tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80579964304797065292024-02-18T19:25:49.444-08:00Tessappho2 Moms + 2 Kids + Quiche.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.comBlogger174125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-79554203240442354632023-08-14T20:11:00.026-07:002023-08-16T15:31:01.596-07:00The Leaving<p>It is a rift. </p><p>A tear, </p><p>a palpable shift</p><p>in the delicate equilibrium</p><p>that keeps us </p><p>standing.</p><p><br /></p><p>She is my tiny raw-hearted owl girl. </p><p><br /></p><p>She sobbed</p><p>and clung to me when I left her</p><p>at daycare.</p><p>Still,</p><p>I am haunted by her grief.</p><p>Mine. Ours.</p><p><br /></p><p>We parents have all known the agony</p><p>of peeling those tiny fragile fingers off </p><p>of our bodies</p><p>still warm</p><p>from the rushed desperate clutching.</p><p><br /></p><p>This is the same</p><p>tender,</p><p>terrible truth.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrhLSUMQJ_qBFB7dxjweminHmt5qLyWcAXX__koZmCDq7HDxGIB0r0NmTnlAUxY-V68KVFeyIhRHdsUY2SIZcmfEp-EtDJzhgX3Zd0k8teggihZN-IlAaNEjN8JVdbMvTbj0TeMrEkU1yTogV1FOnHRejRl-gAy2GSpuyk2Sq6rmcZY4-1arq9oYQs9ZX/s604/IMG_2363.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="604" data-original-width="484" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrhLSUMQJ_qBFB7dxjweminHmt5qLyWcAXX__koZmCDq7HDxGIB0r0NmTnlAUxY-V68KVFeyIhRHdsUY2SIZcmfEp-EtDJzhgX3Zd0k8teggihZN-IlAaNEjN8JVdbMvTbj0TeMrEkU1yTogV1FOnHRejRl-gAy2GSpuyk2Sq6rmcZY4-1arq9oYQs9ZX/w512-h640/IMG_2363.jpeg" width="512" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-70248979033532289512021-10-15T14:54:00.004-07:002021-10-15T17:13:41.393-07:00Don't put up with it. Take Cyanide Instead.<p><i>WARNING: This post talks a lot about feminine medical issues, so you men may want to move on to other more manly things related to your interests. </i></p><p>I had a weird lump and burning pain in my right breast a few months ago (it's already TMI - you can't say I didn't warn you) so I went to my OBGYN to get it checked out. It was inflamed and sore and my doctor was extremely concerned and sent me to the Cancer Institute to get a mammogram and ultrasound. I googled all my symptoms and I obviously had fewer than five years to live. </p><p>Damn it. I really like my life and my people and sunshine and lavender and those Brussel sprouts from Tolon. So I did all the things, spent all my HSA funds and two days later it was cleared up. What a fluke, they said. Everything's normal. </p><p>Two weeks later, I went in for my annual and told my OBGYN that the breast thing was resolved, all is good. Deep down I thought she was a quack for rushing me to the Cancer place when it was obviously nothing. But, as she was doing the dreaded exam, and mentioned that I was bleeding, I told her that I've been bleeding/spotting for about two years. I figured it was due to perimenopause and my fluctuating hormones. Again, she was horrified! "Calm down," I thought. Everything's FINE.</p><p>I have gotten used to this. I don't have time for this.</p><p>"That's not normal. You put up with too much," she said, with a sad smile, so disappointed in me and typing furiously on her computer.</p><p>You put up with too much. </p><p>She sent me back to the Cancer Institute for an ultrasound. It turns out there was a 4 cm mass on my cervix, so OK, she was right this time. Long story, short, I went under (blissfully) and the surgeon took out the thing (most of it -- there was a complication and he couldn't remove the entire thing) and thank goodness it was benign. I was lucky. </p><p>One week later I went to my dermatologist because I had a weird growth on my lip. I KNOW. I'm falling apart. While I was there I mentioned a scabby thing on the side of my nose. The lip growth was just a thing people get when they get old (me, party of one.) She froze the hell out of it and it was healed in a few days. The scabby thing was more concerning so she did a biopsy on it and it turned out to be skin cancer. JESUS. I got the cancerous thing scraped off and feel like I can finally get on with my life. Right in the middle of this saga, I turned 50. It's been a whirlwind of doctor's appointments and thinking I'm probably dying. In between bouts of anxiety, I've been drinking celery juice and eating apricot kernels laced with cyanide. True story. </p><p>The point is: don't put up with it. If your body is malfunctioning, get it checked out. Don't wait. We, women, tend to put things off (men, too, I suppose), for years sometimes, and then it's too late. Get checked. Even if you've become used to your symptoms. Even if you're too busy. You're not too busy to save your life. You are loved. </p><p>Now that I've met my insurance deductible and I'm close to my out of pocket maximum, I decided to schedule a colonoscopy. Who knows what could show up in there. </p><p>Good Lord, I don't usually talk so much about the inside of my body. </p><p>But my body is fine and it's mine and I'm learning to accept it. It has taken such a long time to cherish it. </p><p>Maybe this is what it's like to want to continue...</p><p>Peace out. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFYmc9lgEC_BgXF4m4-3GcqEKROn5F0iFg-PFxkF6WzcWQHLI9BlGvUP2AOcYrE9pYZrlW9OloDM1Eq3qNvu2buiTrHljVFY3GZQil627Mg6gyYfT52AtajIkJuSTTXD5LQfzZEukB376/s1123/IMG_8664.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1123" data-original-width="1059" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifFYmc9lgEC_BgXF4m4-3GcqEKROn5F0iFg-PFxkF6WzcWQHLI9BlGvUP2AOcYrE9pYZrlW9OloDM1Eq3qNvu2buiTrHljVFY3GZQil627Mg6gyYfT52AtajIkJuSTTXD5LQfzZEukB376/w604-h640/IMG_8664.jpeg" width="604" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-15092562150516812172020-04-27T06:55:00.001-07:002020-04-27T09:01:48.815-07:00Quarantine, Hot Flashes, and Stolen Wine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It's been 7 hours and 36 days since we've been quarantined.<br />
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Fiona has finally stopped asking if we have any plans for next week. Cyd has learned to drink water since we keep running out of milk. She likes it with cucumbers and raspberries.<br />
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The first couple of weeks were weird but everyone was taking everything well. We (I) baked bread and ate a lot of pasta. We got used to working from home and eLearning. I'm a homebody so I enjoyed spending so much time in our tiny cocoon but the anxiety was bubbling, as it does, quietly, fiercely.<br />
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It's all fun and games during the day (it's not really fun and games, it's working and making food for everyone every 10 damn minutes, and washing all the dishes, and cleaning up the ketchup on the couch and telling Cyd to get off YouTube and do her homework) but the nights are a true reflection of my psyche. I've been waking up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, heart racing, thinking I must have the Corona fever.<br />
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Here's an inconvenient truth: I think I'm starting to get menopause symptoms, what with all the night sweats and the sudden feeling that my body could ignite at any moment (though it's probably only perimenopause considering how young I am). So, I'm either dying from COVID-19, or I'm just getting old and burning to a slow, silent death. Either/or.<br />
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Here's a short little tidbit to brighten your day. I haven't told anyone about it because I still feel a bit guilty about the whole thing. It was week number two of staying home. I decided to order our groceries for delivery via a store which will remain unnamed in case there are repercussions. The day of the delivery, I received a text from the nice woman filling our order asking if we needed anything else added to our order. Yes, I texted back, could we add 3 limes? She immediately texted back: "Sure, no problem! Anything else?" I was so happy about the limes and her friendly demeanor that I asked: "Any chance you can add wine to our order?" She texted back, "Yes, what kind?" WHAT KIND? WHAT? So I told her a Chardonnay, thinking that we most likely wouldn't get it since I didn't think it was allowed. Long story short, she delivered our order and about half of the items were missing. We didn't get Clorox wipes, but we did get the wine. I checked the receipt and the wine wasn't listed so I felt kind of guilty that she stole wine for us. This was a big chain store, not locally owned, so I got over it. But I gave her a really good tip even before I knew about the illegal wine transaction. This is just between us. What happens in a pandemic, stays in a pandemic.<br />
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We've been doing a family challenge every Sunday with our family in southern Indiana. The first week was a family Tik Tok. Next was a fashion show, followed by an art challenge, among others. This weekend we had to recreate a famous work of art. Here's our submission.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsHx7JCsZu_FO7lkd2aHys2rh9e3KSWk4iFtgbGZHQvdWnJ5tDXYmIeZ8We7FbRH6C1eYeoTjTXu3k-vlhzDrTW3PNCRAD53WNnml5v1cyG287y0HunBhJAJULM_ZLG2XmGKPPQUHj3Nz/s1600/art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="640" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmsHx7JCsZu_FO7lkd2aHys2rh9e3KSWk4iFtgbGZHQvdWnJ5tDXYmIeZ8We7FbRH6C1eYeoTjTXu3k-vlhzDrTW3PNCRAD53WNnml5v1cyG287y0HunBhJAJULM_ZLG2XmGKPPQUHj3Nz/s640/art.jpeg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think Laura nailed it!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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This week, we will focus on healthful eating and staying active by going on runs/walks/bike rides on the trail.. Fiona is our fearless and strict leader with the abs and strength training workouts, which are excruciating. But as they say, you're alive if you're in pain. Something like that.<br />
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Peace out. Stay safe.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTuYsVUAPkwn7H_6LTaySWQkJc3O5EkAeK_tizxlhnK_XvwZIt9jpBZbUfhJr4iCBKfggPJIrLLFHWYqC17s_wL1C7T7ryQuozvayd-4FHFOYDqQJ_HieJ0vRX7nvGVy7hGMuPb_opdDR/s1600/tomato.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="614" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWTuYsVUAPkwn7H_6LTaySWQkJc3O5EkAeK_tizxlhnK_XvwZIt9jpBZbUfhJr4iCBKfggPJIrLLFHWYqC17s_wL1C7T7ryQuozvayd-4FHFOYDqQJ_HieJ0vRX7nvGVy7hGMuPb_opdDR/s640/tomato.jpeg" width="614" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My baby tomatoes are growing!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL23g7ztWo8IeTfYTuuwOmsEvXrWJiR_oKIyqhacZNTNDqgbkgNYCFNQsysADjqW7p4IpVOsyrqFUefNrE5k1jMGCi-yViqyfyYhekvn_To3pK9CUbnowKKw-VncccKIcFNHYtLj6RTEFa/s1600/betty.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="480" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL23g7ztWo8IeTfYTuuwOmsEvXrWJiR_oKIyqhacZNTNDqgbkgNYCFNQsysADjqW7p4IpVOsyrqFUefNrE5k1jMGCi-yViqyfyYhekvn_To3pK9CUbnowKKw-VncccKIcFNHYtLj6RTEFa/s640/betty.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Betty is doing well. Thanks for asking. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-90178067157390712042019-08-23T10:05:00.004-07:002019-08-23T10:22:41.592-07:00Oh, Gregory<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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My earliest memory of Gregory is watching him all decked out in his Zorro costume, complete with cape, eye mask and sword, jumping off the highest perch he could find in hopes of flying. That pretty much encapsulates his life mission: to soar, a masked hero, destined to save the world from harm, at all costs.<br />
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I thought he was brave. My parents thought he was out of his mind.<br />
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He fell down a lot. And he got lost. ALL THE.TIME. There was that one time when we were on a family vacation in Tunisia. The recurring refrain was "where's Gregory?" He would wander away, easily distracted by shiny trinkets and adventure. They didn't have those kid leashes back then, otherwise he would have been a prime candidate.<br />
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He was the personification of a free spirit from the beginning until the end. He wasn't tied down by societal norms. In his case, that resulted in a genuine self. No one was more Gregory than Gregory himself: a spoonful of quirky with an overflowing cup and a half of kindness and a teaspoon of recklessly spending all his money on renaissance armors, swords and musical instruments.<br />
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His sweet sensitivity and empathy, which shone so brilliantly within him as a child, remained with him through his adulthood. He befriended the underdogs and black sheep of this world and gave them everything he could to uplift them. He gave so much of himself. His gifts to the world were selfless, free, always.<br />
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While he didn't always play by the rules, he was always kind. And definitely always funny. You never really knew what would come out of his mouth at any given moment. His lack of filter made him an eccentric in day-to-day life and was instrumental in his creative endeavors. He poured his unfiltered heart out in poetry and music.<br />
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The fact that he never found his soul mate to settle down with is a mystery. He would have made a great husband. He not only cooked, he also did the dishes. He was charming and big hearted and his smile could brighten up the rainiest day.<br />
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As our grandmother used to say, he was a treasure.<br />
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Most of all, he was a good man. He stood up for his country, his beliefs, his faith, his family, his friends.<br />
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He was beloved.<br />
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Peace out.<br />
<br />Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-31759848473484372032019-08-13T13:59:00.001-07:002019-08-13T14:29:54.876-07:00Written by my Brother for our Mother<div class="_5pbx userContent _3576" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-testid="post_message" id="js_13" style="background-color: white; color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, system-ui, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 6px;">
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Memories of my mother</div>
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by Grégory Gochtovtt</div>
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Once in my life, there was happiness. Peace.</div>
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I can't remember. But I can't really forget.</div>
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My childhood is gone. Or hidden, scared of what I've become.</div>
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I remember bits of pieces of my days in France. My earliest memory of my mother was of her sitting on the edge of my bed in our estate in the south of France, Les Agates, and scratching my back lightly with her fingernails to put me to sleep. I would always ask her as soon as I got in bed, "Maman, tu peux m'gratter le dos?" I would lie on my stomach, and her nails against my back were like an ocean of peace washing over me. Sometimes she would massage me. As her soft palms rubbed my shoulder blades and back, I sank into the mattress. Her touch was enough to rub away all my worries, all my fears. But I liked the scratching better. It was more gentle, more light-touched, more tender and soft. I would ask her not to stop... "Non, arretes-pas!" but she would just say, that's enough, cheri, go to sleep, and she would stroke my hair and kiss me.</div>
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I found out later from my dad, when we all gathered in the church office around the priest at the conference table to plan her funeral, how they had met. She had first seen him on a plane and he had an unlit cigar in his mouth. According to my dad, she had asked him to “get rid of this nasty-smelling cigar.” They met later at a soirée (party), had started dating, and soon afterwards got married. My mom once told me, “As soon as I saw him, I knew he was the man I was going to marry.” I have been trying to find love at first sight ever since, and have failed miserably.</div>
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Even then, in the early days of her dating, she was scared of his driving. She told me once of an incident when she was on a date with him and he was driving so fast that she thought he was being chased by another car. My dad was the crazy American action figure, she was the frail Snow White who would put bird feeders outside our house on trees and throw breadcrumbs to the squirrels. It was because of her kindness to animals that I once took a bird inside our house as a teenager in Florida, put it in a box, and tried to nurse its wing back to health. (I even put a piece of cloth over its shaking body, thinking it might get cold at night.) It died the next day. When we lived in our little apartment in Paris, I remember that she had a canary. She opened the door to pet it, and it flew out. My grandmother and she chased it all around the apartment and finally watched it fly out the window into the streets of Paris.<br />
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When I read books of poetry she had written later in life in the States, I remember the passages where she felt depressed, disappointed in life, and wondering what would have happened if she had continued her career as a French singer. Yet when I once asked her if she was happy, she told me, “I couldn’t be happier. I watched four beautiful children grow, I have a husband I love, and my life is complete." Yet I knew, from all the times I saw her retire into her bedroom to “take a nap,” that somewhere inside her, she felt like a caged bird who was witnessing the cruelty of people against each other in the world, and she wanted to escape this world, and maybe she was still running around trying to recapture that freedom and watching it fly out the window.</div>
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I try to recall our summer holidays at Club Med in Tunisia, when we still lived in France, but it's blurry, like seeing my life under water. The happiness I had back then might be too much for me to bear, knowing I can never have that happiness again, that I have blocked it out of my mind altogether. It's too painful to remember something you can never regain. Like what the garden of Eden was before you got kicked out. But sometimes I have flashes. Her hands rubbing aloe on my skin, bubbling with heat blisters from the Tunisian sun in our Club Med hotel room because I was making sandcastles near the waves, as I yelled in pain "aille, aille, aille!" Or my brother's light blue djellaba embroidered in front and on the sleeves with while cotton twirlies. (I was always jealous of it because blue was my favorite color). Or snorkeling in the Tunisian ocean, while my father pointed out multicolored fish to us. I remember the joy I had carrying my brand new flippers and mask that my dad bought me, still smelling of new rubber, and the olive green speedo bathing suit I was wearing when we walked from our white stone-Tunisian hotel room to the beach.</div>
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I remember the Zorro outfit I got for Christmas in Switzerland, but I don't remember how I fell down the stairs in it, and the only thing that still reminds me how clumsy I am with life is the video of it that my sister still plays to my nieces. I remember the shiny blue ski helmet with the white stripe down the middle, and the ski outfit I wore so proudly on the Swiss snow, my brand new walky-talky in my hand, feeling like I was an astronaut. (I lost it within two hours of taking it out of the package). I don't remember the girl in the photo taken at our hotel in Switzerland with the white turtle neck under the bright orange jumpsuit and her shiny gold hair, or the first kiss I apparently ever gave a girl while we danced in the hotel lobby. But I do remember walking outside with her and giving her my gloves because her hands were cold and she had none.</div>
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Words for my love</div>
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Love,<br />
Sweet, clear,<br />
Brook…<br />
Love,<br />
Sun burning in winter…<br />
Love,<br />
Wild perched bird<br />
Clinging to clouds with all its fingers,<br />
Love,<br />
Velvet silence,<br />
Forest filled with music,<br />
Where two people disappear without fear,<br />
and hand in hand.</div>
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You must live quickly<br />
What do I know<br />
I say yes but I think no<br />
Listen to the silence</div>
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My mother’s records with her songs in French (written and sung by her)<br />
<a data-ft="{"tn":"-U"}" data-lynx-mode="async" href="https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DHgRyG-XH__E%26fbclid%3DIwAR2Zuf_jtBvjh1JP3fV4qsGB-9WPQMrsDQdO320QJ8h3tan6HH6pnw3ykgI&h=AT3jx5G4nZSn0_QqJcjZx0--Iz_v9i2P15g91Xu8WjhYtkHhna3EN_RtkT_E8TkDrRtgH_f5o7DB7N6dXFueJS2eU408InOv7hAmU4iBU5WQKbVi0QG65QCfs77MnUGCjPQ4_pwYIkrGEhdLjdad64RGQ4kU-lG8e0VLcXxAOwqtNfCu0Kz6lbM1meoJpzwa016_JN8o17GXtaWFKM49WK4H6GexCM3Y0_E6i1dlrZo5A_2cUQD6GmtU9XP2-f0yC8VMFatdgAN4I5MFBOcXUt25iv-0-qczub37afi_2a8_AU8gdumtkS1aMQM7U5hNMxpEimY0zBK-BbI85Q-1H9ScGGZWXhDysga9ygEQRMiJKu2HcxwwAoJGpx6GqsmGby7uU9FE7M-fbSdy5ugRwJ-18loIGzt47QUG4SJB40skr97lrSFFHNVGy35vL92JMTmGLYO0TJKG0FTPwK9S-TfzSHN5lI7c6i4WJPknzH60DNJ_TRXY9cVyOa4zsGlTAMr57y7HymLxiw4oAa7HG33Gh3OsOEVhCPHjhZnKw2jqs4rCvRCFeEeh8Jfr8SyxjLSYk4crFpZT1L97v8WZdEnGJqOEcUp20WQUXb-tNMq7tTfzkMAOpVAvFoSPCRSoYlE" rel="noopener nofollow" style="color: #385898; cursor: pointer; font-family: inherit; text-decoration-line: none;" target="_blank">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HgRyG-XH__E</a></div>
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It's mostly the little things I remember about my mom after we moved to America. She always wore a new djellaba in the house and her toenails were always painted. (I brought her some djellabas from Iraq, she loved them, merci cheri.) She would always eat matza and watch Touched by an Angel or Murder, She Wrote. She had a crystal ball on a brass base of three adjoining dolphins on the coffee table in the living room, and little Pierrot marionettes on her antique secretary's desk with the roll-down ridged wooden cover and the brass knob. She would always bring her favorite chihuaha, Gringo, a stuffed toy from the quarter claw grabber thingy machine at the mall, upon which the dog would proceed to either shake it back and forth between its teeth, or hump it. When she drove me back from work at the mall in her red Ford Escort, she would always have a cassette of Native American flute music, or Enya, or dolphin music. She drove too slow because she was terrified of driving on the highway. When my dad drove too fast she would reach out and hold the glove compartment as if she thought we were going to crash, and my dad would make fun of her and say "Oh you're stroking the glove box isn't that nice...good glovebox, gooood glovebox."</div>
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I remember the excitement I felt when she and my father would do the Ouija board. This seemed to be one of her little joys. She would light Indian incense. Not the cheap kind, but the real kind that smelled like an Indian temple, musky and thick. She would light candles. And as her small hand lay under my father's big strong bear claw, she would speak out the letters as they were revealed in the little round window of the heart-shaped plastic tray that moved over the shiny lacquered board. As she lay in her bed wearing one of her Moroccan djellabas, her two chihuahas laying next to her on the bed, my brother and sisters all sat around her and my father on the velvet multicolored quilt on her bed. When it was my turn to ask a question, I would always ask questions like "Will lightsabers ever exist?" (I tried to figure out how to build one once by looking at a book in the public library, but gave up when I realized I had no access to lasers, crystals, or the knowledge of basic circuitry); or "will I ever meet an alien?" (because I was hoping one would throw me a superpower suit from his ship so I could fly above New York at night.) My dad always asked when his next contract would be, or if more money would come in, or if they should move to another state where business might be better. My mom would ask if her mother, mammy, was there, and if she had a message for any of us. Mammy, my maternal grandmother, died right before we left France. Mom told me as I woke up in our apartment in Paris, as she was crying and she took me in her arms,"Mammy est morte." Mammy is dead.</div>
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Sometimes, we talked to Mammy through the Ouija board, and my mom read out aloud the words that spelled out Mammy's favorite pet name for me: mon trésor. My treasure. That's when I knew it was mammy. And I would exclaim "Mammy!" One day we talked to Napoleon's brother, who said he felt sad for the way his brother Napoleon had turned out. Other times, we talked to an ancient spirit who said he was one of the disciples of Jesus. One spirit even told me I had been a knight who had murdered an evil man with a dagger to free the people from his tyranny, and he saw me sitting on a grassy mountaintop, my thigh-high booted legs crossed Indian-style, my cape behind me spread out on the grass, my dagger in my hand, and he felt how content I was of having liberated them. I had been killed for a woman in a jousting tournament. It was around 1400, in Britain. I knew it, I yelled out, I was a knight. YES!!</div>
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I remember, when I was a teenager, all the times my mom and I went to the new Age expos in hotels like the Radisson. She told me a story about how one day she was lying on the beach, on her honeymoon and she had an out-of-body experience and she could see her own body lying on the sand, and she was floating above it. She described the scene as eerie, and she felt free and totally at peace. I think that’s what stirred her interest in the New Age. She was always reading an Edgar Cayce biography, or books about “the lost years of Jesus,” which referred to his years after his childhood and before his ministry where he traveled to India and, according to the authors, learned to “develop his psychic gifts.” At these New Age conventions, she would go straight to the tarot card readers, and I walked around, wondering what else I could waste my money on: shiny crystal pendulums, white candles which, once I lit them, would attract money, or the talismans which were engraved with Solomon's seal so they would attract the perfect soulmate, or the book that showed you the same rituals the Merlin the Druid used. I would always ask my mom to make sure she asked her psychic if I would ever meet a girlfriend. She would always come back and tell me I would have a wonderful life, full of kids, and a wife who would adore me. If nothing else, we shared that in common: our love for tarot, crystals, angels, the Ouija board. But no, so much more...</div>
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She gave me my first pipe on my sixteenth birthday, and a nice leather pouch and some pipe tobacco. I thought that was the coolest gift any mother could give her son, and I thought I had the coolest mother in the world. I had often seen her, in our apartment in downtown Paris, smoking her long curved Irish pipe, and it was like now I was part of the secret pipe club, the hip artist club that no one else could understand. It would be the beginning of my days in Irish pubs and coffee houses (back when you could still smoke indoors before the nonsmoking Nazis ruined it for everyone), when I lived on my own, smoking the most exotic pipes I could find on Ebay, pipes from Sweden with hinged lids, or Irish long curved pipes, as I sat by myself doing tarot card readings and hoped that a beautiful woman would approach me and ask for a reading (none ever did.) I always felt like no one else could understand, or love me, like my mother loved me. Sometimes I would do tarot readings for my mom, and she would tell me I had the gift, and how good I was at this. I would teach her new tarot spreads, new ways to read the cards, and I proudly showed her when I came home from college the binder full of different tarot spreads my Jewish tarot teacher had taught me (the same woman who told me I had to "reinvent myself," and almost convinced me to change my legal name to Emrys Navarre (Emrys, the gaelic name for Merlin, which means hawk, and Navarre, the name of my favorite character in the movie Ladyhawke. If it wasn't for the furious rantings of my dad over the phone as I called home, and the pleadings of my uncles and cousins through email all the way in France, begging me not to toss away a family name which dated back to the 1400's, was part of royalty, and even bore a family coat of arms, it would have almost worked. To this day, searches on my public identity still show an Emrys Navarre floating in history.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">When we lived in Florida, she was always writing. She had dozens of legal yellow pads filled with her black slanted cursive handwriting, always working on a new romance novel. On the bookshelves in the living room were dozens of copies of the thirteen French romance novels she had already written under her pen name, Chris Gordon. She would sit at her little laptop that my dad had given her, transcribing all her handwritten notes, and I still have copies of the typed manuscripts she had typed, some over three hundred pages.</span></div>
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When she was happy, she had that fierce laugh in which she would throw her head back and laugh without reserve, without inhibitions. She was never one to laugh half-heartedly. I remember getting back from Iraq and finding my mom in the hospital (with the onset of the disease that would kill her later, frontal lobe dementia), in 2008, and being so heart-broken of finding her so weak, thin and feeble under paper-thin hospital linens (bastards), that I broke down and cried on my knees in front of my father, brother and sisters, as she stroked my head and said "Don't worry, I'll be fine, don't cry, mon cheri." I don't remember if I dreamed it or if it was true, but she got better. Later, every time I came back and visited her in the nursing home, we would sit on her bedside. By then her illness was so bad that the words that came out of her mouth were nonsense. I tried so hard to understand. I kept telling myself, maybe if I listen hard enough I'll understand a clue and I'll be able to connect with her on some level. But strained as I might, I couldn't make out any words. The only clue i had that she still loved me, after all the worry and pain I had caused her as a teenager (I remember once as a teen we had an argument. I don't remember what it was about, but I remember she was so mad that she stormed into her bedroom and slammed the door shut. The noise was like a slap in my face), was that she was stroking my hand, and sometimes she would reach out and stroke my head. Once in a while, I thought I heard "mon cheri" come out of her mouth, but I wasn't sure. It's like when you thought you saw something from the corner of your eye, but when you turn your head, it's gone.</div>
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Every time I came back from National Guard drill to visit my dad and her, my dear mom, and she would pat me on the back and stroke my hair and keep repeating "I'm so glad you're here, I'm so glad you're here." She would always make sure the bed in the guest bedroom had plenty of pillows and blankets for me. She would make it a point as soon as I came in the apartment to go in the bedroom and check everything. Every time I was over, I would always do the dishes so she wouldn't have to after my dad cooked us dinner.</div>
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She would just say, "Merci, cheri," and I would say "De rien." And then we would watch tv on the sofa as my dad would sit on the yellow velour chair she got for him for his birthday. He would snore, the remote firmly clasped in his hand, and when she tried to wrench it from his fingers, and if she could even do it before he woke, she turned the channel to our favorite shows about alien discoveries and UFO sightings. Sometimes that was enough for my dad to wake up with a thunderous halt to his snoring and say "hey why did you change the channel, I was watching that?" (Fox News. Twenty four hours a day.) And I always kissed her good night, even as a grown man.</div>
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My mom died in a hospice in 2008. The last memory I have of her is struggling to breathe through her tube into her nose, her hair wet and sticky, her face gaunt. I remember taking the rosary nailed on the wall above her bed, kneeling down and praying for God to heal her. I remember the holy water from Lourdes that she had brought me from her last trip in France with my dad, and how I poured out every last drop on my hands and made a sign of the cross on her forehead, hoping that Mary would heal her. And as I sat on the couch facing her bed in her hospice bedroom, looking at her locked behind those cold shiny hospital bedrails, I fell asleep.</div>
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Thus ye have not been able to watch one hour with me?</div>
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And there she was, my mother. Not my mother. An empty shell. A dead body, lifeless. This was not my mother. My mother was gone. I would never see her again.</div>
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Sometimes I wonder if I killed her. What if all the worry I caused her, all the times I called her from college, crying because some woman had broken my heart, and asking my mom, why...I treated her like a queen, why? What did I do wrong? What if all this worry, all this pain I caused her, was what brought about her frontal lobe dementia? I blame myself for her death, just as I blame myself for mammy's death. When there is no love for you, what else can remain in your heart but hate for yourself?</div>
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(Much fear in this one, there is.)</div>
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There's not a day in my life I don't miss you, mom. My night prayers, for so long, had ended with goodnight mom and dad, or I miss you mom, I miss you mammy, I miss you dad. I miss you so freaking much. I'm sorry i haven't said it lately mom. I have been so caught up in my financial sludge and buying stupid shit to fill the void in my heart that i forgot to say it. I miss going to New Age fairs with you mom. I miss how you scratched my back. I miss hearing you laugh uncontrollably at the stupid jokes dad said over and over again. I miss you saying merci cheri every time I finish doing the dishes for you. Tears are falling down my face as I write this mom, because I'll never stop missing you. I can barely see through my glasses as my fingers are clicking on my beat up laptop, but I miss you. I will never find the woman that dad had, and I will never find a mother to my unborn children as kind and loving as you. Every day I live without you is like dying on the cross all over again, and sometimes I just want to scream,</div>
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ELI ELI SABACHTAMI?</div>
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Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-41483133260429232412018-03-16T19:57:00.000-07:002018-03-17T18:59:11.871-07:00Dear Tim<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1X42WFF7JpXpjgOMw-Lcasybasc6g5SH31YkVevW8cEPK5jkBW4nZXZVplZxY4n0YqkXY1PfU_Cyr8KEurvUSoetuCkdflwQ1fWMEBMjXbLRVqx3HRperyNjaxVsslzx4kYANO2RunrdW/s1600/garlic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1X42WFF7JpXpjgOMw-Lcasybasc6g5SH31YkVevW8cEPK5jkBW4nZXZVplZxY4n0YqkXY1PfU_Cyr8KEurvUSoetuCkdflwQ1fWMEBMjXbLRVqx3HRperyNjaxVsslzx4kYANO2RunrdW/s640/garlic.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
I miss seeing you around the office and I almost miss how you mispronounced my name. Actually, I totally miss that most of all.<br />
<br />
But I got a call from some Republican today who wanted me to work on his media buy and I almost lost it. I mean, I'm a professional, so I took his goddamn call and I took notes and I know what I have to do but I didn't want to do this without your scribbled notes on your yellow pad of paper outlining what the budget was and the flight dates and of course we have to buy local news and Jeoapardy and maybe 60 Minutes if we can afford it. I suppose the demo is adults 55+. And there was no Media Req. (Not that there ever was one with you.)<br />
<br />
Anyways, I miss those days. When we worked on political buys and I got to know you. And you bought me lunch from restaurants that were a lot better than Arby's. <br />
<br />
You didn't always play by the rules but you knew what it took to get the job done. You didn't give a damn about "procedures", or "what NOT to ask in an interview." I have to say, I liked you from the day I met you, despite the illegal questions about my marital status.<br />
<br />
That day I almost quit? I didn't really mean it. After I talked to you, my heart was so full and raw, because I felt like you knew me. KNEW ME. Not completely, but more than most.<br />
<br />
You gave me the gift of belonging.<br />
<br />
The other day, I was out in my garden and I saw my garlic finally grow into beautiful shoots and I thought of you. We had talked about growing garlic during one of our car trips to a client meeting, and your stance was that garlic is so cheap, what's the point? It made sense to me only slightly. Because I like garlic. And there's poetry in planting what you love.<br />
<br />
But I get it. And really, I get you.<br />
<br />
Peace out.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-25750031095923534532017-06-09T13:04:00.001-07:002017-06-09T13:25:49.250-07:00The Grass is Green<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
The following photos are stolen directly from the house listing we saw and decided, "what the hell? Let's go check out this house, despite the fact that it looks like the little house on the goddamn prairie, without the rustic charm." </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEY_ruISOnjn8MdBBdQQFppF_CLr2VEya5BygLOJ-dooLGzrsHtOgmX6WYuujysHLGypYp_jKfcJxsH6NklZacejf9g4eLyPw_UcYihz3f3MGt8OCeKM5y_M59L7CnrkF_P67oPVGpgGT/s1600/house+b4+sink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtEY_ruISOnjn8MdBBdQQFppF_CLr2VEya5BygLOJ-dooLGzrsHtOgmX6WYuujysHLGypYp_jKfcJxsH6NklZacejf9g4eLyPw_UcYihz3f3MGt8OCeKM5y_M59L7CnrkF_P67oPVGpgGT/s640/house+b4+sink.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGozUc_5W7XzBdrQakBoDcuOie2da-vVmiwUqnnxFEjOvKgyFg4OHyCblO0oL-Zp5sctO8ep-pqkH_wpJBmFVK227D33G-FY61Zvg1B99O9mdz9SqWuBE8-OSxRLsM6qQiekcMIl8vqI-t/s1600/house+b4+dining.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGozUc_5W7XzBdrQakBoDcuOie2da-vVmiwUqnnxFEjOvKgyFg4OHyCblO0oL-Zp5sctO8ep-pqkH_wpJBmFVK227D33G-FY61Zvg1B99O9mdz9SqWuBE8-OSxRLsM6qQiekcMIl8vqI-t/s640/house+b4+dining.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the dining room. We tore that wall down. We don't believe in walls.</td></tr>
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Still, we bought the house. We especially liked the curtains. Apparently.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1nfOjQfOHXX21T01hYtjDwGyuQDNQjXk1Qj7vbpqAR2XsS4DZOvo5nHop8HhS6NntShQHtI62robUXjhxm7nU8iuCjex410MdfO73vL7liWqjHHVO8rrhDrccujpsQW7skhrVSbkkuEp/s1600/house+b4+stove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL1nfOjQfOHXX21T01hYtjDwGyuQDNQjXk1Qj7vbpqAR2XsS4DZOvo5nHop8HhS6NntShQHtI62robUXjhxm7nU8iuCjex410MdfO73vL7liWqjHHVO8rrhDrccujpsQW7skhrVSbkkuEp/s640/house+b4+stove.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm a whiny baby when it comes to electric stoves. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYuuRAf3SFPHulorTodrV9dul5EuYTPOXLQILk4Wnfsf6eJdh-jU1p4vY8S1ImwpjLWaJu1P0epv4_8A0d9KtPMn13yNc50Tj4ggJBvfTZAISUUsSeYOmHTdd08pQduO2LPGlPBk0mkv_/s1600/house+living+room.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizYuuRAf3SFPHulorTodrV9dul5EuYTPOXLQILk4Wnfsf6eJdh-jU1p4vY8S1ImwpjLWaJu1P0epv4_8A0d9KtPMn13yNc50Tj4ggJBvfTZAISUUsSeYOmHTdd08pQduO2LPGlPBk0mkv_/s640/house+living+room.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
When we told the kids we were buying it, Fiona threw herself on the floor and wept. Granted, she has a tendency to be melodramatic. Still, I felt a little bit like weeping myself.<br />
<br />
But it was a solid house and it did have potential. And six acres, partly wooded, with a creek. And it didn't cost a million dollars.<br />
<br />
"You have to have the vision," we kept telling ourselves. Laura has all the vision. She is more evolved than any of the rest of us. All we saw was an old lady's house with frilly curtains and the washer and dryer in the goddamn dining room.<br />
<br />
The dryer, by the way, had an intricate ventilation system constructed out of pantyhose. True story.<br />
<br />
And here we are. Two years later. And it's all coming together in the most perfect, meant to be way. Why? Because we dreamt the impossible dream, that's why.<br />
<br />
We also had good intentions, sprinkled with some crazy dust.<br />
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LOTS of dust.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5zJ9kLZbnjNM96vJfYX2wiLaLb0njrSxuMJXmcW5j0h2VkqvS0-F-spypeDeZQBNABsux1DO7ZpoR2sNzknmMTZp7_XGC5B1GZsmbp-0OzgMGWUzSfsEne32T5Zd2pyI50uZt8bwv4Du/s1600/IMG_1749.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhc5zJ9kLZbnjNM96vJfYX2wiLaLb0njrSxuMJXmcW5j0h2VkqvS0-F-spypeDeZQBNABsux1DO7ZpoR2sNzknmMTZp7_XGC5B1GZsmbp-0OzgMGWUzSfsEne32T5Zd2pyI50uZt8bwv4Du/s640/IMG_1749.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Hallelujah.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8zu2U9baBvnPP5j52X6M9wWpv0qhQOiEMul1pAOOvgcyxR5y0WIxpydLhzg4FD-zX1s0vxVynD-3dVzwKQRgvt-kGdoV4DuCwJKW3KmL2eIycHiulVO_ytYRBGWfS4VyT7w_d4xwoswB/s1600/IMG_2806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1247" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8zu2U9baBvnPP5j52X6M9wWpv0qhQOiEMul1pAOOvgcyxR5y0WIxpydLhzg4FD-zX1s0vxVynD-3dVzwKQRgvt-kGdoV4DuCwJKW3KmL2eIycHiulVO_ytYRBGWfS4VyT7w_d4xwoswB/s640/IMG_2806.jpg" width="498" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCyOsanp1A2fuTR3ECFnelH_gRozyAbfpdBuCkW6aotqamt_bZPvHOPgataemXkJ_PmlTSkyrUK9nHd6igvoEut8m9K163MXRWDoHHM4RvQIvB4e9bxyYkatNpTD7VOunbdg3p1d8P8g8/s1600/IMG_2811.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJCyOsanp1A2fuTR3ECFnelH_gRozyAbfpdBuCkW6aotqamt_bZPvHOPgataemXkJ_PmlTSkyrUK9nHd6igvoEut8m9K163MXRWDoHHM4RvQIvB4e9bxyYkatNpTD7VOunbdg3p1d8P8g8/s640/IMG_2811.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfBELkb44a7Fvo7KVB60IBkxLcNh1ttURQ_RSPWJpBoQfu3E3hK1ID3ngAFhhKWa3Afi-etg8bnyMF2bPWjpLggFEBWj3GPZzgYY4FHYxoO0IJmZE3J9xKrIhkhmCxmDNkM_3BGpbit0i/s1600/IMG_5219.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1365" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfBELkb44a7Fvo7KVB60IBkxLcNh1ttURQ_RSPWJpBoQfu3E3hK1ID3ngAFhhKWa3Afi-etg8bnyMF2bPWjpLggFEBWj3GPZzgYY4FHYxoO0IJmZE3J9xKrIhkhmCxmDNkM_3BGpbit0i/s640/IMG_5219.jpg" width="544" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TDt6YqUgi_7yEj_f2pYy3PaG8bktAQR0MzGODVguH0NaVH4SUtdgYKqBEJ3iS4MpTATZHp-eAavZFSVlOMUIfd95ZdQhE4OdMCzYU1h6RZCLTEqVw7JpKfHzNTpcyd-9UMvqvShVo4nC/s1600/IMG_5809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1411" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_TDt6YqUgi_7yEj_f2pYy3PaG8bktAQR0MzGODVguH0NaVH4SUtdgYKqBEJ3iS4MpTATZHp-eAavZFSVlOMUIfd95ZdQhE4OdMCzYU1h6RZCLTEqVw7JpKfHzNTpcyd-9UMvqvShVo4nC/s640/IMG_5809.jpg" width="564" /></a></div>
<br />
Positive thinking, paired with gratitude, equals our/your reality. I realize that I sound like a damn self-help book, but it really does work. Also, you can't always get what you want. At least not all of it, all at once. But having gratitude for "almost", for what is right in front of you, is the key to contentment.<br />
<br />
The grass is green on whichever side of the fence you water.<br />
<br />
Everyone who was involved with the reconstruction of our little house holds a special place in my heart (except for the first round of flooring installers - long story.)<br />
<br />
Our contractor had been working with us for nearly a year, as we designed plans and then changed our minds and then changed our minds again. He stayed with us, shared some wine with us, and helped to finalize the vision that was, in the beginning, somewhat blurry. He truly was the BEST.<br />
<br />
He listened to NPR as he tore down our walls. He patiently conversed with the children when they came home from school. He was nice. And it was a genuine nice. The kind you can trust. I wanted to hug him on his last day at our house. But I didn't. That would have been weird.<br />
<br />
And then, we lucked out with our cabinet builder. Perfection, party of one. You should see these cabinets. They're works of art. AND, he and his wife raise bees. They gave us a jar of their honey and it was LIQUID, DELICIOUS GOLD. I'm only screaming because that honey is what all similes mean when they say it tastes like honey.<br />
<br />
Our painter was also brilliant. He reminded us that ceilings do not always have to be white, even in small spaces. In fact, a ceiling, painted darker than the walls, creates an illusion of height. He was right and I'm so pleased with the way we broke all the rules and made it our own. Now, I scoff whenever I see a white ceiling. I've turned into an insufferable ceiling paint snob.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhC1QEbw1q5qhjC0m27et-3_hSdgb_kUwOyPXtOaKKJrJjhNe8l6LoodHS9pyqnXeVVrn_cdtscGft03q9w4j0iJpkJBhLkS5iZUitqw0bjx5ZewBK7HccSAQXgi4zGZqvgpfnOvOReBl/s1600/IMG_6814.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1070" data-original-width="1600" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDhC1QEbw1q5qhjC0m27et-3_hSdgb_kUwOyPXtOaKKJrJjhNe8l6LoodHS9pyqnXeVVrn_cdtscGft03q9w4j0iJpkJBhLkS5iZUitqw0bjx5ZewBK7HccSAQXgi4zGZqvgpfnOvOReBl/s640/IMG_6814.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dixie likes the grass on the other side of the fence. It is, in this case, greener.</td></tr>
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Peace out.<br />
<br />
p.s. The remodel is not completely done but, if I've learned one thing during this process it's patience. See, I've evolved a little. Or maybe all the dust and paint fumes have altered my propensity for crankiness. Either/or.<br />
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<br />Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-20927961032544589622016-12-22T09:46:00.000-08:002017-01-16T17:58:06.118-08:00Chestnuts: a Metaphor<img src="http://thefloridainspector.com/thefloridainspectorblog/wp-content/uploads/2014/12/Chestnuts_Roasting_On_An_Open_Fire.jpg" height="424" width="640" /><br />
<br />
Needless to say, I've had some emotions since the election. I wrote all about it but it was ugly crying formed into words, which is bad, BAD writing. So, I deleted the hell out of that and have been silent, simmering in a blend of sadness and dwindling hope, and frankly, more anger than I care to claim.<br />
<br />
That being said, I'm not spending any more words on the presidential election.<br />
<br />
I'm not here to trivialize what's happening in our world, but it's too big for this medium. There's nothing I can write that has not already been written that will shed light on what the fuck happened with our current reality. Enough.<br />
<br />
Instead, let's chat about chestnuts.<br />
<br />
They're hard to find in Fort Wayne. In years past, Meijer and The Fresh Market have had them in stock. The Meijer chestnuts are like avocados. They're stale and hard when they stock them before Thanksgiving. I buy them anyways, because CHESTNUTS. I roast them. I burn my goddamn hands peeling them and they're hard as a rock. I wait a couple of weeks and try again. Usually, by December, they're ripe and delicious. They remind me of my childhood.<br />
<br />
In Paris, you can walk down any street during the holiday season and find a stand selling freshly roasted chestnuts, brimming out of newspaper cones. Chestnuts are part of the happy quadrant in my brain.<br />
<br />
This year, I couldn't find them anywhere. Thankfully, I had a jar of them from Williams Sonoma from last year. Not the same as freshly roasted, but still, they made it into my Thanksgiving stuffing and I was content.<br />
<br />
The other day, I had to run into The Fresh Market to spend a million and half dollars on triple cream cheese and a nice baguette. Lo and behold, there were a couple tiny bundles of chestnuts in the produce section.<br />
<br />
I squeezed them and I knew just then that they weren't going to be good. They were solid. Still, I bought them because I'd been looking for them and there they were.<br />
<br />
For eleven dollars. Eleven. I could buy really good socks with that eleven bucks. Or a pretty good bottle of wine. But no. I bought the chestnuts with hope in my heart. Because, as Michelle Obama said, "what else do you have if you don't have hope?"<br />
<br />
I roasted them in our fireplace.<br />
<br />
Most were rocks. The others were green with rot.<br />
<br />
God. Damn. It.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, you want something so much, you ignore the obvious faults. You choose what you think is best for your country. I mean, you choose a tiny bundle of fresh chestnuts that you know is not right, but you're desperate for something you love so you buy it anyway. And here were are.<br />
<br />
If you're going to sell chestnuts, and the name of your store is The "FRESH" Market, please, merchandise them with the refrigerated produce so they don't fucking mold before they're purchased.<br />
<br />
I've made my peace with the chestnut scenario but not the other stuff. It's a damn good start.<br />
<br />
Peace out.<br />
<br />
P.S. Sorry about all the f-bombs in this post. You should have seen the post I deleted, though. Good grief.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-3015976148460838422016-09-01T09:07:00.001-07:002016-09-01T10:18:21.420-07:00The Party was a Success and Nobody Got Voted Off the Island<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I love celebrating the birth and life of the people I love. Part of me wants to celebrate in the grandest, craziest, lots of people kind of way. And another part of me wants to have a quiet dinner in a fancy restaurant and talk about books, cats and quantum physics. But this isn't about me. So, even though I generally dislike parties, I invited people and planned the surprise party Laura would want. Outdoors, with family, favorite friends, the woods, sangria, and, of course, gin.<br />
<br />
While I'm glad I pulled off this surprise, I will never, ever do this again. Ever.<br />
<br />
I'm a goddamn liar. I'll probably do it again when she turns 60. Because in the end, it was all worth it. And not once did I feel the need to cower in a dark corner, paralyzed by social anxiety. I'd call that a success.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She really was surprised.</td></tr>
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It wasn't fancy but it was perfect.</div>
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I didn't take pictures of everyone at the party. When I'm in a social situation, my photography impulse shuts down. All my energy is spent on surviving the over stimulation and small talk. I'm more of a basket case than I appear.<br />
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I'm glad Laura's sisters and Fiona stepped in and took great photos of some of the guests, as well as the food.<br />
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We ended the evening at our house, with a few guests, a tour of the teepee and a very competitive game of Scrabble on our living room floor. And by competitive, I mean we had to use letters.<br />
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****</div>
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Every year, Laura and her sisters go on a "sisters' weekend" together. This year, it happened to be scheduled around Laura's birthday.</div>
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It's supposed to be for the sisters, without their spouses, but since I'm female, I get to go. This is one of the many perks of being in a same sex marriage. I recommend it to everyone. You can wear each other's clothes, use the same public bathroom, go on sisters' weekends together. IT'S GREAT. </div>
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We had a wonderful time on Round Island, Sylvan Lake.<br />
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It was a bird paradise.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kT7v_CmKc85v1JAPbnuNfxDqsO2YSHwPdChdl7sTvK4sTmCRszo8xI2XlYJvkx66spgCq25dd50YUw_owLpGJpA3SQpwJZkMR3hyphenhyphenQN-unDZxUvEpiE9KD7W01OSwlG20o0dlzTAKzF8Z/s1600/sis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="610" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kT7v_CmKc85v1JAPbnuNfxDqsO2YSHwPdChdl7sTvK4sTmCRszo8xI2XlYJvkx66spgCq25dd50YUw_owLpGJpA3SQpwJZkMR3hyphenhyphenQN-unDZxUvEpiE9KD7W01OSwlG20o0dlzTAKzF8Z/s640/sis.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stine sisterhood.</td></tr>
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On our final night, we toasted to the birthday girl, to the sunset, the island. Lake life is the best. It's even better with champagne.<br />
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I miss the island already. But I missed home when I was there. I missed the children and the routine of life. I missed brushing Cyd's hair into a ponytail every morning, and picking up Fiona after her cross country practice after school. I almost missed our crappy kitchen. </div>
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I'm lying again. I didn't miss our stupid kitchen.<br />
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The moral of the story: even when you're missing a person, place or thing, you still have the present, which is everything that is worth celebrating.<br />
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Peace out.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-42797968229469806832016-07-05T05:24:00.001-07:002016-07-05T05:24:36.131-07:00More Than Enough<br />
It's been a weekend chock full of fun.<br />
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Maybe I'm exaggerating. It wasn't chock full. Maybe just three quarters full. There were some disappointments mixed in.<br />
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What did not disappoint were the people at the Ravinia music festival.<br />
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Laura had gotten me tickets to see the Indigo Girls AND Mary Chapin Carpenter for my birthday. We got there with our picnic of pizza and salad and our Bota box of wine like a bunch of hillbillies. When we got there, we found people enjoying fancy picnics on tiny tables, with real bottles of wine and wine glasses made out of glass. They were enjoying appetizers of brie, olives, and crusty bread. They were so civilized, with their tablecloths on their tiny, adorable tables. And here we were, schmucks on our picnic blanket, using plastic sporks to eat our salad.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBj7Ukj3FoxlZ9IojbAqMfhvZlL8l_mYMuTadKI6-U0aiSLU0AGTutuRKk47BxVXkeCjK8mbIzCQequfT5NyUiVMNpS6BYt_96u41pZWbbNlphx6hPMRTCVhIKdddNV-EnDAJ2N81uzxB/s1600/IMG_5762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBj7Ukj3FoxlZ9IojbAqMfhvZlL8l_mYMuTadKI6-U0aiSLU0AGTutuRKk47BxVXkeCjK8mbIzCQequfT5NyUiVMNpS6BYt_96u41pZWbbNlphx6hPMRTCVhIKdddNV-EnDAJ2N81uzxB/s640/IMG_5762.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'd forgotten how much I love Mary Chapin Carpenter. She rocked it.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">If you know me, you know how much I adore the Indigo Girls. They were the last act of the evening. Sadly, we had to leave early while they were playing, in order to catch our shuttle back to the hotel. What kind of goddamn shuttle picks up concert goers before the concert is over? Disappointment, party of four. Still, it was nice to share the space with them.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just look at that dimple. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXh_VTwpSP1DNONuxhgFUGaCYfiMy2ZX2egfVHmfZbBKQbhv0esV78CzFirtu4v0rpmmeNGJD_rZ9YphFmATY943Dq0UYXOIGljAITmq9ga-GOEHEj3wPmlurJ2kYgDBYt2DfpnRWx22xB/s1600/IMG_5810.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXh_VTwpSP1DNONuxhgFUGaCYfiMy2ZX2egfVHmfZbBKQbhv0esV78CzFirtu4v0rpmmeNGJD_rZ9YphFmATY943Dq0UYXOIGljAITmq9ga-GOEHEj3wPmlurJ2kYgDBYt2DfpnRWx22xB/s640/IMG_5810.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We visited Lurie Gardens. Amazing.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFDwRjN8yiPXlAvXR2NaIM9N2WlXiNWRjdpcj3OwxGulfElJOhRjndK3nbdtS5qAxlk6ccJY0vfPXKfuDcX_QYyi7XLOcfyf-JzuGyk2Ms2tilDPqBfByZWD68BDrQm_XEuV7tEWi2kSG/s1600/IMG_5815.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJFDwRjN8yiPXlAvXR2NaIM9N2WlXiNWRjdpcj3OwxGulfElJOhRjndK3nbdtS5qAxlk6ccJY0vfPXKfuDcX_QYyi7XLOcfyf-JzuGyk2Ms2tilDPqBfByZWD68BDrQm_XEuV7tEWi2kSG/s640/IMG_5815.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyd the Brave made it to the top of the rock climbing wall. It took her a few tries, but she persevered. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nQ7EGPQ1EyQ1aYNz0tu6ekHs-BV4Oi3l-NW0gjhutdpCVFv_Cu9_n2UPYpSVcIGLwczl1XCDg-xvffeoTzQxX6yPM8B6L4GDzfi4XbDil1bswhKbRenGACrSSTMiQ_F6LJsov9_hMrSw/s1600/IMG_5832.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5nQ7EGPQ1EyQ1aYNz0tu6ekHs-BV4Oi3l-NW0gjhutdpCVFv_Cu9_n2UPYpSVcIGLwczl1XCDg-xvffeoTzQxX6yPM8B6L4GDzfi4XbDil1bswhKbRenGACrSSTMiQ_F6LJsov9_hMrSw/s640/IMG_5832.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7pFrZMuoxVlFiR3PDOMkFsqW93gZ475zJGbBwUf3mDusMm0u0r6aY7GHQk6q0HlE0FWHl1dwxTjji2tImJxNqtrIqrPS5zO3Am7zeBM9Qknd9xF7W-_U9El9plQy24tE9-ZqRqjWocPo/s1600/IMG_6773.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ7pFrZMuoxVlFiR3PDOMkFsqW93gZ475zJGbBwUf3mDusMm0u0r6aY7GHQk6q0HlE0FWHl1dwxTjji2tImJxNqtrIqrPS5zO3Am7zeBM9Qknd9xF7W-_U9El9plQy24tE9-ZqRqjWocPo/s640/IMG_6773.JPG" width="580" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We usually visit Chicago in the dead of winter, so it was nice to be able to linger at Millennium Park<br />
and get a close look at The Bean, without freezing to death.</td></tr>
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We were going to have dinner at a cozy fondue place in the heart of Chicago, but when I called to make reservations, they said kids 10-years-old and under weren't allowed, for safety reasons. </div>
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Whatevs. It's probably all for the best. Cyd probably would have set the damn place on fire. No one got hurt. No one got delicious fondue. </div>
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So we went to Navy Pier. </div>
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***</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkInVyoVpSjCYnmS5xH3DiZaRyyUKcrrrFt5NJKQgCMSzDeBC1Skk6Xi-W675GhaiO2A4Tj6Ii8DhYsXiCqI5JOuKpgpvllNYn9E38OgSu8ubhSdC90vbwbC855UihFWDYdj75IBLzobcl/s1600/IMG_6834.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkInVyoVpSjCYnmS5xH3DiZaRyyUKcrrrFt5NJKQgCMSzDeBC1Skk6Xi-W675GhaiO2A4Tj6Ii8DhYsXiCqI5JOuKpgpvllNYn9E38OgSu8ubhSdC90vbwbC855UihFWDYdj75IBLzobcl/s640/IMG_6834.jpg" width="616" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back home, weeding the pumpkin patch.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinBTm9KSu-F9psY2tEc16LVFq_ZmXB8NyHl9NEhi8yi7OY2CMnqD-ywzdcZZiwYf7ZryOuz16W5yaeBb_iJjD3ag-qZWGmZ0sZ9dN37hifUc6zV16I7OprLfHGtvQoqB5hwqBOhG_Y6IGz/s1600/IMG_6843.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="638" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinBTm9KSu-F9psY2tEc16LVFq_ZmXB8NyHl9NEhi8yi7OY2CMnqD-ywzdcZZiwYf7ZryOuz16W5yaeBb_iJjD3ag-qZWGmZ0sZ9dN37hifUc6zV16I7OprLfHGtvQoqB5hwqBOhG_Y6IGz/s640/IMG_6843.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRY1yRFGEbrg_v7eImhPKnAKA9XkKDcGczEZBWVMPvlUe5GahKSnk4RbyISBfkAlWZ2rRImTmNQmOeXfyKOU8as1GF33lIc7itNi2Cz2snl0EaSRocSaDNaLf75hcG3XVSb1HfXvDBntK/s1600/IMG_5858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPRY1yRFGEbrg_v7eImhPKnAKA9XkKDcGczEZBWVMPvlUe5GahKSnk4RbyISBfkAlWZ2rRImTmNQmOeXfyKOU8as1GF33lIc7itNi2Cz2snl0EaSRocSaDNaLf75hcG3XVSb1HfXvDBntK/s640/IMG_5858.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mabel is keeping her babies close. All three seek refuge under their mother, but they really want to explore.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOT4vg9TVDY-QZdSJwduviSbBGJl1eChjBBdD4BNSaSWuhLui-8zfVfHp9LCa-DloclrdAQTEkvX3GQDi0g2xOmOzRpW5Sd83n7_WRkABDJUntTwlpRiVFh5dZ1k65cIQQ6-D9PzPxkNN/s1600/IMG_6857.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOT4vg9TVDY-QZdSJwduviSbBGJl1eChjBBdD4BNSaSWuhLui-8zfVfHp9LCa-DloclrdAQTEkvX3GQDi0g2xOmOzRpW5Sd83n7_WRkABDJUntTwlpRiVFh5dZ1k65cIQQ6-D9PzPxkNN/s640/IMG_6857.jpg" width="608" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one is Cyd's. She named her/him Rosie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA49mt_oszQay_r0R58vNymCAZLZ0Cs_2Dqh1qbgklG8CtWxG024oEp5fdcREy5DqE8KMS4tDKJ_HMHjN15hNaqeBAATq9ljSKd5EK0E8gzhDr8jxtX6o3Y9MTJbicBQnNf5pKRE9JORda/s1600/IMG_6856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA49mt_oszQay_r0R58vNymCAZLZ0Cs_2Dqh1qbgklG8CtWxG024oEp5fdcREy5DqE8KMS4tDKJ_HMHjN15hNaqeBAATq9ljSKd5EK0E8gzhDr8jxtX6o3Y9MTJbicBQnNf5pKRE9JORda/s640/IMG_6856.JPG" width="588" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We ended the weekend with a little barbecue, because it's the FOURTH OF JULY. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOG0aQnCqCskwZlzSLkBsaBsGXrzgjX1EugtvLLFRWWw6CZ2VlwuT4oZ69_MfgtLSug46AocKNwJAdCqaC139BFlOuIOl8sK0q1QO5OmD9ANM7Y-VUCxCunl_GUwbh5m7vg7Qr591Cu6P/s1600/IMG_6866.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="572" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrOG0aQnCqCskwZlzSLkBsaBsGXrzgjX1EugtvLLFRWWw6CZ2VlwuT4oZ69_MfgtLSug46AocKNwJAdCqaC139BFlOuIOl8sK0q1QO5OmD9ANM7Y-VUCxCunl_GUwbh5m7vg7Qr591Cu6P/s640/IMG_6866.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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The disappointments of the weekend are small compared to what we did, what we have, what we look forward to. There will be other concerts and a lot more fondue.<br />
<br />
We crammed a giant fistful of life in a few precious days.<br />
<br />
The kitchen is a wreck, there are wet swimsuits covering the bathroom floor, and I need to muster up the energy to make the kids' lunches for tomorrow. It's all enough.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, it's more.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjey6CrRQgwFezWK5vzuE23pvv_RE0ZaPzQtcfAI91e7EowMaCVYeZKq3qO4CIzLyd02ZqnsTDAIr6SnPlOtoRekYzwtvgtiiXFCKxjAWg_WO_AnV8fjhdCTAKgnYFJlW_kPfgswod7ZS-M/s1600/IMG_5834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjey6CrRQgwFezWK5vzuE23pvv_RE0ZaPzQtcfAI91e7EowMaCVYeZKq3qO4CIzLyd02ZqnsTDAIr6SnPlOtoRekYzwtvgtiiXFCKxjAWg_WO_AnV8fjhdCTAKgnYFJlW_kPfgswod7ZS-M/s640/IMG_5834.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Peace out.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-33334608452254834682016-04-10T11:43:00.001-07:002016-04-10T11:48:36.718-07:00Meet the Gochstine Farm Birds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Every home should have a bird watching corner. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSkeduyBOVTDuLX7r-fowML_yAiaGQoIa60hRxAtDYMFv_Ba5Z4Nsj1v_9ZUKL8C7qQTF4k_g7LQpzxTJs_yLFhUt8ItXzJUdTdIj-2XepJJ-J8K-6bo0pN1uJKB20I1w18etC5d8L-rey/s1600/IMG_4879.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSkeduyBOVTDuLX7r-fowML_yAiaGQoIa60hRxAtDYMFv_Ba5Z4Nsj1v_9ZUKL8C7qQTF4k_g7LQpzxTJs_yLFhUt8ItXzJUdTdIj-2XepJJ-J8K-6bo0pN1uJKB20I1w18etC5d8L-rey/s640/IMG_4879.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Because I'm kind of a lunatic, I've been naming the birds that visit our backyard feeder. They all have very colorful backgrounds. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXDLuCAHtvi9Zz4uuIQk_9mGBJzyRd9HORS5Vc8Owewk44rKQFD0_QnC3C02O-SgfltZManq4w1ShiFsAK7ncotEKrYqqM-fhI9ImEbN8bbC0mSOyZKRybiA_qpGTVsdQ4HI20Uq6ywMf/s1600/IMG_5435.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="526" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqXDLuCAHtvi9Zz4uuIQk_9mGBJzyRd9HORS5Vc8Owewk44rKQFD0_QnC3C02O-SgfltZManq4w1ShiFsAK7ncotEKrYqqM-fhI9ImEbN8bbC0mSOyZKRybiA_qpGTVsdQ4HI20Uq6ywMf/s640/IMG_5435.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">His name is Oscar. He thinks he's God's gifts to women because of his super cool haircut. He thinks all the bird songs are about him.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijC13QKm6w3L3cNoDYezopkVIDnFdf5_lk3BheLtGWeaKQdyYyXLnj3deo26K4wIUVdk_SwNKbkr2PYpXdI4OAOrZrC8bLV9EABHjV0dDydAgxTr3PfErJUGWKIrFVWSrkOwmBZaWGx3eY/s1600/IMG_5438.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="514" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijC13QKm6w3L3cNoDYezopkVIDnFdf5_lk3BheLtGWeaKQdyYyXLnj3deo26K4wIUVdk_SwNKbkr2PYpXdI4OAOrZrC8bLV9EABHjV0dDydAgxTr3PfErJUGWKIrFVWSrkOwmBZaWGx3eY/s640/IMG_5438.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Woody. He keeps to himself and doesn't make friends easily.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCS62XDdghzQaJEJvZTqdkqme4bPGm32ubcJHEucdeG_CjBl1xrGzfjRLgHItWgv3yh0X3ZPA5Zpw8xyEseW5AvyTidxEz5tRcelbGZOi6rkcjKjlHe9Hc3IAdRM4c5Q64rhsrCgOPz6T/s1600/IMG_5441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisCS62XDdghzQaJEJvZTqdkqme4bPGm32ubcJHEucdeG_CjBl1xrGzfjRLgHItWgv3yh0X3ZPA5Zpw8xyEseW5AvyTidxEz5tRcelbGZOi6rkcjKjlHe9Hc3IAdRM4c5Q64rhsrCgOPz6T/s640/IMG_5441.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her name is Josephine. She's addicted to sunflower seeds. She's been in and out of rehab a few times but she's come to the conclusion that she really cannot live without the seed. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_SGtMA-gSMA4wU31DlK9bt2i270A2B0Scgyu_71jPK05Wb8gPikDaAlIBGBdM4C7Z-X0ET02WHQVV44B-BKt6evUzUnFn9OxW9DdwnCFBle7dNj5qx39lStlQ__oJGwiivPfV8eAPTLvT/s1600/IMG_5443.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_SGtMA-gSMA4wU31DlK9bt2i270A2B0Scgyu_71jPK05Wb8gPikDaAlIBGBdM4C7Z-X0ET02WHQVV44B-BKt6evUzUnFn9OxW9DdwnCFBle7dNj5qx39lStlQ__oJGwiivPfV8eAPTLvT/s640/IMG_5443.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Betty used to live in Florida. She barely tolerates these imported oranges, but anything's better than the birdseed her friends gobble up like commoners.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBDPkcGl1YU_2kLGiJxpCrPLleDCx8pOIA_4mZEj8qCI1wLu-jtAsAgoPBAvLUTkvmVMykSL9v7EH8ce3G4-T0j56Z61Cd6ap6SN3U-5ppRsMscWL__IDzjQmMfl3ssAaJDFqT5rE74azo/s1600/IMG_5448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="518" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBDPkcGl1YU_2kLGiJxpCrPLleDCx8pOIA_4mZEj8qCI1wLu-jtAsAgoPBAvLUTkvmVMykSL9v7EH8ce3G4-T0j56Z61Cd6ap6SN3U-5ppRsMscWL__IDzjQmMfl3ssAaJDFqT5rE74azo/s640/IMG_5448.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And finally, this is Elton. He keeps his nest immaculate, has great fashion sense, and could listen to Barbra Streisand day and night.</td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpbL03WoY6Hxt9NkDet17vKPmgHlocMRzqbEWTSNhP4dIwLfBs-JmK31-aNvXpJ8A3Qhd5Jqaw0RfQOiCOktb4Mk_dB86sqzrSwIv6y9yAwFwpofEkK2JbYoqfmqnDSA8dvAHn8oEWnuc-/s1600/IMG_5420.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="516" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpbL03WoY6Hxt9NkDet17vKPmgHlocMRzqbEWTSNhP4dIwLfBs-JmK31-aNvXpJ8A3Qhd5Jqaw0RfQOiCOktb4Mk_dB86sqzrSwIv6y9yAwFwpofEkK2JbYoqfmqnDSA8dvAHn8oEWnuc-/s640/IMG_5420.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Peace out.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-76236275916735533852016-01-01T10:43:00.000-08:002016-01-04T17:27:15.332-08:00Joie de Vivre, Personified<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPLmCU1jZSZqtSr3gZ-gLLkbSY7hPl-l2H8NbFVz4uB6FfJsIfZ6UJiFTWu3O_MwLsqgwdIFwVhv_GWHNNALpMTeM2YOeHbnggz3gkmcvu2KXz-oncmXdl4riKyQ_C-BUCd7UAswtzdln/s1600/IMG_5890.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHPLmCU1jZSZqtSr3gZ-gLLkbSY7hPl-l2H8NbFVz4uB6FfJsIfZ6UJiFTWu3O_MwLsqgwdIFwVhv_GWHNNALpMTeM2YOeHbnggz3gkmcvu2KXz-oncmXdl4riKyQ_C-BUCd7UAswtzdln/s640/IMG_5890.JPG" width="638" /></a></div>
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This Christmas, I went back to my roots. </div>
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Some of my cousins from France were vacationing in the U.S., so we all gathered for a holiday family reunion. They are such a lovely bunch of people. Inside and out, and in between. I mean it. Every single one of them. And they enjoy the hell out of life. They personify a joie de vivre that is infectious. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnH22SXHvxLCy2Z_qw3KLULIkskguXBzM1I3rxkqOxS78Oz9FMNyCoZ_h419X3r-XKkEbkcgbeRltdivYO8YZNaOhylSgi8Z4qLV-a7t6oERg8wbTqFKGeQv_Zve0081_mhkUx69jQau-/s1600/IMG_2756.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="540" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDnH22SXHvxLCy2Z_qw3KLULIkskguXBzM1I3rxkqOxS78Oz9FMNyCoZ_h419X3r-XKkEbkcgbeRltdivYO8YZNaOhylSgi8Z4qLV-a7t6oERg8wbTqFKGeQv_Zve0081_mhkUx69jQau-/s640/IMG_2756.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4bau2CPqJzxJrwAxpBDhSSmGVYDovezL57llPmE3YHayy7qdJL2LVFvwkUTumPosxvzRiAarKmT4m0zj3PR2kwo0BETq-g9E2FCrsble7ItS3YssGTmB9rmKkYZLKmazHwM5faOwF5zW/s1600/IMG_2680.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip4bau2CPqJzxJrwAxpBDhSSmGVYDovezL57llPmE3YHayy7qdJL2LVFvwkUTumPosxvzRiAarKmT4m0zj3PR2kwo0BETq-g9E2FCrsble7ItS3YssGTmB9rmKkYZLKmazHwM5faOwF5zW/s640/IMG_2680.jpg" width="574" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEFjwiL7xaP7FDBDVVB4Tx-vtiXVgYtK9I1JQI9r0pnLE69qwmSxIhWPSk46-jZoyKOK8E76iiHZGbol_0tz41vlAa_NNBIXBDCFLTMyG9oEFT8Rwt_YIEMTWB_Va6ixJbLl8_FDNDKpQ/s1600/IMG_2657.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="602" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEFjwiL7xaP7FDBDVVB4Tx-vtiXVgYtK9I1JQI9r0pnLE69qwmSxIhWPSk46-jZoyKOK8E76iiHZGbol_0tz41vlAa_NNBIXBDCFLTMyG9oEFT8Rwt_YIEMTWB_Va6ixJbLl8_FDNDKpQ/s640/IMG_2657.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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While the French, in general, have a passion for food, we Gochtovtts are epicureans to the very core of our souls. Our lives revolve around it. Our lives depend on good cheese and crusty bread. And wine. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIl-8OfO1Q2FGYuZdMVXPhxFvN0u7lshqz1pEKgxtLDjeWyCqXrWJdJeXLGhdhQKeOwp_v4rGcRhMUuKCDzARiQlbRJzWnsJGJlW1BHz9TPG4wlFZaCGOt3czd1Aqh2yzMsgDps4BRYCsx/s1600/IMG_2816.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIl-8OfO1Q2FGYuZdMVXPhxFvN0u7lshqz1pEKgxtLDjeWyCqXrWJdJeXLGhdhQKeOwp_v4rGcRhMUuKCDzARiQlbRJzWnsJGJlW1BHz9TPG4wlFZaCGOt3czd1Aqh2yzMsgDps4BRYCsx/s640/IMG_2816.jpg" width="558" /></a></td></tr>
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The men spent a lot of their time cooking delicious food. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aYYNLV7dDufoWcEItxfs86iIo_dUV_0dlAoujBQEgOF3_RUIF2ylPBixAl7pgZmxM7uiTuo_9qt5Q5zs6-HAlkwEstPVS0JykjBz3y220Vcfs_bh9BcUYq7l7mcIjkB5RGswVaxHZ5ms/s1600/IMG_5892.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-aYYNLV7dDufoWcEItxfs86iIo_dUV_0dlAoujBQEgOF3_RUIF2ylPBixAl7pgZmxM7uiTuo_9qt5Q5zs6-HAlkwEstPVS0JykjBz3y220Vcfs_bh9BcUYq7l7mcIjkB5RGswVaxHZ5ms/s640/IMG_5892.jpg" width="632" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDFaOELfW-AgJTQh7cDOLkoXzPvw9GDaf_KK9vxpS6l1o4ZSdnhKgTtZpQvU9qhCzGcOxMfJF1F7Ct-_CD3OIzk7X71WSJ0xIAZZrDQWT2cmN46mFldOHU9Eqtd3sH8T4RQBPC5MZjjTp/s1600/IMG_5896.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkDFaOELfW-AgJTQh7cDOLkoXzPvw9GDaf_KK9vxpS6l1o4ZSdnhKgTtZpQvU9qhCzGcOxMfJF1F7Ct-_CD3OIzk7X71WSJ0xIAZZrDQWT2cmN46mFldOHU9Eqtd3sH8T4RQBPC5MZjjTp/s640/IMG_5896.jpg" width="548" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZpTy6GhlMCXz2auPWAEaBQHrdVDf7Q0NVhqiYU-5IQx4m1Q9TfUtTRTum0qDRGZws4pcytPnijlijQlXrzI1uHekxpvC83ElrC1UxzNBeeoxFmv9Y0p0pnQdJFFf8BCK5IxkMBjvWU-X/s1600/IMG_5833.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdZpTy6GhlMCXz2auPWAEaBQHrdVDf7Q0NVhqiYU-5IQx4m1Q9TfUtTRTum0qDRGZws4pcytPnijlijQlXrzI1uHekxpvC83ElrC1UxzNBeeoxFmv9Y0p0pnQdJFFf8BCK5IxkMBjvWU-X/s640/IMG_5833.jpg" width="498" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Holy Mother of Cheesus.</td></tr>
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Speaking of cheese. I'm going to share with you this secret recipe I recently learned from these fine people.<br />
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Here are the ingredients:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1vMugFK56ATpRUoWhpLIH8b1rI0QAwCWO0tcF5T7_XRXf5fb4YeSxO28P0-gvMS9aMzM2dyXzyt-IvbHMiIgnu6xuIHdjruiNt85oE5f0GuOrgVLG_2sSqKirPufQDU4G2fd6zkedXIK/s1600/IMG_5014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="504" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv1vMugFK56ATpRUoWhpLIH8b1rI0QAwCWO0tcF5T7_XRXf5fb4YeSxO28P0-gvMS9aMzM2dyXzyt-IvbHMiIgnu6xuIHdjruiNt85oE5f0GuOrgVLG_2sSqKirPufQDU4G2fd6zkedXIK/s640/IMG_5014.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brie and Marscapone</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8RliDWuxwri2yng_epVUxo49xFaKyaHKVzD-pJOshV0nOzGqyrzI_fAALfMBrNgJKk94UlOJOn4HSA9YJFd9B2vhT2atmErulJ7AVVXjq-whxRTUOE1ezHftC5qWqPpcYcYD6S3v3vZJa/s1600/IMG_5015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8RliDWuxwri2yng_epVUxo49xFaKyaHKVzD-pJOshV0nOzGqyrzI_fAALfMBrNgJKk94UlOJOn4HSA9YJFd9B2vhT2atmErulJ7AVVXjq-whxRTUOE1ezHftC5qWqPpcYcYD6S3v3vZJa/s640/IMG_5015.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Olive tapenade and black truffles.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hyphenhyphenFOJJ0XFI7mhh0cmDTIy4G367-28igo5O39eCGk7tE7hSHB2paOOEthLi2KSStWq1yIiaO5OLfeMXQ7GELi2EBIktnqUKuM42-gp2pjq09fl9JGx6eBbv3WABkaKqnDSdHSNZjo5KYS/s1600/IMG_5016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="542" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2hyphenhyphenFOJJ0XFI7mhh0cmDTIy4G367-28igo5O39eCGk7tE7hSHB2paOOEthLi2KSStWq1yIiaO5OLfeMXQ7GELi2EBIktnqUKuM42-gp2pjq09fl9JGx6eBbv3WABkaKqnDSdHSNZjo5KYS/s640/IMG_5016.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My cousins used a truffle tapenade, but I couldn't find it in Fort Wayne. <br />
So I improvised and used whole truffles and olive tapenade.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglReU9_rPNL5rGwSBm71uh2ez8pbtLi9AVrX3AtTgWA1eeo0Z7WqH9WMzwPSf4mJh7VAizGA9tFjjLJWUYkHvV7cvKiPJkUgPFE-uYyAhT9K4j_iPbt6Ihe2sRHHDeXsO57FM3lerICARe/s1600/IMG_5017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="618" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglReU9_rPNL5rGwSBm71uh2ez8pbtLi9AVrX3AtTgWA1eeo0Z7WqH9WMzwPSf4mJh7VAizGA9tFjjLJWUYkHvV7cvKiPJkUgPFE-uYyAhT9K4j_iPbt6Ihe2sRHHDeXsO57FM3lerICARe/s640/IMG_5017.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I happened to have truffle salt, which I'd received as a gift last Christmas, from a friend who really gets me. <br />
It was perfect to season the marscapone cheese mixture.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Once you have the ingredients, it's easy:<br />
<br />
1. Mix the marscapone with two to three tablespoons of olive tapenade and two very finely chopped truffles.<br />
2. Add truffle salt (optional).<br />
3. Cut the brie length-wise and spread the marscapone mixture in the middle.<br />
4. Voila!<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2M_G9PhNDWKerazTguPBx0GeX6InB_lBybVnJ6t1Hd1R54Tqd47_T8HYbX662sVXIenDCN5QFswr3GAi2CJn07HuOkQvOuAfiYSt52UCVw27DG8x2GMD8IcPSpnWHJlD_v3ehExZMVBEB/s1600/IMG_5018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="376" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2M_G9PhNDWKerazTguPBx0GeX6InB_lBybVnJ6t1Hd1R54Tqd47_T8HYbX662sVXIenDCN5QFswr3GAi2CJn07HuOkQvOuAfiYSt52UCVw27DG8x2GMD8IcPSpnWHJlD_v3ehExZMVBEB/s640/IMG_5018.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's the best damn cheese you'll ever taste. I promise. (Serve it at room temperature, or I will cut you.)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And if you have to choose between paying your electric bill or buying a jar of whole truffles at The Fresh Market, choose the truffles. You won't regret it. It tastes great in the dark.<br />
<br />
Live your life.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuE36lYj7uaLhEelrAYHG6S8Dzaqk7c52NCs62XHmeUssvBQZRcU_M6DlRdUp9cHcQahKqwEkvxnOqyh5LgyKpHUipPFxty9-qW_KjrY2Vba_mNezw0coE35h5eI9Q1vdBMECl14R51NW/s1600/IMG_4969.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOuE36lYj7uaLhEelrAYHG6S8Dzaqk7c52NCs62XHmeUssvBQZRcU_M6DlRdUp9cHcQahKqwEkvxnOqyh5LgyKpHUipPFxty9-qW_KjrY2Vba_mNezw0coE35h5eI9Q1vdBMECl14R51NW/s640/IMG_4969.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The U.S. cousins.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJG5MNMV0_SRo9bDYxtI9mgavYZ4LY6SLRbrSa4eNH4dlKUN-5oK83eaSCnrCFgxwira6CVDyO3Ww9oOgbDdjcqXMfI83TpwH-qd_qMdvklZ0vVgh2RFr5jU0gBIt6g96q45WNJ2DiDWK/s1600/IMG_2831.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="534" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJG5MNMV0_SRo9bDYxtI9mgavYZ4LY6SLRbrSa4eNH4dlKUN-5oK83eaSCnrCFgxwira6CVDyO3Ww9oOgbDdjcqXMfI83TpwH-qd_qMdvklZ0vVgh2RFr5jU0gBIt6g96q45WNJ2DiDWK/s640/IMG_2831.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQVIsfp8mXKTUvFqFOE_M5OJeycyKvBcXBUXQd1z6r7u06TzPK91KL8WxL8zgvBg9mPZGpHa0tVwHQCUTsnR8y0rzyYMXGoSttc6y1f_kaH8r8urKQUtz40OqmZ_YZHcKhjPgHteL3aK5U/s1600/IMG_2856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="392" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQVIsfp8mXKTUvFqFOE_M5OJeycyKvBcXBUXQd1z6r7u06TzPK91KL8WxL8zgvBg9mPZGpHa0tVwHQCUTsnR8y0rzyYMXGoSttc6y1f_kaH8r8urKQUtz40OqmZ_YZHcKhjPgHteL3aK5U/s640/IMG_2856.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's a hell of a lot of Gochtovtts.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggwtOGr7QBpXkgBzcJ1XKfUyV3BAnmMM8c9co6w0fAzXU9NHf1NvLxenXnDGc_1fIslPgKsYCcRKQGsrrLAzpChi5RPi37UwlGJ82yScB5LsqQkbV7htK2JVtIckykYz-QRgjjAKKGu3fl/s1600/IMG_4927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggwtOGr7QBpXkgBzcJ1XKfUyV3BAnmMM8c9co6w0fAzXU9NHf1NvLxenXnDGc_1fIslPgKsYCcRKQGsrrLAzpChi5RPi37UwlGJ82yScB5LsqQkbV7htK2JVtIckykYz-QRgjjAKKGu3fl/s640/IMG_4927.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I love this moment.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVADOrvK1sTwARvbdvekaN50hCd9fsFPEoqm1I0dMyBxF6Y-u0VsVxgLPyvcDBOvMN2tbEF9hZRG8Qd0vhaL6CvW44YdWgYvgrwtQZIDE3Xe8Hfd8I5thSeRpURE3-canjt8aoSMo-q0h/s1600/IMG_4947.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVADOrvK1sTwARvbdvekaN50hCd9fsFPEoqm1I0dMyBxF6Y-u0VsVxgLPyvcDBOvMN2tbEF9hZRG8Qd0vhaL6CvW44YdWgYvgrwtQZIDE3Xe8Hfd8I5thSeRpURE3-canjt8aoSMo-q0h/s640/IMG_4947.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
Cheeeeese. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnXXdYSZKPDZ6TtIvH5oZiMkpI7p7tXP-jxMR_qPxuk2fVSRn7lgMFjZtvbZEf5smmj6OdgvrshAfFbMH8otl8h-amxVu4wrsFyubELpgwTKdwsZ6z7YobSMMHpURp3DeTTNCNNWH98XT/s1600/IMG_4953.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlnXXdYSZKPDZ6TtIvH5oZiMkpI7p7tXP-jxMR_qPxuk2fVSRn7lgMFjZtvbZEf5smmj6OdgvrshAfFbMH8otl8h-amxVu4wrsFyubELpgwTKdwsZ6z7YobSMMHpURp3DeTTNCNNWH98XT/s640/IMG_4953.JPG" width="598" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yo, what's happening here?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ts7hmfUU2Urhvq7gvDs6s7y4fChQlaRtfAlNNL0DEWIpGPbWqS3sNoBAw4pby5GWU28_8nIxru5Fh4O2l4mokwnJguwSSdkHCKJBQ-ibZwZY8CW9q5-BEQCCUGf4fYGdj1MQoD2XUfJf/s1600/IMG_5002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="484" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1ts7hmfUU2Urhvq7gvDs6s7y4fChQlaRtfAlNNL0DEWIpGPbWqS3sNoBAw4pby5GWU28_8nIxru5Fh4O2l4mokwnJguwSSdkHCKJBQ-ibZwZY8CW9q5-BEQCCUGf4fYGdj1MQoD2XUfJf/s640/IMG_5002.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We went on a Christmas day hike.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQh9UCn9SUVKKbp8J-lNDwLNeSjVTOALQOaXuRXnQYQj33W1VQMBFyltUDhOgwt9BaFKyO29utzxGaE1wXISyA5hmGBOD5hEzpdq5uYbRULBhgEaXdtvfXzCr8jZYYWze0w81agHwx5GH/s1600/IMG_2729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRQh9UCn9SUVKKbp8J-lNDwLNeSjVTOALQOaXuRXnQYQj33W1VQMBFyltUDhOgwt9BaFKyO29utzxGaE1wXISyA5hmGBOD5hEzpdq5uYbRULBhgEaXdtvfXzCr8jZYYWze0w81agHwx5GH/s640/IMG_2729.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyd told us today that her wish didn't come true, even though she blew out all the candles. <br />
She wished it would rain cats and dogs. Seriously. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwc5B6Yy4qfawyKM8n84UEGvM1eH4CefHOx_7fScEjzdReCMvRIXDNYNCN01vW9T4QtIJqvwNGP3I52w17-VPDnAzdIQ4dDDpnzAiFN069wH9mm-hHRDUyOy-IBKZiD4ieqHhvO8irzuRD/s1600/IMG_5831.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwc5B6Yy4qfawyKM8n84UEGvM1eH4CefHOx_7fScEjzdReCMvRIXDNYNCN01vW9T4QtIJqvwNGP3I52w17-VPDnAzdIQ4dDDpnzAiFN069wH9mm-hHRDUyOy-IBKZiD4ieqHhvO8irzuRD/s640/IMG_5831.jpg" width="374" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyd, the birthday kid.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2k3DzS40A0uVt9dThNoxkFZGvJYfc2d1e2Q1zlSMhHZHRTbVQWL9Mf6WyAt2IBCgD66D-vHD48DnxXiHo9fZUv-rpnIqtusrFuV3QKXXG2iRFiH5STukZT0FYbwKDr4eKzDPCcj-RJh9/s1600/IMG_5882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz2k3DzS40A0uVt9dThNoxkFZGvJYfc2d1e2Q1zlSMhHZHRTbVQWL9Mf6WyAt2IBCgD66D-vHD48DnxXiHo9fZUv-rpnIqtusrFuV3QKXXG2iRFiH5STukZT0FYbwKDr4eKzDPCcj-RJh9/s640/IMG_5882.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Look at all those French people on a bridge. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx37GzDN05nLwBtxh-vRlxdLnEKCyvAOEUBkVxKwvAfh9zqRwUQOdsWx4pruekYwwVN_gbuxQ_pnTgxLL__oTl-jteCH4SWrry_DMRl9rdM_DflT6rUTvy1aeS6Pz4m2qj27NgKpzC-3K_/s1600/IMG_5893.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx37GzDN05nLwBtxh-vRlxdLnEKCyvAOEUBkVxKwvAfh9zqRwUQOdsWx4pruekYwwVN_gbuxQ_pnTgxLL__oTl-jteCH4SWrry_DMRl9rdM_DflT6rUTvy1aeS6Pz4m2qj27NgKpzC-3K_/s640/IMG_5893.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the adult table. It took a long time to serve everyone. </td></tr>
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I was going to take a picture of everyone sitting at that giant table, but by the time we sat down for dinner, I had lost my camera. In other words, I was drunk.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuYZIrZEblEpwD808AOJrtfMfokCHBUrrYGOJb_fO5Spe0DZ2uESUlstVZ1ix0-rCu-MXVS32FGKFEqXd6ycCjrnu8aOhcqZ5qoK1pgKGeiGgrfQdvu7BsEa6jtBFWsDLP_MriA4H8sUZ/s1600/IMG_5899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhuYZIrZEblEpwD808AOJrtfMfokCHBUrrYGOJb_fO5Spe0DZ2uESUlstVZ1ix0-rCu-MXVS32FGKFEqXd6ycCjrnu8aOhcqZ5qoK1pgKGeiGgrfQdvu7BsEa6jtBFWsDLP_MriA4H8sUZ/s640/IMG_5899.jpg" width="582" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFg_KQGtCJeXjuDCimuHm855_DMBKw3UF-4rRa-_IkjOee5bH6EeLXgdZ06YsUEh0xTb885e_qtGuYp8t8t3WUd3HkW8r89JkT1yV7QRDePyt7zoLb5VBqI6vrc8WBVPKp9b_2hXeJ6XGl/s1600/IMG_5921.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFg_KQGtCJeXjuDCimuHm855_DMBKw3UF-4rRa-_IkjOee5bH6EeLXgdZ06YsUEh0xTb885e_qtGuYp8t8t3WUd3HkW8r89JkT1yV7QRDePyt7zoLb5VBqI6vrc8WBVPKp9b_2hXeJ6XGl/s640/IMG_5921.jpg" width="558" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back in Indiana, I got to hold my newest American nephew. My ovaries cried with joy and love. </td></tr>
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After the long 12 hour drive back to Indiana, we were all tired. The kids were tucked in but Cyd kept getting out of bed. After the third time of getting her back to bed, I gave in and layed down next to her. She said, "Thanks. This is what I needed."<br />
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She laid her head on my shoulder and I asked her if she needed a pillow so she could be more comfortable. She said, "No. Your bones are fluffy. Your bones are made of cotton." My little Cyda is a poet. A POET.<br />
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The moral of this story is we should strive to enjoy the moments that make up our beautiful life. Prepare food with love. Be kind to people. Splurge. For the love of all that is good in the world, splurge when you can. You almost always can.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgics79iTKdNgCCwd9sMfGJCdGR_FwS352ilW_OBSAxgJf216lmYb6A2ou8ulKrHUw9dkbbQPkUPJ1dZbL8eQSa-g8dkZ13Js6PCsBzuozQsUcD2eushB8jCYHj9Zh-Ak9ZP7LeyHKy0C/s1600/IMG_5020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEgics79iTKdNgCCwd9sMfGJCdGR_FwS352ilW_OBSAxgJf216lmYb6A2ou8ulKrHUw9dkbbQPkUPJ1dZbL8eQSa-g8dkZ13Js6PCsBzuozQsUcD2eushB8jCYHj9Zh-Ak9ZP7LeyHKy0C/s640/IMG_5020.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New Year's Day smoked salmon eggs benedict. </td></tr>
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Peace out.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-73856549122046962872015-12-09T19:49:00.000-08:002015-12-10T05:47:21.256-08:00I Am Alive<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDL4JoTikUFBkjpx4kkY2hAiOuFJNc0QNoQa87LLaLDA3Xq4448Woa3diqMJk-TgJyXX8q6aceK_FPi0LeflSBh_ql5BLRxxIHljk4Udrm6wzmPFOu30g75UU-RD63IqVUesmUtO1LQdv/s1600/eggs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQDL4JoTikUFBkjpx4kkY2hAiOuFJNc0QNoQa87LLaLDA3Xq4448Woa3diqMJk-TgJyXX8q6aceK_FPi0LeflSBh_ql5BLRxxIHljk4Udrm6wzmPFOu30g75UU-RD63IqVUesmUtO1LQdv/s640/eggs.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A few days ago, I was on my way home from a meeting and just as we were getting on the highway, a giant bald eagle flew right over us. Low, glorious, potentially symbolic of my death.<br />
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Holy. Shit.<br />
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It took me a minute to register the moment. It was so perfect and needed at that specific time. I have a thing for eagles, hawks, owls. They are the wild that is etched in the palm of my hand. My heart.<br />
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That evening, I came home and I was alone with my cats and my dog. Laura had taken the kids to their Girl Scout meeting. I was home alone, which seldom happens. Let the reveling begin.<br />
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I've been reading "Wonder", by Raquel J. Palacio, mainly because Fiona loved it and I wanted to have something to talk to her about that didn't involve apps or Minecraft or can you please clear the table and I love you.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9Z_WprB5kP2UO4a314RnNmxzkRYvAPYzdB9hPBu6jQdw2tGZN3lUaJPr0NH5Vc5h773r-iomZVbPKAusuy37hZOEEtJt7oQc580m94kQnVI6oPDkKRIjyNfK4yc7ASHTwef3tLUoszwk/s1600/wonder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="638" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM9Z_WprB5kP2UO4a314RnNmxzkRYvAPYzdB9hPBu6jQdw2tGZN3lUaJPr0NH5Vc5h773r-iomZVbPKAusuy37hZOEEtJt7oQc580m94kQnVI6oPDkKRIjyNfK4yc7ASHTwef3tLUoszwk/s640/wonder.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I poured myself a large glass of Chardonnay and sat down to finish this sweet, heartbreaking book.<br />
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Scout was sitting on my shoulders, as she likes to do when she's being freaking adorable. I scratched her under her neck and she made eye contact and rested her head on my arm. She's still a puppy and her first priority is to run fast and be high energy, but when she relaxes near the end of the day, she sinks into a sweet puddle of beautiful beast.<br />
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I sat in my silence and fretted that everything was just too perfect. The eagle. Scout being so attentive and loving. This silence. Obviously, I will breathe my last breath tonight.<br />
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How do I deserve this?<br />
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A couple of days later (I was still alive), Matilda or Olive laid their very first egg and I was so thankful for its beauty.<br />
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The universe is either fucking with me, or loves me. Either/or.<br />
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This weekend, we went to pick out our Christmas tree. We were going to chop it down like the pioneer family we are. But the Fraser Fir trees that were available for chopping were sold out. Still, we found a beautiful pre-cut Fraser tree and we loaded it up on top of the Subaru. The kids were downing hot chocolate. (I think Cyd had four or ten servings). They were feeling the spirit. Or, at least, the sugar.<br />
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As Laura and the girls were securing the tree on top of the car, I looked up and high in the sky was a bald eagle, circling over us.<br />
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Two in one week.<br />
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I will surely die tonight.<br />
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It's not that I associate eagles with death.<br />
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I get anxious when what I want deep to the core of me actually happens. What if it's a sign that I got my way so I can be done with this life? Game: over. It's weird. It's not a fully fledged thought, but it crosses my mind like a fleeting shadow of perhaps.<br />
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As I wring my hands with this crazy superstition, I want to ignore what it is within me that hinders the acceptance of beauty and wishes coming true.<br />
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I want to continue.<br />
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Peace out.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvJkKck-rf67oro7RYKOCImnhbryESC7pK8uWSPqB8JO6CJQCzgDVzQ0PW_DUKb3rG528FFg4Prwi9NaEQ6Uq8Nlp76iP0257cgzpSog4j9IfXIX9C9Y1flkq0M-18ZOogvzVKHkUSKUQ/s1600/christmas+tree.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwvJkKck-rf67oro7RYKOCImnhbryESC7pK8uWSPqB8JO6CJQCzgDVzQ0PW_DUKb3rG528FFg4Prwi9NaEQ6Uq8Nlp76iP0257cgzpSog4j9IfXIX9C9Y1flkq0M-18ZOogvzVKHkUSKUQ/s640/christmas+tree.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<br />Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-13347968513113136162015-08-24T10:11:00.000-07:002015-08-24T10:11:13.409-07:00We Went to the Mountains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Laura and I went on vacation. By ourselves. I generally believe in vacationing with our children. I love being a family of four. We travel well together and I strongly believe that giving them the experience of things outside of their realm of home enriches them. But this time, we were on our own. And, well, it was super awesome. </div>
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I worried about the kids more than was reasonable. But now that we're home and they're still alive, it is obvious that I need to chill much more often. </div>
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I won't bore you with any further exploration of my neuroses. Instead, here are some photos. Also, I LOVE CANADA. Everything about it, especially its people. They're like French people, only friendlier. And they called me "Love". i.e. "Can I get you another drink, Love? Oh, you're welcome, Love."</div>
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I'm not even kidding. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGWaSpohcZkj6uAY3oyaltdbNf607As5KmGAoFaUMF37kiBE6UbtyhJ0E1wIGi0BmvV2v1QOfy8InVPJoACvRxFMUh2GvmsdJc3ZXQBEdCHmyl-OFI9UEBcYQPFraWuTeVqsdtbAontI4/s1600/IMG_4709.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="544" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNGWaSpohcZkj6uAY3oyaltdbNf607As5KmGAoFaUMF37kiBE6UbtyhJ0E1wIGi0BmvV2v1QOfy8InVPJoACvRxFMUh2GvmsdJc3ZXQBEdCHmyl-OFI9UEBcYQPFraWuTeVqsdtbAontI4/s640/IMG_4709.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXrhU8tIh2X27bGWwZiHV8K_sA3dFO9YfOydLaWR3tCrqDbiQ6GyUMct6cgQY4ID6FEDEW7z8y3WkbU-Ns3LD7PIvVGZy2Gq_diZ0yjIbpcZkZmGVduTFSIiWFqp-nRf3dHuKtf7TG8Wx/s1600/IMG_4662.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUXrhU8tIh2X27bGWwZiHV8K_sA3dFO9YfOydLaWR3tCrqDbiQ6GyUMct6cgQY4ID6FEDEW7z8y3WkbU-Ns3LD7PIvVGZy2Gq_diZ0yjIbpcZkZmGVduTFSIiWFqp-nRf3dHuKtf7TG8Wx/s640/IMG_4662.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We took a train from Vancouver to Whistler. The scenery was so lovely that I had to put down my book.<br /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3S2GbUGL3_nEH-i_bp9ALLi9oVZjh_3lO_gRLimyX5J4KsUMNMkkuQy9csMB_G5JO087Ra4Dtk3_5RwFJ3CYALwBnus2ssN-bzSZgfTerT1sRhV_mvxdeNJfI6fzBWdkTPBtI3WmpoOa0/s1600/IMG_4675.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="490" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3S2GbUGL3_nEH-i_bp9ALLi9oVZjh_3lO_gRLimyX5J4KsUMNMkkuQy9csMB_G5JO087Ra4Dtk3_5RwFJ3CYALwBnus2ssN-bzSZgfTerT1sRhV_mvxdeNJfI6fzBWdkTPBtI3WmpoOa0/s640/IMG_4675.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8KRD-bcRckieK6Ov63PP7_7A7c5nZOA5MZlGt5PsAvKiZIUHEjk8vXxCnj1fUP8F83sc6xnI-XgZGihMoSHi5QfPZisPdlB7-QOec6P9RhL5B2QUZ1vzuhcwmiRSY_HCUhMmYABl2xAwn/s1600/IMG_9528.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8KRD-bcRckieK6Ov63PP7_7A7c5nZOA5MZlGt5PsAvKiZIUHEjk8vXxCnj1fUP8F83sc6xnI-XgZGihMoSHi5QfPZisPdlB7-QOec6P9RhL5B2QUZ1vzuhcwmiRSY_HCUhMmYABl2xAwn/s640/IMG_9528.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I conquered my fear of heights and braved the gondola to experience Whistler's "Peak to Peak." I'm glad I did. I was sweating profusely, but I still got a photo.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bGhCPZ7YVebbOxSL2rnxf5UL6TaEcHJ34YxcGMf8C7Sdx4wsHjLJYlyjsvlFuiqbuMULvJR1ZBREDKOARBsGA1PZ2pCnGoq10spol95TfSeqylA9FPvKAwx2ANcyNYYYmGRwmi0pS_TZ/s1600/IMG_4720.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_bGhCPZ7YVebbOxSL2rnxf5UL6TaEcHJ34YxcGMf8C7Sdx4wsHjLJYlyjsvlFuiqbuMULvJR1ZBREDKOARBsGA1PZ2pCnGoq10spol95TfSeqylA9FPvKAwx2ANcyNYYYmGRwmi0pS_TZ/s640/IMG_4720.jpg" width="440" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Once we got to Blackcomb Mountain, we met this adorable little marmot. We didn't believe he was real, at first. I mean, what are the odds, that the official mascot of Whistler was just sitting here on the edge of a mountain, posing for us. Turns out, he was real. We lead a charmed life. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaEkRvuvw4C2ZingGeE0hJtzeXxfIx9-tnB2U-xiamo_M8Z3Q11Nhp7RXT41AVW_I_7Dv4MMKzRrh5HrBGOqR5l2zp2re2VtDliQ6fIk5JiHrjAfqICk-YoVVx1bS-e47mezUjeicPHJl/s1600/IMG_9502.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFaEkRvuvw4C2ZingGeE0hJtzeXxfIx9-tnB2U-xiamo_M8Z3Q11Nhp7RXT41AVW_I_7Dv4MMKzRrh5HrBGOqR5l2zp2re2VtDliQ6fIk5JiHrjAfqICk-YoVVx1bS-e47mezUjeicPHJl/s640/IMG_9502.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oh, the room service. It was impeccable. The salmon was the best I've had in a really long time. "Would you like anything else, Love?" No, this is everything. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhyphenhyphenrCNqmDykvyGdL_-xsaPqxLxTlwZWQ6HAlN97i9iDtI_a3Z0pdC90oMtu295B09JDAea-AcZF713ZvFPDqz2WMiUFGlbOFc9KIJdLEdd_ixNdTtbaSJGiOwQoeo-FlF5aPG_zgd5iSb/s1600/IMG_4471.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNhyphenhyphenrCNqmDykvyGdL_-xsaPqxLxTlwZWQ6HAlN97i9iDtI_a3Z0pdC90oMtu295B09JDAea-AcZF713ZvFPDqz2WMiUFGlbOFc9KIJdLEdd_ixNdTtbaSJGiOwQoeo-FlF5aPG_zgd5iSb/s640/IMG_4471.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We went on a bear watching tour. We saw nine bears. Our bear guide was passionate. He knew where the bears hung out. He knew their names. Their story. I don't typically like strangers, but I liked him.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFqhjuCNkliiSYKO68b9NNjbxNIBxGjcqdNdFnQZk0eSWXhyphenhyphenxD4JL4IlxLwamECB0qX0IeNrPp8H7sA3IDWlzg1d7Y72-evs8Vynuq6zhvxudLpOMQZqFKWZ01S1tpDTVNMeyRxBNjQf_/s1600/IMG_4790.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUFqhjuCNkliiSYKO68b9NNjbxNIBxGjcqdNdFnQZk0eSWXhyphenhyphenxD4JL4IlxLwamECB0qX0IeNrPp8H7sA3IDWlzg1d7Y72-evs8Vynuq6zhvxudLpOMQZqFKWZ01S1tpDTVNMeyRxBNjQf_/s640/IMG_4790.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This photo is blurry, but I'm posting it because of the two bear cubs. How adorable are they? (Very.)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8MJ9sIQnJwHv0qRD_1NVvaWKrUv3JImjlqGW30qkxfbW3nT4LMwbYSkcWaZC7h8iC2BvrTgWDEaGwQfZtJAd344PfOJqsQLzgdCajo7xkw4nNQx-RhKhN6XpfdnJfqDexOdFvyaMg1bn/s1600/IMG_4792.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="530" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8MJ9sIQnJwHv0qRD_1NVvaWKrUv3JImjlqGW30qkxfbW3nT4LMwbYSkcWaZC7h8iC2BvrTgWDEaGwQfZtJAd344PfOJqsQLzgdCajo7xkw4nNQx-RhKhN6XpfdnJfqDexOdFvyaMg1bn/s640/IMG_4792.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Her name is Ella. And her adorable baby on the left doesn't have a name yet but I'm going to name her Anna. </td></tr>
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Go further. It's my new motto.<br />
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Peace out.</div>
Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-46430827784745268292015-04-29T06:49:00.002-07:002015-04-29T06:50:27.928-07:00Waiting and Cropping as a Way of Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When Laura and I decided it was time for us to have children, so many years ago, we took the necessary steps, we fumbled a little (a lot) but we figured it out and several years later, Fiona was born. And then, of course, Cyd. (Did I ever tell you the story about when I got knocked up with Cyd? One chance. Natalie Merchant. It's a good story for another time.)<br />
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We learned about patience, good faith, and mutual wishes. What you truly want takes time. The waiting is full of uncertainty and needless worry. Everything we want happens, eventually. It always does. </div>
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When our little family grew up, we started looking for the perfect place to grow along with it. Laura and I have wanted a wood burning fireplace for 15 years. And we've dreamed about having chickens, and a little land to sow and harvest our favorite vegetables. Maybe we'll have goats and make goat cheese. And we may adopt a dog. The sweet, smiling kind who will wag his or her tail and look happy when we get home. Because our cats, well, I love them more than they deserve.<br />
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So we waited, in our little house. We waited a long goddamn time. </div>
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We have lived enough life to know that wishes wait until the stars and thoughts align in the most perfect way. The universe, patient as a flowering plum, gathers everything we think and hope and then -- poof -- here we are </div>
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in our new (still) little house with lots of land and a dream. A giant one. It's the kind of giant that is endless, without rules or boundaries, and too heavy with promise to carry all at once. It's the kind of dream without a dishwasher or central air.<br />
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But it sure as hell has the fireplace we've always wanted.<br />
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You know how when you come home with all the groceries in the trunk of your car and you have so much to do and you're tired of the scrambling so you just want to carry as many bags as you can so you don't have to waste time taking so many trips because the kids are hungry and cranky and maybe if you hurry long enough it will all get done and you'll get a few moments of quiet time right before you have to start dinner?<br />
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This is how I feel every minute of my life. And I know I need to slow the hell down and be present. If we have tortillas and oranges for dinner, it's OK. And the laundry will never get done. Never, ever, ever.<br />
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The TV is still on the coffee table with all those disorderly cords everywhere, and the washer and dryer are in the dining room. The dining. Room.<br />
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Waiting is often inconvenient.<br />
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We have pockets of perfection. Cozy little spaces where everything is in order. Sometimes, I sneak away and sit quietly in the tiny nook upstairs, but they always find me, and usually spill something.<br />
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In the middle of chaos that is everyday, I watch the children in their total blissful oblivion, carefree in their play and I can't help but take a photo to capture the moment. And when I crop the dirty socks and Barbie shoes out of the shot, I think, damn, I'm living The Life. The key is to crop out what doesn't fill your heart with joy. Everything else is in the shot.<br />
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There. I've just told you how to live your life to the fullest: crop the crap out of it.<br />
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The kids don't give a damn about the horrid kitchen with its stupid electric stove and lack of dishwasher. They haven't even noticed the peculiarity of the bathroom, completely devoid of a single hook or towel bar. They like to leave their towels on the floor so, whatevs.<br />
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It's past midnight, and there's a fire burning in our new fireplace, and I'm sitting here in the dark after a full day of early morning dance class, and grocery shopping and baby chicken loving and plum tree planting, followed by a casual dinner, outside, of just sandwiches and pretzels and Dos Equis and milk.<br />
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It's sweeter than I had imagined. </div>
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And I'm convinced (or at least hopeful) that we've done the best thing. </div>
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If it wasn't for the waiting, what would we have to look forward to?</div>
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Peace out.<br />
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P.S. DID I TELL YOU WE'RE GETTING CHICKENS?! And one of them will be named Caramia. Mark my words.<br />
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P.S.S. Natalie Merchant is NOT the third mother of our children.</div>
Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-86996763367014631682015-03-19T17:38:00.000-07:002015-03-20T13:04:42.480-07:00A SliverI was heading out on the road. alone, for a meeting. The sky was blue, my music was shuffling in the most perfect way and I stopped for fancy coffee like some sort of damn professional. I can do this. I am a person. I am more than a whisper.<br />
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I felt my tired body recharge with a sigh of solitude.<br />
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Three hours alone in my car with my thoughts and my music. HOLLA! I was happy, shuffling the Indigo Girls and no one else because they are all I need for this sort of sojourn.<br />
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I got there an hour early so I stopped for lunch at a random diner I found on Yelp. It was packed. Packed full of gray haired women. I sat alone in a quiet corner.<br />
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Everyone was eating chicken salad, contentedly chatting. The waitress didn't know what to do with me when I ordered the portabello sandwich. She never told me the special. I think it may have been chicken salad.<br />
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I started to lose my vibe.<br />
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The pretending got too heavy.<br />
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What am I am doing? I clutched my water glass, lonely, drained.<br />
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I made it to the meeting very early, hopeful, sweaty, and there was talk about reach and frequency. It was approved. All of it. I did my job.<br />
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But there was one man. One. Seething. Angry. I watched him and could not place his anger anywhere but inside. I was a shell, empty and too easily filled.<br />
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I could just leave this place and be back to myself. Why do I have to take it in. But you know how that is. I'm not much different than any of you.<br />
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It stays and it festers.<br />
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We are sponges and we soak up all the energy and then we move on like nothing has changed us even when it has, in desperate, giant ways.<br />
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It was dark and pouring by the time I got in my car to drive home. My windshield wipers weren't working so I couldn't see the road and the semis were zooming past me and i felt his anger all over again and i could not go on.<br />
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I could not go on.<br />
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So maybe i was crying in the Comfort Inn parking lot. Maybe i had lost.<br />
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I wanted to call my mother. But of course, i couldn't.<br />
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<br />Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-56621640252768314592015-02-15T14:01:00.000-08:002015-02-15T16:17:23.279-08:00Brioche: A Recipe for PatienceHave I ever told you how much I love to make brioche? All that smooth, sexy butter and rich eggs, not to mention the slow, sensual swelling of the dough as it reaches its maximum flavor, rising overnight, so sure of itself.<br />
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I have a thing for brioche.<br />
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It's messy. I don't have one of those fancy schmancy KitchenAid mixers, so I do it all by hand. Just like they used to on the prairie.<br />
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The dough is stiff at first and it takes a while to get the butter incorporated. You have to mash it and squish it and if you take photos while you're doing this, you end up with a bunch of butter on your Canon.</div>
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And just when you think the dough will never come together, it does. It always does.</div>
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The next day, all you need to do is knead your dough and shape it into the most glorious loaf, bake it, and you're left with a silky, tender bundle of goodness. </div>
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If that isn't enough, use some of the dough to make some pains au chocolat. Holy sh#t, the deliciousness.<br />
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This luxury of homemade bread smothered in butter is a crucial salve during the winter months when the frozen landscape and paralyzing chill leaves me numb and empty of that nebulous something that causes joy. The light is dim for too long and the promise feels broken.<br />
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Maybe it's worse this year. Maybe it's just me. Maybe it's Maybeline.<br />
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I am bursting with anticipation for the first sign of green grass, the first sign of the most courageous crocus finding its way through the stubborn snow for a forgotten taste of sunshine.<br />
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We recently bought a little house in town with a few acres and I'm dying to discover the land. I want to grow asparagus and broccoli and garlic. I don't care that garlic is a penny a pound. I want to dig it out of our soil. I'm in the mood to grow, to harvest, to reap. I want fields of lavender and native plants. Rows of sugar snap peas, spinach, and heirloom tomatoes.<br />
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I want.<br />
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Right now, it's a little house of horrors. But you can't judge a house by its horrors. It has the bones and land we've been looking for. Laura has a vision for the landscape. I have a vision for the quiche I'll be making in our remodeled kitchen, and the fire we will burn in our stone fireplace. And the chickens we will raise, alongside our children.<br />
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The outbuildings are greenhouses in the making.<br />
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And it has the most adorable front door.</div>
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<br />
But it's still winter, we still have another house to sell. We're frozen in limbo until something gives.<br />
<br />
At the very least we have hope and brioche to sustain us until the thaw.<br />
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Just when you think it'll never come together, it does. It always does. It's messy and difficult, but it's delicious in the end.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
*******</div>
<br />
Speaking of delicious, I'd like to give a shout out to <a href="http://www.oldcrown.com/" target="_blank">Old Crown</a> for the scrumptious valentine's day dinner. The pan-seared walleye topped with grilled shrimp and accompanied by asparagus and roasted garlic red cabbage was impeccably prepared.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cookies by the amazing Jeannie Porter</td></tr>
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Peace and love.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-58050637629431330572014-12-22T20:10:00.000-08:002015-01-05T17:31:30.692-08:00I'm Trying to Tell you Something About my LifeI don't have time to read all the words. And I don't have time to listen to all the lyrics. Sometimes I try to branch out but I'm always left lonely and bitter about the time I've wasted trying to be a normal person with an open mind.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I have to narrow it down to what my heart trusts and then get stone drunk and addicted to it until there's nothing left. These addictions have fluctuated over the years. I went through my Shakespeare phase in high school. I memorized the hell out of <i>Hamlet</i>. The antic disposition, the Ophelia factor. The indecision, inaction, reticence - the misery. It belonged to me. I wrote every single term paper I could about that crazy dude. I became obsessed with the language, the perfect combination of words. I wanted to be defined by it.<br />
<br />
There was also Doestoevsky and Bruce Springsteen. And then there was Dorothy Parker, a quick detour with Harry Chapin. In college, I idolized Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf, and The Cure.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These days, I've settled with these favorite five:<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Barbara Kingsolver</div>
<div>
Amy Ray and Emily Saliers (The Indigo Girls)</div>
<div>
Toni Morrison<br />
Margaret Atwood</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They write the words that float abstractly in my brain. They're able to combine syllables in a way that is so surprisingly perfect that they enlighten pockets of truth, tucked just beneath the surface of everyday.<br />
<br />
Do you ever find yourself alone in your car, driving to work, thinking about that one line in <i>Beloved</i> when Sethe says, "Today is always here. Tomorrow, never."<br />
<br />
And my mind is full of Kingsolver. "What I want is so simple. I almost can't say it: elementary kindness." My heart belongs to <i>Animal Dreams </i>and don't even get me started on <i>Poisonwood Bible.</i><br />
<br /></div>
<div>
The thing about addictions is that you get to know the addictee very well. When you've read every work, listened to every lyric, you become the best of friends, which is another word for stalker.<br />
<br />
I admire them, not only for their perfect sentences but for their activism, their vision for a better world. I wring my hands with respect for them.<br />
<br />
This year, I made a point to walk out of my comfort zone. I read books I would otherwise not have considered. For instance, I read a young adult novel, <i>Eleanor & Park</i>, written by Rainbow Rowell, and I was CAPTIVATED. I fell in love with those characters. I was heartbroken at the end, left without closure.<br />
<br />
But did it change the way I think? Did it challenge me? Did I come across a string of words that was so perfectly strung together that my heart understood something it didn't know before? Did I melt into a puddle of gratitude because of immaculate poetry and precise syntax?<br />
<br />
No. And it's alright. I read a book and I liked it.<br />
<br />
It's enough.<br />
<br />
Peace.</div>
Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-45383029883622095012014-09-29T16:04:00.001-07:002014-09-29T16:04:18.402-07:00A Reflection on Running my First and Last Half MarathonIt always starts out the same way. I get to the starting line way too early and I stand alone, freezing, awkward, under caffeinated. I pretend to be cool about it and do some stretching exercises. I watch the other runners and swallow their excitement. Mostly, I yawn and dig deep into my psyche to figure out what possessed me to do this thing.<br />
<br />
If you know me, you know that I hate people. Not all people, just groups of strangers. Crowds are my albatross. They suffocate me and wring my energy dry. It's a leaden burden I can willfully avoid and I usually do when it's cost effective. And yet, here I was of my own free will, vascillating between feelings of kinship and loneliness.<br />
<br />
There was one couple who touched me. They were in their early fifties. The wife was the runner and the man I assumed was her husband was there to see her off. He made her pose for a photo. Frankly, I would have done the same thing because she was adorable as hell in her matching fuchsia running gear and her shy, accommodating smile. I could tell by her demeanor that she was a silent soul. He was beaming and they shared a quick kiss before we all had to get on our mark.<br />
<br />
The first song that came on my running playlist was "Fly Away" by the Indigo Girls and I got choked up and teary eyed like a goddamn infant. My emotions tend to pour right out of my pores when I'm in the throes of a run, but this was ridiculous. I needed to keep it together. Focus.<br />
<br />
The Cure's "How Beautiful You Are" was next and snapped me back to my senses.<br />
<br />
I decided to follow the fuchsia lady because we seemed to run at a similar pace. Also, I knew she would be smart about it. She would start out slow and finish strong, just like they teach you in those training plans. She was even wearing a hydration belt. And here I was, without water and slightly dehydrated from last night's Merlot. I needed her.<br />
<br />
It was amazing how steady our (my?) pace was. I got updates from the Runkeeper app every 10 minutes, and it was the same every time. Usually, I'm all over the place. Stopping every now and then to take pictures of flowers or wildlife, or sprinting ahead when the feeling strikes me. But on Saturday, I was following the rules. I was in race mode.<br />
<br />
And I started thinking. Why do I need someone else to dictate my pace, my life? Why can't I just own this?<br />
<br />
I've spent hundreds of hours running hundreds of miles training for this race. Why am I always so damn dependent on others, always needing a hand to hold? I can do this. I am capable. In fact, maybe I'm even more.<br />
<br />
I decided to let her go.<br />
<br />
Springsteen's "Thunder Road" got me safely to mile number six. I was on fire, still pacing steady at around 10 minutes per mile.<br />
<br />
Around mile seven, something magical happened.<br />
<br />
I found myself running right behind a guy wearing all pink, including a tutu, sparkly butterfly wings, and a tiara. He was even holding a wand.<br />
<br />
I loved him.<br />
<br />
He cheered everyone on. He waved and gave high fives to the onlookers, even the serious police officers. The little girls on the sidelines adored him, giggling with insurmountable glee at seeing a grown man dressed up as a princess. I followed this guy for a while, soaking up all his sparkly energy. He gave me hope as he broke down all sorts of barriers. You have no idea how much I wanted to capture him in a photo. It was killing me. But I kept running, fed by his beautiful spirit.<br />
<br />
I lost him after a couple of miles. He was fast, propelled by glittery wings and all.<br />
<br />
Laura and the kids greeted me around mile 10, just when I needed a push.<br />
<br />
Those last few miles were rough. By the eleventh mile I crashed and started walking, exhausted. You're supposed to finish strong and just give it your all at the end. But my left foot was throbbing and my legs felt like jello on drugs.<br />
<br />
The universe must love the hell out of me because just as I was beginning to despair, a woman came up behind me and patted me on the back. She told me that she'd been following me for a while. I had a great pace, she said. I was doing GREAT, keep going, you can do it!<br />
<br />
Do I know her? Why is she so nice to me? Is she an angel?<br />
<br />
That's the thing with runners. They have your back. There's a solidarity that comes with the struggle. We're all lunatics TOGETHER. <br />
<br />
I picked up my pace. I finished, not strong, but I finished.<br />
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<br />
I ran 13.1 miles. I've done what I came here to do.<br />
<br />
And I probably won't do it again. Not because I didn't love it, not because it's a crazy thing to do, but because I had to give up too much. Too many Sunday mornings. Too many hours spent on a treadmill when I could have been with my family. The time sacrifice required for training is not worth it at this juncture of my life.<br />
<br />
But I'll still be on the trail when time allows, ignoring my pace in favor of watching hawks soar overhead. I can't actually walk right now, much less run. But I'll be back. In fact, I'm doing a sweet little 5k this weekend. It'll be a piece of cake topped with rainbows and unicorns.<br />
<br />
Running is like childbirth. You forget about the pain, blinded by the adrenaline of love and sweat and the knowledge that I, you, can do what you set out to do. Sometimes you have to push yourself beyond your perceived capability. Because let's face the facts: there are no limits except the imaginary ones we think we have to live within. Your potential is the milky way.<br />
<br />
So what if I sound like a self-help book? That shit's for real.<br />
<br />
Peace out.<br />
<br />Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-59733948375782641332014-08-13T14:57:00.000-07:002014-08-13T15:22:39.149-07:00A Sojourn in Cave City, KY, Deconstructed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">PART 1: The Wigwam Village, a Tourist Trap Adventure</span></h3>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">PART 2: Sylvia goes to the hospital</span></h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUjQq4Z2AYV-WhFXlGZ3HjDRtavUnK6e-zGev5p7qJ_p9UL8A2GCwABm7bp2il5A6OW_W8UhIWLt3eexnlJ1l6cyVwDGjNeKy-jI54mzBBlm19ApseSUQ9p5nRxtHW0tqlW8iw9hXe817/s1600/IMG_9618.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSUjQq4Z2AYV-WhFXlGZ3HjDRtavUnK6e-zGev5p7qJ_p9UL8A2GCwABm7bp2il5A6OW_W8UhIWLt3eexnlJ1l6cyVwDGjNeKy-jI54mzBBlm19ApseSUQ9p5nRxtHW0tqlW8iw9hXe817/s1600/IMG_9618.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't begin to tell you how disappointed I am in her. </td></tr>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">PART 3: The Hotel, a Study on Relative Luxury and Coping</span></h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAU9uIRtuvz7k3DctUgxltgeMACuToNuUEkBgmpTQ6FAdvTeIjZFE8eiY0Ix9yKftO_-JXjSRC5pA3C65pGI5xangm-RfKXFU1-MnO9qlhEt4BKkyIONlGT15CEymL1FD661rMDXUfoDgv/s1600/IMG_9348.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAU9uIRtuvz7k3DctUgxltgeMACuToNuUEkBgmpTQ6FAdvTeIjZFE8eiY0Ix9yKftO_-JXjSRC5pA3C65pGI5xangm-RfKXFU1-MnO9qlhEt4BKkyIONlGT15CEymL1FD661rMDXUfoDgv/s1600/IMG_9348.jpg" height="640" width="546" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Decent Mexican food and cocktails were within walking distance of the hotel.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXeRUGBCW9vScnnZTe1GqMmxaqpSgXnMxZ6N0SydFq0tNacKjfenNOrVqWLPCGLqhugGCKj4HpX09J_YC9F80qPm1Z3qBBN0xBHcBqY1ah85KRJWiT4t7ZWHG7EVU2n5rbYWXG-LZWnok/s1600/IMG_9366.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEXeRUGBCW9vScnnZTe1GqMmxaqpSgXnMxZ6N0SydFq0tNacKjfenNOrVqWLPCGLqhugGCKj4HpX09J_YC9F80qPm1Z3qBBN0xBHcBqY1ah85KRJWiT4t7ZWHG7EVU2n5rbYWXG-LZWnok/s1600/IMG_9366.jpg" height="640" width="564" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">They each got their favorite color from the gumball machine. We took it as a good sign as we worried about Sylvia.</td></tr>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">PART 4: Mammoth Cave, a Geological Masterpiece</span></h3>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">PART 5: Kayaking the Green River</span></h3>
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<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><div style="text-align: center;">
PART 6: Enjoying the Rental Car Even Though We Hate it</div>
</span></h3>
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<h3 style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">PART 7: Still Stranded & Making Ourselves Comfortable </span><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">in our New Home</span></h3>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDn6N1Ftte4J6ZcIOvYAcAmWnqiOv3RVoza9Ut_zIS3bOer0u7GJ02IWyMVJlQmbIKvrqwPn0-Tb0WA2AFGlKg4xEXe-HZZLXgu_6oDTb0MdE_FPBLxkYt3TdV-GrjGJZq4P9KIIMXhqe/s1600/IMG_9497.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmDn6N1Ftte4J6ZcIOvYAcAmWnqiOv3RVoza9Ut_zIS3bOer0u7GJ02IWyMVJlQmbIKvrqwPn0-Tb0WA2AFGlKg4xEXe-HZZLXgu_6oDTb0MdE_FPBLxkYt3TdV-GrjGJZq4P9KIIMXhqe/s1600/IMG_9497.jpg" height="640" width="594" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">She's not really drinking wine so don't go calling the authorities.</td></tr>
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To be continued.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-27748704008058922592014-08-11T17:31:00.001-07:002014-08-11T17:31:55.014-07:00This Explains Why I Love Snacks<div style="text-align: center;">
This is the school I attended in Florida when my family first moved to the United States from France:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNK-ANJgExeAxJDy_FnKNCQvlEADjmhG3nJM9P2W6YuozAYYB2I-aD34F-bl6JMxSKxg7b4qI2VcSNNyqEsAHlOseJXdEApxEw3fp1omyJAeCWFqWREn-AUeUaPnD3BOGoLv5TpBUDwHs/s1600/school.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRNK-ANJgExeAxJDy_FnKNCQvlEADjmhG3nJM9P2W6YuozAYYB2I-aD34F-bl6JMxSKxg7b4qI2VcSNNyqEsAHlOseJXdEApxEw3fp1omyJAeCWFqWREn-AUeUaPnD3BOGoLv5TpBUDwHs/s1600/school.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by A.C. Gochtovtt</td></tr>
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It was 1981 and I was a shy 10-year-old entering the 5th grade. The only English I knew was "hello" and "I don't understand English." That first year was a blur. I was mostly mute, soaking in a new language and culture, counting the minutes until I could finally go home to the comfort of normalcy.<br />
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I vividly remember the vulnerability of being different from the inside out. Nothing fit.<br />
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I was the French kid with the black and yellow leather Adidas in a land of white tennis shoes. Soccer was replaced by kickball. Fountain pens were replaced by #2 pencils. Three scheduled meals were replaced by an unrestricted system in which you have access to food any time you damn well please.<br />
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My first impression was how accepting my classmates were. They took me in. They embraced me. Apparently, my kind of different was exotic and cute. And non-threatening. They were eager to teach me their ways, their language, their games. They were so surprisingly nice, taking me under their friendly, American wings. They loved to hear me read from their books, knowing I didn't understand a word of it. They taught me how to play that silly game of kickball and how to cheer during football games.<br />
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One kid decided he would be my boyfriend. He often offered to carry by books, which I could carry perfectly well on my own, and to lend me his jacket when I wasn't even cold. I told my parents I didn't want to be his girlfriend because he was bald. (They laughed, but I was serious.) What's the deal with American boys and their crew-cuts? We may have had a chance if only he'd grown some hair, among other things.<br />
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One afternoon, our class got to go to the library to pick out a few books to take home. I quickly found the comic book section. Score! There were faces I recognized: Snoopy and Rin Tin Tin. If nothing else, I could look at the pictures and decipher the story.<br />
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But no.<br />
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My new friend (I don't even remember her name, but she was a sweet nerd with an E. B. White agenda) insisted, INSISTED I check out "<i>Charlotte's Web</i>" instead. She shoved the book in my hand, telling me stuff, I have no idea what, but I was led to the checkout table with this stupid book I couldn't even read and I was so f*%#ing disappointed, frustrated, mad. But I didn't have enough words.<br />
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I struggle daily with this voicelessness. I wring my hands with it.<br />
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Later on in my school social life, from middle to high school, I was mostly handled with gentle gloves. I was never teased. (Except for that one year in <a href="http://www.tessappho.com/2013/11/love-kindness-thank-you-note.html" target="_blank">seventh grade.</a>) Maybe my peers could sense my vulnerability. Maybe they understood that my heart shatters from the slightest sliver of injury. Maybe I was as transparent as I felt.<br />
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I learned to love the English language and all its crazy idiosyncrasies. I still don't understand why "colonel" is pronounced the way it is. And I have the hardest time with the word "cotton." Also, "portrait". How do you say it? Why is there an "a" in there? But really, compared to the intricate web that is the French language, English was relatively easy to learn as a second language. No need for tiresome conjugation or assigning gender to inanimate objects.<br />
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The main thing I learned is that Americans children are kind. Their hearts are open and accepting. They made my assimilation easy and gave me something I didn't have before. They gave me a sense of being special by celebrating the diversity I embodied. Also, they never made fun of my shoes.<br />
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Another thing: their parents allowed them to eat snacks between meals. Delicious snacks, like Doritos and Oreos. That blew my french little mind. I loved going to my friends' houses so I could feast on these easily accessible snacks at ALL HOURS OF THE DAY. I'd even date a bald boy for that kind of lavish lifestyle.<br />
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P.S. I've never read "<i>Charlotte's Web</i>", but I've seen several movie renditions and it's a lovely story. I cry every time. I would have loved that damn book as a 10-year-old. It defines the very essence of extraordinary. That quality that is so far out of my reach but sometimes, briefly, nearly close enough to taste.<br />
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Peace.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-80553220868199843562014-07-21T08:01:00.002-07:002014-07-21T08:01:54.865-07:00Gas Station Pizza Lessons<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I had huge happy plans for this weekend. I was even going to bring out the Canon and take a bunch of photos depicting the big, beautiful life we live. </div>
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Friday night, we were going to go to <a href="http://www.hawkinsfamilyfarm.com/fridays-on-the-farm-pizza/" target="_blank">Hawkins Family Farm </a> for their "Fridays on the Farm Pizza". I've written about this before (you can find that post <a href="http://www.tessappho.com/2013/05/its-holiday-weekend-and-youll-have-fun.html" target="_blank">here</a>.) It's a scenic environment for a casual picnic dinner, and the pizza is delicious. When we got there, the so called farm was packed with cars, parked bumper to freakin' bumper. It was sold out. No pizza for us. </div>
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By the time we got there, we were craving pizza in a giant ugly way so we decided to explore the lovely town of North Manchester. It's a college town, so surely there's a decent pizza joint nearby. </div>
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We stopped at a gas station to ask the locals for recommendations. Laura accosted a friendly gentleman and had a lively and lengthy conversation while the kids and I starved to death in the Subaru.</div>
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It turns out that after Hawkins Farm, Casey's convenience store has the SECOND BEST pizza in town. Needless to say, my spirits were crushed. I had visions of watching the children play on the farm, running with the butterflies and petting free range chickens, while Laura and I enjoyed our fresh, organic pizza and bottle of Bonterra Merlot on a comfy bed of grass. </div>
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Instead, here we were. </div>
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The kids were thrilled with their fluorescent slushies and Cheetos appetizers. We ordered our pizza from a very cranky teenage boy and hung out at a small, grimy table.<br />
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Surprisingly, the pizza wasn't bad. Fine, it was pretty good. And the kids were deliriously happy with their cotton candy and Skittles dessert. Sometimes, second best is an OK place to be.<br />
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On Saturday, we ventured downtown for a vintage sale where the kids found a few treasures.<br />
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Fiona couldn't live without this sparkly blue ring and purple leopard print wallet.</div>
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And Cyd fell in love with this retro cat sweater. You really can't blame her.</div>
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We had a dinner party planned for Saturday night and again, I had visions of Martha Stewart perfection. <br />
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I pictured a scenic, country setting (our backyard) with flowers, candles, and maybe some paper lanterns. I guess I'm a sucker for magical dinner ambiance. To make my dreams come true, Laura drove to Auburn to buy a large picnic table I had found on Craig's List. It was perfect!<br />
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We ran out of time and didn't get the paper lanterns or candles. But who cares? We had flowers, wine and beer and great friends. It was delicious.<br />
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After dinner, we played a friendly game of kickball and Fiona did a magic trick where she made Cyd disappear.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnMnoRKe80RCv6t3poCqss5LlhX3dlH6_7i5UIq23cGHJ10YW8ZYdVpJRYFCIsnFX8QYODKV5Nt2BwGmYVxrwxWy1JULgL93ykd3llkrgGzIH1W4F_EHsd_rFAwCMJl2_H1xfqCTuw1vF/s1600/IMG_8809.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwnMnoRKe80RCv6t3poCqss5LlhX3dlH6_7i5UIq23cGHJ10YW8ZYdVpJRYFCIsnFX8QYODKV5Nt2BwGmYVxrwxWy1JULgL93ykd3llkrgGzIH1W4F_EHsd_rFAwCMJl2_H1xfqCTuw1vF/s1600/IMG_8809.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cyd's not too sure about this.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUdUXtsdx7mO5smTqMBHm__NiVmihM933S7tVddDkAh8cOBvrYcATJdYlZf1WYUoPMHLIqlOYZu7DvPqh6pB_niidxFlpiJm3_xw9VQs3P3HQkAbcgJ3qWIrn5ctC-sQPRW4VEYnguYWH/s1600/IMG_8791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlUdUXtsdx7mO5smTqMBHm__NiVmihM933S7tVddDkAh8cOBvrYcATJdYlZf1WYUoPMHLIqlOYZu7DvPqh6pB_niidxFlpiJm3_xw9VQs3P3HQkAbcgJ3qWIrn5ctC-sQPRW4VEYnguYWH/s1600/IMG_8791.jpg" height="640" width="538" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Voila! </td></tr>
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Maybe I'd had one too many glasses of wine by that time but it really looked like Cyd had REALLY DISAPPEARED. I couldn't even believe my eyes! This just goes to prove that I really need to cut back on the sauce.<br />
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On Sunday morning, I had planned on a seven-mile run. Instead, I slept in until 10 a.m., had breakfast, and then went back to bed. We had nothing to do and it was glorious. </div>
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Sunday night, we made our own pizza (bacon, blue cheese, and caramelized onions) and dessert was a spoonful of Nutella with sprinkles. It was a sweet ending to a pretty damn good weekend. </div>
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When plans go astray, you get a chance to discover the other side of perfect. The Cheeto-orange fingers and blue slushy dyed mouths. The simple pleasure of al fresco dining with friends and the leisure of having time to spare. And sprinkles. Don't ever forget the sprinkles. </div>
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Peace out.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-44867642603954336082014-06-12T16:38:00.001-07:002014-06-12T16:38:46.287-07:00Sticks and Stones and ChromosomesWhen I was a sophomore in college, I was stalked by a crazy poet with sad eyes and an addiction. I was initially drawn to him because of his esoteric taste in music and his intellectual nature. Maybe a part of me was also drawn to his dark side. I wasn't an innocent victim. I liked his company. We often drank together. A lot. He read my bad poetry and I read his music lyrics. How was I to know he would lose his marbles?<br />
<br />
His emotional state rapidly deteriorated and I had no choice but to quietly walk away. I could no longer ignore the off-handed threats of violence, the clinginess. the bloodshot rants.<br />
<br />
He barged into my place of employment, drunk, and declared that if he couldn't have me, nobody could. Cliché, party of one. The police were called to escort him out. It was humiliating.<br />
<br />
One afternoon, he was waiting by my car after class. He placed his foot behind the driver's back tire and taunted me, told me I couldn't leave. There was much more desperation than anger. He was shaking. I was paralyzed. I didn't back up. I didn't run over his foot. He knew me well enough to know I wouldn't.<br />
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Remember the song "Every Breath You Take" by The Police? That was my life. He was watching me. He knew when my classes started and ended. He stopped me in the hallways, crying and begging, and I listened. I was sorry. I was so goddamn sorry.<br />
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Sometimes I saw him as I drove to work. He knew my route. He waited for me, his arms crossed, in a stance of dominion, on a street corner he knew I would drive by.<br />
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He often showed up at my house in the middle of the night and threw pebbles at my bedroom window. He couldn't live without me. He was going to kill himself if I didn't come out to talk to him. There was no way out. I was powerless. Trapped.<br />
<br />
This is what it feels like to be hunted.<br />
<br />
My parents sent me away that summer and he ended up moving across the country. Although I never saw him again, he used to call me on the phone constantly. For many years thereafter, the sound of a phone ringing did unbearable, crippling things to my heart.<br />
<br />
I began to refer to myself in lower case. i was tessa. It was so e.e. cummings, but with less beauty and more loathing. My self worth, which was shaky to begin with, spiraled into non-existence.<br />
<br />
But it wasn't just him. It's not just the neurotic alcoholics. There was the genuinely nice guy/boyfriend who told me I should wear jeans with a white t-shirt because he really liked that look on a woman. This was during a time in my life when I mainly wore long, hippie skirts and one-size-fits-all flowing blouses. He wanted me to trade in my Birkenstocks for Keds. I was his doll to dress the way he wanted, regardless of my personal style. He wanted to mold me into a respectable (stepford) wife.<br />
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When I gained a few pounds, tipping the scale at a whopping 110 lbs., he thought I should go on a diet because he "doesn't like fat chicks."<br />
<br />
And there was the time when he declined an offer to join his best friend for a weekend in Chicago because he wanted to spend time with me. We went on a date to a smoky, horrible comedy bar and then back to his apartment. When it came time for the anticipated (inevitable?) sex, I told him I wasn't in the mood. I didn't feel well.<br />
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He looked at me, surprised and outraged: "I gave up Chicago for THIS?!"<br />
<br />
this this this<br />
<br />
The devastating smallness I felt that night has lingered. It reminds me daily that we are altered (albeit not defined) by seemingly irrelevant moments. The meaning behind those careless words dismantled my self image.<br />
<br />
We ended up having sex after all. There was no coersion. I could have just left, with my pride. But I stayed, I caved. He told me he loved me, but I didn't believe him.<br />
<br />
I didn't want to write about <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/yesallwomen-elliott-rodgers-misogynistic-ravings-inspire-a-powerful-response-on-twitter/2014/05/26/dd755e4e-e4e0-11e3-8f90-73e071f3d637_story.html" target="_blank">#YesAllWomen</a>. I wanted to listen to the conversation. I wanted to feel the zeitgeist shift, safely. I resisted being another voice in the movement because I didn't want to talk about it, to relive it, to acknowledge it. I may be a different person now than I was in my early college years. I make better choices (usually) and I can fend for myself (for the most part), but I'm still a woman.<br />
<br />
When I go on a run in the early morning light, on a trail I know like the rhythm of my heart, I'm on edge and ultra aware of my surroundings. I change my route often, just in case. I'm so thankful when I run into happy little families, enjoying a bike ride on a sunny day. The dread creeps in when the trail gets a little less traveled, a little more secluded. I've learned to quantify and analyze potential danger. Is the man following me walking his dog? If yes, the odds that he's a rapist or murderer are greatly reduced. Is he walking hand in hand with a woman? If yes, he's qualified as quite safe. Is it getting dark out and he's walking in regular street clothes, looking around suspiciously? If yes, run the hell away.<br />
<br />
Because you never know for sure.<br />
<br />
That's the thing. It's the uncertainty that ruins any sense of safety, any peace of mind. But I'm not going to sacrifice what I love because of a possibility. Life's too damn short to be ruled by what ifs. I'll keep running, even if I have to look back every now and then. I've become used to the fear. It comes with the chromosomes.<br />
<br />
#YesAllWomen<br />
<br />
Peace.<br />
<br />
P.S. I wrote this post several weeks ago but have been reluctant to publish it. Special thanks to <a href="http://allcolorsalldirections.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Erica </a>and <a href="http://www.rachaelgettingbetter.com/" target="_blank">Rachael</a> for the encouragement.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-28723667529335611682014-05-29T16:11:00.001-07:002014-05-29T16:11:47.661-07:00In the Mean TimeI have a whole other post written about <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/05/27/living/california-killer-hashtag-yesallwomen/" target="_blank">#YesAllWomen</a>, but it's too depressing. Besides, I'm too chicken to post it.<br />
<br />
So instead, here are some fun, happy photos to make us all forget about the bad things for just a moment.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Corn flute.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I know how you feel, mommy cat.</td></tr>
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Peace out.</div>
Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8057996430479706529.post-18818773245748612362014-05-01T06:25:00.000-07:002014-05-01T06:25:55.562-07:00The Fog is RisingI had promised that my next post would be chock full of joy and happy, shiny children frolicking in fields of wild flowers and butterflies. Well, maybe next time, my dear, loyal friends. It's been a dark time and I'd be a damn liar if I pretended otherwise.<br />
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Laura's father passed away last week. Cancer strikes another father. Another husband. Another grandfather. Another friend. Another good man.<br />
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I remember the first time I met him. Laura and I were just starting out in our relationship and I came home with her for one of her (our) niece's birthday parties. There was chaos and a lot of new people, a situation that makes me shut down socially and emotionally, and every other way inside my heart. Woe is me, and all that. But there was a calm presence about him, and a gentleness you seldom find in giant men.<br />
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Over the years, he often joked that I was his sixth daughter. I believed him. He always made me feel like one of his. I never felt like an outsider, as so often happens with in-law relationships and, frankly, many others. And it wasn't just him. Laura's entire family personifies tolerance and acceptance. And kindness.<br />
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I loved him like a second father. And dammit, I'm tired of fathers dying. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">He came to my wedding.</td></tr>
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The death of a parent leaves an absence you can't fully grasp. It's everywhere and nowhere. Joan Didion, in "The Year of Magical Thinking" perfectly describes the indescribable:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #181818;">"<span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion.</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself... </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">A single person is missing for you, and the whole world is empty.”</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"> </span></span></h3>
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Here's the thing about Didion: she is able to meticulously articulate the ineffable and she does so in such a precise, raw and genuine way that you are left with your heart in the curve of her words.<br />
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We are on the same page. Our grief flows and crashes through the same unpredictable waves. <br />
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But Didion doesn't talk about what comes before. About the dread of waiting for death to finally arrive, only to destroy your present, past and future. Once you know that the inevitable is impending, your life becomes tinged with anxiety and foreboding. You start living in a dark shadow, a fog, a sort of purgatory where joy and contentment can scarcely penetrate.<br />
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I feel like I've been living in this shadow for seven years now. Waiting for one parent after another to leave me. My heart is tired. The waves keep crashing and sweeping me off balance. I've survived the tsunami and I'm ready for still waters. I'm ready for the light to shine again, free from the veil of sorrow. <br />
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Granted, we've been lucky in the grand scheme. We have healthy children and haven't had to deal with any untimely, unexpected deaths (knock on wood, knock on all the wood you can see. Even if it's plastic that looks like wood, KNOCK ON IT). There's a lot of happiness and joy and love in my life. It's time for me to embrace it fully, to let the light in. And rumor has it that light travels pretty damn fast so bring it on.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There's some frolicking after all.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The girls love their glittery shoes.</td></tr>
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Peace out.Tessahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16872262130640746517noreply@blogger.com0