afternoon on black and white television, they always had a happy ending. Adopted and loved, the immediate overwhelming emotion was complete and utter attention by the adult pored on the kid. Our school was a Catholic school, and the nuns at our school also gave of their time at the orphanage. We had orphans attending our school, and we gave our cast offs and extras to those kids in a forthright effort to do good works for those less fortunate. Seemed a good gig to me.
My mom, set my case in the car, keeping enthusiastic, told me that she was stopping at the super-market to purchase some ice cream for our dessert after dinner, such a shame it was that I would be missing that treat, perhaps the orphanage would have some dessert for Sunday evening snack. We drove in silence. She left me in the car while she went into the market, I could see her in the check out line, but I was getting a little panicked that I’d have to make good on my threat, and I really didn’t want to leave home. She got back in the car, showed me the gallon of vanilla ice cream and drove on. Silently she drove passed the orphanage, didn’t stop, but turned the other direction, heading north towards our street. Narrowly escaping that absurd idea, I never threatened to run away again. Oh, I used to write in my diary all about finding another place to live, where I would be appreciated for all my specialness. I never acted on it or voiced it again.
How about you? Did you ever run away? How far did you get?
Today’s topic or question was based on a story “ripped from the headlines”.
It was about a 12 year old boy who had an argument with his folks and sometime in the night, woke up, took their SUV for a drive and ended up in the parking lane at O’Hare airport in Chicago. With no plane ticket, no money and no plan, he called his parents to come get him. (in what? I guess they could call a taxi) The radio hosts marveled at the kid’s ingenuity and skill. A. to drive an SUV! B. to navigate his way to the airport on the risky, congested highways around O’Hare in Chicago!
The question was- assuming all young children run away, or plan to run, “how far did you get?”. The male host got to the end of his driveway. One female host got 10 miles away, and the other to a neighbor nearby.
My own children? I only remember my son running away. Embattled by a terrible, strict mother who didn’t sympathize, give in or fix the household problems as he saw fit, he took off. Walking around our neighborhood, blowing of incredible amounts of steam. He must have come home eventually, I was ready to call the police. I was scared and a little dramatic. The girls must have been too scared of me, or too scared of the surroundings – anyways they were too oppressed to take action. (that I know of, they could have quietly snuck away to run away, and before I found out, reconsidered and came home. Who knows.)
Either way, it’s a right of passage. It’s a can of worms when the “children” become around 17 or 18 – the running away is more like breaking free – proving themselves GROWN. All done, you’ve screwed me up enough, and I’m outta here. (been there done that, broken record)
When I was little, around 7 years old, I had the fortune of owning a real piece of luggage. The make-up case size once belonging to a matching set, and then when the hard cardboard like sides were scuffed up, became a hand-me-down that I used to hold my doll clothes. I was fortunate, because if someone crossed me (that someone was my mother, always trying to be the boss of me-who knew) I would plan by escape. “They” would be sorry of course, beg me to stay, feel that I was grossly ignored or misunderstood. Cheated by the world of unfair practices! I would dump out the doll clothes, pack the bag with pajamas and books or a favorite doll. And set it by the front door, which was the passive aggressive symbol for “I’m blowing this pop-stand, and don’t you try and stop me”.
I’ll need a ride.
My mom, who got sick of my threats, and who wouldn’t really, some punky seven year old with attitude, threatening to dash off when she had to clean her room, took me up on my threat one evening. She very nicely told me that she had to run to the grocery store and could swing by the orphanage near our school to drop me off.
Now, in those days, I had this dreamy vision of orphanage life. One that was fed by cool movies I watched on Saturday afternoon on black and white television, they always had a happy ending. Adopted and loved, the immediate overwhelming emotion was complete and utter attention by the adult pored on the kid. Our school was a Catholic school, and the nuns at our school also gave of their time at the orphanage. We had orphans attending our school, and we gave our cast offs and extras to those kids in a forthright effort to do good works for those less fortunate. Seemed a good gig to me.
My mom, set my case in the car, keeping enthusiastic, told me that she was stopping at the super-market to purchase some ice cream for our dessert after dinner, such a shame it was that I would be missing that treat, perhaps the orphanage would have some dessert for Sunday evening snack. We drove in silence. She left me in the car while she went into the market, I could see her in the check out line, but I was getting a little panicked that I’d have to make good on my threat, and I really didn’t want to leave home. She got back in the car, showed me the gallon of vanilla ice cream and drove on. Silently she drove passed the orphanage, didn’t stop, but turned the other direction, heading north towards our street. Narrowly escaping that absurd idea, I never threatened to run away again. Oh, I used to write in my diary all about finding another place to live, where I would be appreciated for all my specialness. I never acted on it or voiced it again.
How about you? Did you ever run away? How far did you get?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)