tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-16456642847419394632024-03-13T11:39:26.858-05:00Burch LuckBurch Luck, or Shanks Luck, or As Luck Would Have it. One of those journals that starts out as one thing and turns out to be just random, ramblings. Yeah, a BLOG.Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-61166280880743608692016-03-14T13:20:00.003-05:002016-03-14T13:32:25.021-05:00Might As Well Blog About TrumpI realize that there is an embarrassing, overabundant amount of discussion flying around about Donald Trump, on the Twittersphere, the Book of Faces, the media, under my breath. But I think I would be remiss in not mentioning how very, very heartbreaking it is to see the success of such an openly hateful, xenophobic individual bring out the worst part of the American consciousness.<br />
<br />
Allow me to share some words of a good friend of mine, Mr. Luke Klima, who very eloquently said what I wanted to and what many others would echo (except he did it without the use of swear words - because he is a gentleman, whereas I am close to being a disenfranchised American with the vocabulary of a truck driving sailor).<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b>"Politicians appeal to us in different ways - Lincoln appealed to the better angels of our nature, but we've had our fair share of appeals to our fears as well. But I have never seen anyone appeal to the lowest and ugliest part of people's psyches in the way Mr. Trump does. He appeals to the worst angels of our nature - the hypothetical little devil that sits on one's shoulder whispering the most depraved and selfish of ideas. Let's keep those people out! Let's win against those people (i.e. make them lose)! Let's kill the children of those others! Let's react with fisticuffs against those who disagree!</b></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><br /></b><b>He doesn't tell us of the tide that will lift all boats, but of his ability to sink the other boats, while ours remains afloat. This is an ugly appeal, a depraved appeal, and as it intends to depress much of humanity, an ultimately inhuman appeal.</b></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<b><br /></b><b>I hope this experiment with anger soon sees the ignominious end it deserves. It's long past time already."</b></blockquote>
<br />
I would add to Mr. Klima's grandiloquent allegory that while our boat might remain afloat, it's quickly filling with water and it's only a matter of time before the inhabitants merely start flinging each other overboard in a selfish attempt to survive. The <i><b>U.S.S. America</b></i>, I fear, is doomed to sink regardless.<br />
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#Drumpf #Trump #Campaign #LordHelpUs #Republican #Democrat #TrumpRallyAngie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-25664322527660569622016-01-14T08:20:00.000-06:002016-01-14T08:20:03.461-06:00Today, my heart is heavy.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bltyfZ57a_E/VpemwlSmZxI/AAAAAAAAAKE/fwB5ulGcOHE/s1600/Alan%2BRickman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-bltyfZ57a_E/VpemwlSmZxI/AAAAAAAAAKE/fwB5ulGcOHE/s320/Alan%2BRickman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
R.I.P. Alan Rickman<br />
<br />
My hero.<br />
<br />
Most of my family and friends know that I'm a Harry Potter geek. My office at work is filled with HP memorabilia, the walls covered with framed movie posters. The list goes on. They also know that Severus Snape was my favorite and that it was a dream of mine to someday meet Alan Rickman.<br />
<br />
Actor and director, Alan Rickman, passed away today from cancer. He was 69. He was surrounded by his family.<br />
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<br />Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-1886589283259814362016-01-12T09:21:00.003-06:002016-01-12T09:21:55.209-06:00Stop Trying to Convert Me!<div class="MsoNormal">
Social Media is not your Political Platform<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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It’s appalling how many people use social media to try to
convert me to their political party. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b>News Flash</b>: It’s SOCIAL MEDIA. I go there to be SOCIAL – as well
as get away from the everyday, hustle and bustle real world, which quite
frankly, is pretty damn scary and depressing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Social Media (Facebook, Twitter, Snap Chap, Peach, Google,
Instagram, MySpace [who is still using this?]) – all of that is purely for
entertainment purposes. Or, for keeping up with family members – which for
some, is also entertainment.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The differing views (religious, political, nutritional,
etc.) are in the thousands and sparking debate, controversy and hatred is not
the avenue to promote peace. In fact, it has the opposite effect. Nobody cares
about your opinions, especially if they don’t align with theirs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Also, if you ARE getting your political information ([sic] Facts) from Facebook or Twitter, then you really have no basis to spout your claims. Everything on the internet is false. (It's True - I read it on the internet)</div>
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Keep Social Media Social! For Pete’s sake – it’s supposed to
be all about what folks had for dinner, photos of their amazing vacations that
we didn’t take, what Greek God or Goddess most aligns with your personal
information so that you can be on several advertising venues, and cat videos. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-43798759241923605402016-01-01T10:29:00.000-06:002016-03-14T14:31:02.420-05:00Scenes on a Beach<span style="font-size: large;">(A "re-post" from a few years ago)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The truth about beaches - they smell like wet dog and fish poop. I have nothing against people who like vacationing on a beach, the surf, the sun, et. al. But to tout beaches as a "vacationer's paradise" - it's just a scam to get people to come to their beach and spend their hard earned money on crap that they can pick up in the sand for free.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My most expensive purchase on our recently ended beach vacation was a $65 bathing suit and $10 sunscreen with SPF 50 that was both sweat and water proof. Had it been sun proof as well, we'd be 3 for 3 in it's offered benefits. The numbers in SPF ratings are actually the total number of times you need to apply that particular sunscreen to avoid sun burn. I wasted my money on two tubes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I also had to buy my son a new bathing suit, as his was swept away in the surf while he was trying out his new "boogie boarding" skills. First, I had to wade out waste deep in the ocean to bring him a towel. That was bad enough because I had previously had no itentions of even getting my new bathing suit wet, let alone filled with sand and sea weed. Face it, anything that forces someone of my size to wear a bathing suit is NOT going to be pleasant or filled with fun. The price of bathing suits at any store on a beach - not fun! There's no Wal-mart on the islands. All the stores are named "Ocean View" and "Pirates Landing" and they sell over priced sea shells, cheap beach towels and little figurines of dudes smoking joints on surf boards. They also sell $65.00 bathing suits and $10 sunscreen. But I digress, because I had to.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Back to the beach. It was hot and I was sweaty and I would have loved to have just stayed in the hotel room, in the air conditioning, reading a book, but I needed to be at the beach, with my kids, because let's face it: if a shark were to attack them or they were to be swept out to sea, I am the ONLY person who would be able to save them. At least, that was all I could think about. So, while my kids and husband body surfed and boogie boarded in the waves, I was their lookout for great white sharks, jelly fish or unfriendly surf. It's a hard job. You can just ask the church camp counselors who were there with 6 - 7 kids each in their charge. I overheard one of them tell another that this was the worst time he had ever had at a beach. Now you know how your mom feels pal!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Let's forget for a moment that most talented authors who write scenes on a beach describe it as "serene and peaceful" and filled with "fresh, salty air" and the hypnotic sounds of the waves crashing on the beach. Yeah, well if by serene and peaceful they mean screeching seagulls and people, maybe. Fresh, salty air - that means sea creature poop ya'll, and if you have the added affect of heated up sea creature poop, in the middle of the hot, summer days - that's what a beach smells like. God probably added the salt to cover that up, though I'm just guessing. Waves crashing on the beach sounds remarkably like static on a stereo with the volume turned really high and the left speaker blown.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is not to say that I don't like a good vacation with my husband and kids. It's just that my recent vacation on the beach was eerily similar to reading a book in a port-a-potty. Hot, stinky and not a lot of joy in stretching the legs to find a good reading position.</span>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-8477304629915021992015-12-29T14:58:00.000-06:002016-01-12T14:58:29.605-06:00Christmas in Pictures...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-49476339458477739012015-12-26T14:29:00.000-06:002016-03-14T14:33:24.025-05:00So This is Christmas<span style="font-size: large;">What a lovely Christmas we had with my side of the family in Kansas! No snow this time, though they did receive almost an inch on the day we left. Ain't that some "Burch Luck?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This year, it was a different Christmas for us - much quieter. Not just because it was the first Christmas without Grandma Burch or Uncle Joe, though their absence was sadly felt. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Our 2015 Christmas will be known as the one where Uncle Zane couldn't speak. Not that he didn't want to, he is a lawyer, for by, and his voice is usually the loudest in the room; the one heard above all others. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In October, my brother-in-lawyer, Zane L. Todd, Jr. was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma. The tumor was removed, as were his tonsils, which is where the cancer began, and the fight was on.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He began aggressive treatments with both radiation and chemotherapy. The radiation he handled well, but the chemotherapy robbed him of most of his energy. He was unable to keep down food and fight off the nausea, so he typically spent the first 2-3 days after the chemo treatment either bent over a bucket or in the hospital on I.V. fluids. He lost a lot of weight, lost the ability to salivate, and the sores on the back of his throat were so painful that it hurt him to swallow or speak. After a month of not being able to eat foods, a feeding tube was inserted in Zane's abdomen so that he could receive nourishment, but even that food did not stay with him long - so great was his nausea.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Two days before Christmas, Zane's doctors decided not to give him his final chemo treatment - but only stick with the radiation. It was really good news for him and the family, as they felt the treatments were all working fine and it would probably hurt him more to go through the treatment than to actually administer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So yeah, in all - cancer sucks and is bad and all that hoopla. We believe Zane is now on the way to a complete recovery.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">What this meant for the Burch family, was a very quiet Christmas. That's not necessarily a bad thing, except that Zane brings a lot of light to the chaotic action of Christmas morning, or any party where we are all together. Again, his voice is the one that is heard above all others.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So a room in which Zane is sitting but not speaking is almost eerily quiet, if you don't count the kids (who range in age now from 6 to 23 - big shout out to my daughter Austyn, who turned 21 on Christmas day - WHOOP).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">There was still excitement, and ripping paper, and pouting kids, and whispers about whether or not Santa was real, and was the turkey in the oven yet, and how about some more coffee...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It wasn't a bad silence. Just different. A time to reflect on what it means to be a family, how much we have grown, how big the kids are getting; how accomplished. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But mostly, this Christmas, it was a time to be thankful. For health, for prosperity, and for God, who gave us the Savior, the one to be heard above all others.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>Rocky Mosler stopped by on Christmas eve to speak with Zane about what </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
having the same cancer had done for him and to show Zane that there really </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
IS light at the end of the tunnel.</div>
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Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-41281720473130839112015-12-02T10:40:00.000-06:002016-01-12T10:58:24.393-06:00I WON!!!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yes - you read the meme correctly - I'M A WINNER!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">My new novel, Vita Bellum, now has 54,000+ words. I'm well on my way to becoming a published author. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Thank you.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This, for me, is only my third greatest accomplishment - following the births of my two children. But to write over 50K words in one month is quite a feat!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Of course, the words are mostly crap and National Novel Writing Month (November) should be followed up by National Editing Month (December). Whew! Total drivel - but I will add that some of the scenes I wrote are not only graphic and detailed, they are an example of fantastic story telling. I'm not just patting myself on the back here, folks! It's just good writing.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Not all of it. I feel like I should keep adding that. But enough good writing that I don't totally hate what I wrote and I have yet to delete it because of thinking "Oh Lord, what was I thinking, this is crap?" as I have done in the past.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So far, I have three people reading it for me just for S and G's and two of them have said that it's good stuff. The third person hasn't spoken to me since I sent it to him, but it's my nephew and it's likely he hasn't even read it yet, so I'll just pretend he's so in awe of his aunt's literary writing skills that he remains speechless.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Look for it on the shelves some day. <i><u>Vita Bellum</u></i> (that's Latin for "Life at War") by Angela Degelman.</span></div>
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Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-89436197624177792162015-11-10T15:10:00.000-06:002016-01-12T15:10:51.891-06:00My Husband and Reality<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 24.0pt;">I really
need to get Alan onto that "Extreme Cheapskates" reality show! He has
got to be the only husband around who, when I say "I have errands to
run" actually hears "I have plans to spend all of our hard-earned money
on things that we don't need and leave us destitute and living in a van down by
the river."</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 24.0pt;">I mean, I work too. Sometimes, I am even working two jobs (though I secretly love working concessions, I don't tell him that because it would rob me of the times I get to say "For crying out loud, I slave away, working TWO JOBS, so that I can buy things we don't need..."). So what if I have such a great membership with Overstock.com that all my shipping is free? I mean, it's free of a monetary charge - but unless my packages come when the hubby is NOT at home, I have to pay the price of hearing him gripe.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 24.0pt;">What can I say? I like to shop. I like to give gifts, I like my kids to have high thread-count sheets, and what the heck - I needed MORE shoe BOXES - to store stuff in.</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #666666; font-family: "Helvetica",sans-serif; font-size: 24.0pt;">That's all.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16.08px;"><br /></span>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-51501497218248198502014-06-15T19:30:00.000-05:002015-09-28T14:26:27.655-05:00Father's Day and Sarcasm - It's The Same Thing in my FamilyI called my dad today to wish him a happy father's day.<br />
<br />
He replied "You're Welcome."<br />
<br />
Sure, he's 72 and by all accounts, that could be a statement to make children of elderly parents be wary (God help me if my mother ever finds out I referred to her and my daddy as 'elderly').<br />
But with my dad - I knew he was just trying to be funny.<br />
<br />
His words are typically slurred, whether from the stroke he had a few years ago or the beers he undoubtedly had been drinking all day, it doesn't matter. Whatever he is saying, it's in jest and if you don't know him, you might very well think he was a crabbit old man or a marble or two short of a set.<br />
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Dad Burch - he's a hoot and a half and he taught me to be the same. I never knew there was any other way to deal with any given situation than with sarcasm. I doubt I was much of a conversationalist when I was a toddler, but my mother tells me stories all the time of my dad having heated conversations with me in my high chair. I was babbling, he was telling jokes. If I didn't laugh, he would make fun of me drooling or not being able to walk.<br />
<br />
The thing is, when you grow up with the kind of sarcastic and acerbic wit that I was raised with, you have an incredible mechanism for coping with stress of many calibers. You also have a tendency to get into trouble; yes, even as an adult I find it hard to not use my sense of humor in any given situation.<br />
<br />
My dad and his buddies, right out of high school, started their own fraternity. None of them were in college at the time, but it seemed like the thing to do. They called themselves "Signa Fi Nothin" and probably threw more parties than the Greek clubs combined.<br />
<br />
Then my dad joined the air force and became an airplane mechanic and used his humor and wit to entertain other servicemen during the Vietnam war. My dad was never deployed; but he worked on numerous aircraft that were damaged from the war and it was enough for him to know that the airmen getting shipped overseas on his planes would be in need of a laugh or two before they boarded the plane for take-off. So he entertained the masses. Many of those blessed servicemen never came back, may God rest their souls. Surely dad was no Bob Hope, but he still made people laugh.<br />
<br />
I owe you for my sense of humor dad. Now, if I can just get me a pick-up truck so that I can have a mobile garden, I'll be set! If you can read the article below, my dad was recognized in our hometown of Columbus, KS, for his innovative "mobile garden". He planted tomatoes and cucumbers in containers that he keeps in the back of his truck. When it rains, he drives around town to water his garden. If it's too cold or hot, he pulls the truck into the garage.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-omBZxS7YnTQ/U59lMr1RDsI/AAAAAAAAAGs/EGWeIHwt38M/s1600/truck+gardening.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-omBZxS7YnTQ/U59lMr1RDsI/AAAAAAAAAGs/EGWeIHwt38M/s1600/truck+gardening.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-908450556814363382012-06-26T15:13:00.000-05:002016-01-12T15:14:23.466-06:00Warped Tour - Version 2012<span style="font-size: large;">It is decidedly difficult to blog about individual experiences and/or events and not portray every little thing as an inside joke, so please bear with me as I attempt to hash out this years Warped Tour and make it understandable for anyone who was not able to attend.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, back up - let me rephrase. How can I make something that was a sheer blast for myself carry over so that it's as much fun for someone to read about? I think the only answer is: I can't. But I'm dumb enough to try.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://vanswarpedtour.com/boards/f/0/t/1850496" target="_blank">Vans Warped Tour 2012</a> - Dallas version was hot, dry and almost boring. Not that the trip itself wasn't fun. I mean, who doesn't enjoy a crazy roadtrip? I missed my bestie Ginger, who was busy taking her nursing boards so that meant that I was left by myself to escort three teenage girls to the Emo State Fair and Rodeo. My daughter, her bff K and her friend A who came all the way from Chicago to spend the week with my A and attend VWT2012. Pretty sure they had fun.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Let's start with people watching. The people watching at these events is where the fun is for me. I could have easily titled this Blog - OMFG You Ruined Your Ear Lobes - but it's easier to just over share.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Before it was even noon, I saw a lady who brought her two-year old (why?) and a girl in a VERY revealing Wonder Woman costume. Couldn't be topped by young <span style="color: purple;"><u>Miss "I have autographs from every band I've ever loved and just to prove my loyalty I had them tattooed ALL OVER my body</u></span>." I bet she'll <strong>NEVER</strong> regret that.</span>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-83078536582583676142012-06-06T13:59:00.001-05:002014-06-16T16:49:58.420-05:00Writing<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I attempted to think of a catchier
title for this particular blog post, but as I am sitting here listening to 80's
music on Spotify, I fear I'm losing all sensibility and creativity to Air
Supply, Journey and Flock of Seagulls. </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">What is this madness, and is it only temporary?</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">The internet is a hindrance to the subsets of my mind because
every time I try to look something up or research a topic, Google makes me 'run
a rabbit' with my thoughts and I somehow, ALWAYS end up just Googling images or
articles about Scott Caan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oqwLYm1Gh-U/T8-oQqJIjWI/AAAAAAAAAFw/Mci4iubFNRM/s1600/Scott-Caan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oqwLYm1Gh-U/T8-oQqJIjWI/AAAAAAAAAFw/Mci4iubFNRM/s320/Scott-Caan.jpg" height="320" width="281" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">For an under-tall actor, the man has
a body that won’t quit, a face that melts my soul and the best part about him;
he’s a writer! A damn good one at that!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">[His latest play, <i>No Way Around But Through</i>, is currently
running at the Falcon Theatre in Burbank, CA <a href="http://www.falcontheatre.com/">http://www.falcontheatre.com/</a> through
July 8; and no – I’m not getting paid to print this]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Enough about Mr. Caan, because this post
was not originally intended to be about him – that’s just the way he pops in
and out of my head most days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I just worry sometimes that my brain
doesn’t have the ability to run through the colorful plethora of thoughts and
emotions that pop up when I’m writing (and oh Lord, Beastie Boys just came on
my play list; I’ll never get through this Blog post…)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">What I mean by that (the statement
not pertaining to the Boys) is that I don’t always type as fast as the thoughts
swirl around in my brain and by the time I finish one thought, another has
started and before I can even rationalize that thought, three more are bull
dozing it out of the way, flailing about and screaming “PICK ME! PICK ME!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Is it like this for every writer? Do
I have to find a way to separate these thoughts, divide them into subcategories
and file them away for later use? Or should I just keep doing what I usually do
and muddle through?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Corey Hart? Really? I had this
cassette my junior year of high school…<i>’You
can never SURRENDERRR’<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">Okay, perhaps I should write without
the music turned up…in case you haven’t guessed it by now, this is called
muddling through. Not just my thoughts
but the visual and audio stimulants that surround me on a daily basis that my
brain is not able to tune out, yet no doctor seems to think I have attention
deficit disorder.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">SQUIRREL!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">But I digress, because that’s a good
segue to my final thought which is this: my ability to deviate from a topic but
jump right back to it after I express a more current thought is decidedly tainted.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 13.5pt;">I really was just going to blog
about Scott Caan.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-32149684997835390812012-05-30T08:18:00.001-05:002012-05-30T08:18:14.545-05:00Some of My Best Friends, I've Never Met<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">With technology dramatically changing the interface and interactions of friendship, the internet has become a realm of possibilities. I'm not writing here about the perverts, possible kidnappers, or other facets of the DARK side of the Internet. I'm talking about REAL friends. Real people, that while you may never have met them in person, still have made such an impact on your life that you consider them a friend.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I first met many of of my "Internet Friends" on a discussion group for Days of Our Lives (yes, the Soap Opera). We started out talking about the soap, but we quickly progressed to learning more about each other, so much so that the creator of the discussion group created a "Personal Topics" (<a href="http://mediadomain.com/cgi-bin/netforum/dool_fan/a.cgi/1">http://mediadomain.com/cgi-bin/netforum/dool_fan/a.cgi/1</a>) page so that the people who were really getting miffed at things other than soap talk would stop having nuclear melt downs on the site. As such, the DOOLies were born.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">So, about 1/3 of the original DOOLies remain at Media Domain (I find that I don't even visit that much anymore), while many of us have progressed to the age of Facebook and have become online friends in this capacity.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">What always struck me as odd was how easily we transferred online acquaintances into actual 3-D friendships. Many of us have met each other in person, share commonalities such as same aged kids, divorce, re-marriage, and a lot of the difficulties of every day life. These we have been able to share, whether pseudo-anonymously or in person. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">My husband still finds it odd that I could be "friends" with somebody I've never met, but with my fellow DOOLies, I don't even give it a second thought. It's like we always 'were.'</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">In actuality, I started this particular blog in July of 2010. In that time, we have lost some DOOLies to the Angels, and while that makes me very sad, it's a comfort to know that we have always been there for each other and likely always will be.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I can't discount the number of arguments and board fights we have witnessed and taken part of over the years (I'm thinking it's been since 1996 - but I can't remember exact dates). We were either in the thick of it, or we had our lawn chairs and margarita machines out and we lurked on the sidelines.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Through it all, I think some of these DOOL friends, though I have never met them in person, are some of the best friends I have ever had.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: separate; color: black; font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; orphans: 2; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #4b4b4b; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">Now, I'm off to lurk over at 'the board.' Maybe I'll see you there.</span></span>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-73223763802116579652011-11-02T09:51:00.002-05:002011-11-02T10:09:30.529-05:00NaNoWriMo Words for day 2Just going to start posting chapters for the novel I've been working on for sometime. Keep in mind, I write Young Adult and/or children's books, so I try to keep it at that level. I either write too high for that age group or too low - so this is all just practice. 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mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="line-height: 200%;">James River Tobacco Plantation, 1838<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">The sharp cry of a newborn followed by hushed whispers and scurrying feet was all that Thomas James could remember of the exact moment that his daughter Sarah was born. He had been holding back tears when Imari placed the tiny infant in his arms, the baby seemed so fragile and so much smaller than any of her brothers. She was merely whimpering now but he focused on looking into her beautiful face, so much like her mothers, that he tuned out the sharp voices coming from just the other side of the bedroom door.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">It wasn’t until he felt the slaves hand on his arm, then the look on Imari’s face that he realized that something was terribly wrong. Clara had not yet called for him like she usually did after each baby, both to chastise him for his role in putting her through the childbirth, and to coo over the babies. The slave’s eyes told him everything, her voice barely audible.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">“It was complications. She just lost too much blood. We tried Mastuh.” Imari had said. To Thomas, it was the end of life as he knew it. Clara had been his voice of reason, his friend, his beautiful wife and childhood sweetheart. His confidant. He couldn’t imagine life without her. He numbly placed the child into Imari’s arms and left the house to get away from the noise. He calmly began to smoke his pipe and shed the tears that now flowed freely down his face. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">He didn’t know how he was going to make it without her; and yet, he had to go on. He had seven children now and a plantation to run and business to see to. His sons needed their education and discipline, as well as training with the horses and livestock, and he would soon have to teach Thomas William, his oldest son and namesake, all the business of running the plantation. Thomas was only twelve, but it was never too early to learn how to run the business.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">Luckily, Imari had seen to the needs of the baby without him having to worry, having recently given birth to her own daughter, so he immediately buried himself with these worries and pushed his pain aside. <o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">That was a month ago. The funeral was short; it was so cold and the ground was too hard to even dig the grave. Clara had been placed just off of the wood shed in a coffin of wet pine, covered in the snow until the ground thawed enough for digging a proper burial plot in the spring. It pained Thomas to think about it; so he didn’t. He immersed himself back into the business of running the plantation and seeing to the needs and castigations of his slaves, as well as the upbringing of his sons.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">He barely noticed his new daughter at all at first. Until one day, Imari interrupted his daily Bible reading to his sons and placed Sarah in his arms.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">“Mastah, I’m sorruh, but your daughter, she be needin her pa right now.” and she had walked away, leaving the bright eyed Sarah to look curiously into her papa’s eyes. That was all it took; the eyes, so much like her mothers, forming the connection he needed to drag him from his stupor. Sarah became his whole world after that moment.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">When she wasn’t with Imari and Liberty, she was in a basket at her father’s feet, or playing with bobbles and toys under his desk. She was immediately wrapped around her father’s finger, as well as her brothers, and stationed in their hearts. There was almost nothing she could do that would upset anyone, particularly her father. Almost.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">Sarah was only four years old the first time her father had to discipline her. She had been playing with Liberty on the floor of the busy kitchen and the two were playing a game of catch with a ball of rags.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">The throws were becoming increasingly sporadic and out of control and the girls giggles, while entertaining, were irritating the kitchen slaves.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">Caroline, a big robust slave with no patience for children, was just pulling a hot bread pudding from the oven when a missed toss sent the ball sailing across the kitchen, into the pudding, splattering the big round woman with burning liquid and startling her so that the pudding was then dropped, splashing the poor slave, the walls, the floors and sizzling into the belly of the oven.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">When Sarah's father learned of the ruined pudding, his favorite, he had to forbid her from being in the kitchen, as well as discipline her for her defiance. Because he could not bear to spank his own daughter, she had been sent to bed without any supper; a punishment that turned out all the better for her as each of her brothers, feeling sorry for her, had each snuck food into the bedrooms that night. She was full of cold ham, biscuits with honey, a handful of fried potatoes, and molasses cookies by the time her father came to her that evening with a glass of warm milk and a piece of bread. He finished explaining to her the necessities of rules and why she was being punished when he offered her the food as a token of his pleasure at her obedience when she proclaimed<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">"Oh but papa, I can’t eat that!" He beamed briefly at her presumed adherence to her punishment, but quickly frowned as she went on<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">"I'm so full already with what Will and Libby and the boys brought me from their suppers. You go 'head an eat that papa; yous be needin sumpin for yoself’."<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">Though he knew he could not keep her from the clutches of Imari, her only known mother, whom she adored and had taken all of his children under her careful watch and he certainly could not part her from the company of Liberty, with whom she would have shared a bed if he had allowed.<span style=""> </span>No, he couldn’t help their current circumstances, but the law being the law and slaves being slaves, he would have to do something about his daughters unlikely ‘kinship’ with his slaves and the mannerisms that she was picking up on.<o:p></o:p></p> <p style="line-height: 200%;">His first thought was boarding school, but the thought of sending Sarah away nearly broke his heart and he just couldn’t dream of it.<span style=""> </span>But it was in that moment that Thomas decided what his daughter needed was a proper tutor and "white" teacher and the sooner the better.<span style=""> </span>If he couldn’t send her to boarding school, he would bring one to her. (end chapter)</p><p style="line-height: 200%;">Okay, so that is the introduction. Hopefully it gives enough background without having to back too far, and just so much that you know the setting and hopefully some of the characters. The rest of the story will be about Sarah adjusting to her 'prim and proper' tutor, her friendship with Libby and some of the trouble that that cause, her relationship with her father. At some point, Sarah will realize what slavery actually means and that she does not adhere to that way of life. Her quest at that point will be to help Libby seek freedom via the underground railroad (after her mother, Imari's untimely and suspicious death) and together the two young girls (probably at around the age 13 mark) run away to go North, to Canada. While traveling the U G railroad with the help of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abolitionism" title="Abolitionism"></a>abolitionists and allies I was thinking that it would be neat for them to meet the actual Harriet Tubman and other real people who are often associated with the "Freedom Train." May even change the name of the novel to Freedom Train, though the rough title is Liberty. <br /></p><p style="line-height: 200%;">You can let me know what you think if you want. Good and bad, all feedback is welcome.<br /><o:p></o:p></p> <span style="font-size: 11pt; line-height: 115%; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif";"></span>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-44009786288516200402011-02-06T20:49:00.003-06:002011-02-06T21:10:56.268-06:00What's In a Name?I'm not just made up of the Burch family genes. I have Beattie in me too. I think the luck on that side is not as bad, or maybe just not talked about. Either way, our family has some good memories of Beattie Christmases, family reunions and get togethers.<div><br /></div><div>Nothing, however, is as successful at bringing a family together quite like a funeral. It's sad to think that this is sometimes what it takes, but at the same time, celebrating the life of a loved one with other loved ones is time well spent.</div><div><br /></div><div>My Uncle Speed would have loved his own funeral. So much laughter, all the cousins together for the first time in thirty + years. Cards were played, stories were told, tears were shed, and hugs were shared all around.</div><div><br /></div><div>The world lost a great man when Speedy left this earth. He was a great artist, a practical jokester, an architectural engineer, a husband, a father, a grandfather, a brother, an uncle, a friend.</div><div><br /></div><div>At his funeral, the pastor of the church asked those who wanted to, to come forward and share a story about Speed. A memory or two. I was taken off guard to say the least. First of all, I didn't have anything prepared and as I am NOT a public speaker, this was a detriment to anything I would or could have shared anyway. Secondly, there are so many Speed stories that I can think of, that I froze. I needed to hear what others were sharing, but at the same time, I was picking through my brain for Speed memories I could possibly share with others without breaking up in front of people.</div><div><br /></div><div>I could have talked about me spending the first few months of my life with Uncle Speed and Aunt Jo because my mom got sick with Hepatitis and couldn't care for me. How Uncle Speed wouldn't let me go to the baby sitter if Jo couldn't watch me, so he would stay home from work to be with me. But I don't really remember that, as I was only a baby.</div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe the first time I ever caught a fish. It was in his pond, at the foot of the "mountain" that was left over after he dug it. Or, one of the many summers I spent at his farm, getting up with the roosters, gathering eggs because he told me I couldn't eat breakfast or lunch until I did "my chores." </div><div><br /></div><div>The ole "mongoose" trap he had rigged. Feeding his pet squirrels with a baby bottle. I finally thought of one that would have fit, so I decided I would just blog it instead (what since the funeral is already over and all).</div><div><br /></div><div>At one time, Uncle Speed raised Lhasa Opsa's. His main breeder pup was named, Angie. I remember the first time I saw her, I fell in love. She was so pretty. White, long hair. We had gone to Oolagah to spend the weekend at Speed's and the minute I walked in the door I was all over that fluffy dog. And then Speed said something like "This is Angie, and since we named her after you, you will have to pick up her dog poop if she poops in the house, so keep an eye on her."</div><div><br /></div><div>Never have I watched a dog so closely in my life! When she did happen to poo, I must have had my back turned or left the room. Uncle Speed called me into the living room, handed me the tissue and said "Clean it up!" </div><div><br /></div><div>I had tears in my eyes as I bent down and picked up that darn pooh and so did Speed. His, though, were from holding back his laughter and he kindly opened the lid of the trash can for me to toss Angie's pooh. He didn't make me clean it up again though. I think, in spite of the ornery side in him, he did have enough compassion that he wasn't going to put a 9 yr old through that again. To this day, I still have a problem picking up dog poop during a dogs training stages. I typically would put a napkin over it and wait for Alan to get home.</div><div><br /></div><div>But - I will never forget my first time picking up the pooh. Thank goodness they didn't name any other dogs after me.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll miss you Uncle Speed. And I'll never forget you.</div>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-77337895777984247962010-12-23T13:39:00.002-06:002010-12-23T13:59:21.291-06:00It's the Most Wonderful TimeYeah, okay. So the magic that we all felt on that first Christmas in our memory (the one with the surprises under the Christmas tree on Christmas morning, family, the smell of turkey roasting and the thought that life was so incredibly wonderful to have all these presents...and...and.....yeah - that memory) is hard to find as an adult.<br /><br />There is no real joy in wrapping Christmas gifts. Buying them is fun, but I find that even dropping something in the gift bags is tedius. I'm such a lazy wrapper that I put four of my son's small, cheap gadget gifts into one box and wrapped it all together.<br /><br />I used to think that there was something wrong with my mother. She did not like Christmas. She grumbled about it all the time. I thought she either had a problem with Santa, or she didn't like the baby Jesus, but either way - to NOT like Christmas just seemed - sinful.<br /><br />And yet, here I am years later making the same grumbles that used to make me gasp when I'd hear her complain. "I hate this time of year." The traffic in the mall parking lot is enough to make me want to scream, not to mention the traffic in the aisles at Wal-Mart! Oy!<br /><br />Who to buy for, what to buy them, how much to spend. Whose house will we visit? Will they come here? Do I have to cook? Does that mean I have to clean off the dining room table (which we haven't used in at least a year and a half)?<br /><br />We recently realized that, for the FIRST time in our 18 years of marriage, we won't be getting up Christmas morning, rushing our kids through their santa/stocking gifts while the green bean casserole heats up in the oven and then rushing over to hubby's parents to spend Christmas with that side of the family. Nor, will we be making the long drive to Kansas on Christmas Eve-Eve early morning after I've spent an entire night doing laundry (because I haven't for so long) and packing.<br /><br />Nope - for the first time, we will be having Christmas at OUR house, with just US. I don't have to make turkey OR green bean casserole. I don't even have to get dressed if I don't wanna! I dont' even have to clear the table; we could eat at the coffee table in front of the t.v. like we usually do. We could.<br /><br />But, I don't want my kids to have to search for that joy or fun or excitement that Christmas brings. I know it's about the birth of Christ, and all that yada yada yada. I want them to smell the turkey baking as they open their gifts. I want them to feel the grace when we hold hands and say grace at the dining room table and thank the one who made it all happen. Visa.<br /><br />Okay. I could really stop there, but I can't. My baby girl was born on Christmas day, and whether she thinks it or not, I think it's WONDERFUL that she shares her birthday with the ONE. The ONE for which we celebrate the day in the first place. I thank him daily for my kids, my hubby, and this year, I'll be thanking him for the patience I know he's going to give me to get through the day without extended family.<br /><br />Merry Christmas and Peace to all!Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-5790558787889511702010-11-02T10:37:00.002-05:002010-11-02T10:40:47.372-05:00And So It beginsMy first day on my NANOWRIMO account is listed as a failure because I didn't make it to 2,000 words. Day two is listed as a failure as well because I haven't written anything yet. Lovely feeling.<br /><br />Couldn't they change that feature to read "Not there yet" or "Mostly There"? It seems self defeating to list me as a failure already on day one. Of course, the other times that I participated in Nanowrimo I didn't finish (or "win" as it's called). <br /><br />I'm also having trouble keeping myself from "self-editing" as I go, which defeats the purpose.<br /><br />That said - I probably won't blog about much this November, and if I do - I'm using it in my word count.<br /><br />Just saying.Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-11595140109852439352010-10-21T15:33:00.004-05:002010-10-21T16:03:15.910-05:00Triple Oh's and Marching SeasonWhen am I ever going to have time to write again? It was pulling teeth to make myself write this blog today.<br /><br />At work, it's the busiest time of my fall semester, in addition to blowing out some much needed work on my student data base, I've got apps to the program, scanning all our old files to .tiff documents, and the normal program advising stuff. <br /><br />At home, when I am there (and that certainly isn't often) I either drop into bed from exaustion or scurry about trying to catch up on laundry, house cleaning, etc.<br /><br />Yeah....none of that is currently getting done, as I could have safely written this entire blog entry with my finger in the dust on the television, piano and entertainment center. Dirty clothes have become my new floor covering; I have even been known to adjust the piles so that none are taller than the other and the colors of whatever items happen to be on top don't clash. The waste basket in the master bath is almost over flowing (I say almost because I occasionally skim off the top and put that into a trash bag...right next to the can). Oh well - at least it hasn't reached a mountainous peak and teetered over into the sink like my son's did once. Hey - I don't hardly ever go upstairs, and anyway, this is not your child!<br /><br />So, housework can wait. It's the band chaperone thing that is filling my time and my weekends right now. The Viking Band has done SO remarkably well, I really do think they have a chance at going to State. What "being in the band" involves for me is riding the bus with the kids to all the away games and to all the marching competitions (oh and the occasional 'Please do not share a blanket if you are sharing a seat and you are of the opposite sex'). I'm not sure if it's just me, or the fact that I'm older and larger, but didn't buses used to have a lot more room? I think they added more seats to buses without adding any length. Long bus rides when you are Triple Oh's (Old, Overweight, Out-of-Shape) are extremely taxing on this old body. It takes me a good minute just to get down the steps after a long trip and that's not just because it's usually 1:30 a.m. or so.<br /><br />Last Saturday, accompanied the band to the <a href="http://gallery.me.com/vikingband/100204">Waco Regional marching competition</a>. I got up basically four hours after I got home from the Friday night high school football game in Copperas Cove (2:00 a.m.) and even though we made it home at the ripe ole hour of 11:30 p.m. Saturday night, I could not get out of bed until noon Sunday, and even then was only because I had to pee. I could barely lift a finger all day and still have not replenished the groceries in our house.<br /><br />This week, the band is being instructed and drilled by the 'legendary', <a href="http://bradkerrgreen.com/">Brad Kerr Green</a>, so practice is every evening from 4:30 - 6:30, in which the front ensemble is usually finished putting away their instruments close to 7:00 p.m. and I'm lucky to get home by 7:30 p.m. <br /><br />What I'm trying to elude to is that I'm just tired. This Saturday, we leave at 5:30 a.m. <em>ish</em> to go to Regionals in San Antonio and likely won't return until 2:00 <em>ish</em> in the morning (Sunday).<br /><br />How the 'legendary' Janice Clark, head band chaperone for (ever?), does it - the world may never know. I think it's because she doesn't suffer from the Triple Oh's. <br /><br />I know, I know - I signed up for this. I don't regret it at all. I have a ball at the football games, dancing to the different pieces the band plays, being Pit Mom with my fellow Pit Mommas, Maryann and Susan, playing bus captain for the senior bus, and totally embarassing my daughter. It's a blast, and far more rewarding than any other volunteer work I have ever done.<br /><br />I just wanted to take this time to explain why my house is a mess....should anybody happen to visit during marching season....Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-88981894215923792522010-10-12T08:59:00.005-05:002010-10-12T09:26:19.579-05:00Littleton/Hiney Luck VS. Burch LuckYeah, so not everyone in the world is "lucky" enough to experience Burch Luck. I always thought that if you were a friend of a Burch, you would experience Burch Luck, By Association - a new phenomenon.<br /><br /><br />However, as luck would have it, I was able to experience luck of a different kind recently.<br />It took place during our third Tom Petty concert in The Woodlands, September 24, 2010. I guess we can call it "Littleton/Hiney" luck because this isn't the kind of luck that I normally have, though it could have gone either way.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Burch luck is where we forget the number of our hotel room so I just check the entry card on every door until the card finally works. . . . on the last door that you try.<br /><br /><br /><br />So our hotel was a block and a half from a Shell station - a good place in which to buy bottled beverages for before the concert. Cathy Littleton and I trapsed over to the Shell station, purchased some beer (they even had limes! In a GAS STATION!?) and walked back to the hotel. By the time we got there, we were hot and ready for that first beer.<br /><br /><br /><br />As I'm quickly trying to cut a lime with a partially dull pocket knife we realize that we have nothing with which to open a beer bottle.<br /><br /><br /><br />Burch luck is where my friends would have actually let me use the sprinkler head to open the bottle. I'm sure it would have worked!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Littleton luck is where you open the door of the hotel room and ask the couple who just happens to be walking by if they have a bottle opener, to which they immediately reply "Yes" and hold one up. WTH?! So they opened our beers for us, told us to stop by anytime and invited us to imbibe with them before the concert (seems like everyone in the hotel was there to see ZZ Top and Tom Petty).<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It turns out, that when you mix Littleton Luck with Hiney Luck, you have something close to Burch luck, but not as bad.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />While looking for the parking lot, Littleton Luck told Hiney Luck to look for the "<span style="color:#006600;"><strong>GREEN</strong></span>" parking lot, as she was sure that it was the "<span style="color:#006600;"><strong>GREEN</strong></span>" lot that was closest to the pavillion. We spotted a parking lot attendant in a <strong><span style="color:#006600;">green</span></strong> shirt and whipped a U-turn and made our way in. Turns out, all the Cynthia Woods Pavillion employees wear <span style="color:#006600;"><strong>green</strong></span>. It was actually the "<span style="color:#ff6600;"><strong>ORANGE</strong></span>" lot we pulled into, but it got us to the concert none-the-less.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Once inside the venue, we decided to buy ice cold beer but were dismayed to find out that they don't serve adult beverages to minors and they CARD EVERYBODY. Only the Hiney brought her ID - and she was the designated driver. Now that IS Burch Luck.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But, it was either Hiney Luck or Littleton Luck that gave us Tom Petty in concert on the night before a throat infection caused him to have to cancel his next two concerts. It definitely wasn't Burch Luck, or we wouldn't have seen him at all. Maybe a combonation of the three that got us only (or should I say AT LEAST) two songs for a standing ovation (rather than the normal four). At least we got <strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">American </span><span style="color:#000099;">Girl</span>!!</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><br />Now, it was MOST DEFINITELY BURCH luck that had us at the back of a long bathroom line when a <strong><span style="color:#006600;">GREEN</span></strong> shirted Pavilllion attendant told us that the other bathroom had no line at all but when we got there, the line was longer than the first one.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />In all - a good weekend. But woe to Gubenatorial candidate Bill White and the guy who was drunkenly campaigning for him; pulling a dachshund and a beer cooler in a wagon yelling at the top of his drunken lungs to "VOTE FOR BILL WHITE FOR GOVERNOR"<br /><br />He'll need some kind of luck to pull up in this campaign.Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-33043890426730043172010-09-21T08:00:00.004-05:002010-09-21T08:16:19.239-05:00Burch Luck and the Weight Loss Game<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TJiwFSeoxYI/AAAAAAAAAFY/jTbSKHQE0U4/s1600/me.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 178px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 198px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519354948248716674" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TJiwFSeoxYI/AAAAAAAAAFY/jTbSKHQE0U4/s320/me.jpg" /></a><br /><div>We all know that the 'battle of the bulge' (I hate that term but it fits, so suck it) is ONLY won if you cut down your caloric intake and/or counter it with exercise. That means "Eat Right and Exercise." It's the new CRAZE!</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>And most, if not all Burch's HATE it. It isn't even that we hate exercise so much. Okay, that's wrong too. We don't like exercise. We can tolerate it though if it's necessary. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>It's the food part that catches a Burch. We like to eat and we like to eat a lot. That's not to say that we don't like healthy stuff. One of my favorite little veggie dishes is my Grandma Burch's cucumber/onion/vinegar stuff. Yummy! Goes good with her chili or goo-lash! And her homemade piecrust cinnamon rolls - nothing better. We fight over them. Yeah, about those veggie dishes....</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>So I stumbled on this <a href="http://bendoeslife.tumblr.com/">blog that inspired me</a> more than most if only because it included a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8SbXgQqbOoU">Youtube video </a>that was set to some nice, heart tugging music. </div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Now, I wanted to start this off by saying that it's a lot easier to lose weight if you're a guy. It's physics man. But 120 lbs for anybody is no small feat and I would have to wonder if Ben would agree that it was ANYTHING but easy. Bloody nipples folks - watch the video!</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>So, I'm a little worried about the nipples thing, but maybe a sports bra will help with that. If I keep coming up with excuses, I'm going to keep coming up with more weight to lose. As it is, I set ONE SMALL goal for myself and though it's really not that small, it's still a goal. I will have to lose 37 lbs - only 37 - to reach this goal. When I make it, I will set more.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>For now, I'm planning my first marathon to be a year from now. That means my first half-marathon will have to be in 5-6 months. Let's see what happens.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>Burch Luck would dictate anything but success. So lets see if I can't turn that luck around.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div>"Luck affects everything; let your hook always be cast. In the stream where you least expect it, there will be fish." Ovid</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-56267263516907503372010-09-10T10:39:00.007-05:002010-09-10T11:16:21.608-05:00Cyber Weight Loss; Who's Gonna Know?<div></div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TIpUt9tCFPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/TuGLS_2v30o/s1600/diet+pic.gif"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 254px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 183px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5515313842302883058" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TIpUt9tCFPI/AAAAAAAAAFQ/TuGLS_2v30o/s320/diet+pic.gif" /></a></div><br /><div></div><br /><div><span style="color:#330099;">(It's a special new diet! You attach this </span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#330099;">modem to your stomach and upload your </span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#330099;">fat to a skinny person on the internet!)</span><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>This is NOT, I repeat, <strong>NOT</strong> going to turn into a weight loss blog! That really would be Burch Luck, because I'd likely not be very successful. I don't want to jinx myself just 5 days into my Weight Watchers Online journey!</div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>However, I would like to chronicle, at least now and then, my "current" attempt to make the "healthy lifestyle change" (which is really just a fancy way of saying diet and not running away).</div><br /><div>One would think, that through my many years of yo-yo dieting, I would have finally learned the error of my weighs. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The biggest problem I have always had with any diet is not sticking to it. It's not that they don't work; they do. I just don't have the desire to eat cabbage soup for the rest of my life, or never eat another carb. It's those fad diets that get us fatties everytime. Weight Watchers, in my opinion, is really the best. I just don't want to go to the meetings. I have joined WW, I want to say, 9 times in the past. It always worked, but I made the excuse that I couldn't do it without going to the meetings and if I didn't go to the meetings, it just didn't work. In fact, I actually believed that. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The real problem, however, was that I either didn't want to go to the meetings, or I just didn't have time. I'm a busy, working mom (all mom's are busy - don't get me wrong...). I volunteer, I stay active (at least in my kids lives - much to their chagrin) and I read and write. Rarely, if ever do I have an 'extra' day on my calendar in any given month, let alone every week, so I just always let the Weight Watchers goal pitter out. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I decided to try the Online approach this time. Not only do I not have to attend any meetings, but it costs less $$ - which is music to the ears of my hubby, "Alan The cheap." So far, I glean more inspiration and information just reading the online success stories of people, just like me, who spend years and years on fad diets and wasted day dreams wishing we could contract a good case of Anorexia, even if just for one month. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>What prompted this new found desire to lose weight, you might ask? (hey - even if you weren't asking - do it now...so that in the next sentence, you have a good answer.)</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Recently, someone told me that I was looking good; like I had lost weight - a lot of it. I felt so good, I thought "Maybe that anorexia day dream finally came true and I didn't even realize it." (no offense to true eating disorder sufferers) So I went home that night, eagerly stepped on the scale, and realized that not only had I NOT lost any unknown weight, but I was at the heaviest weight I have ever been. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>Disappointedly, I stepped from the scale and took a good long look in the mirror and realized that, yeah, I do look thinner...but it's because all that "heavy" stuff is just hanging lower and hiding within my clothes. Nice. I'm not thinner. I'm just hanging low. My, how attractive that sounds. Hey - be thankful I'm not posting a picture so you can get a visual! Just use your imagination.</div><br /><div></div><br /><div>So, what to do now? I've "tried' every diet...just like most people. They don't work because I don't like them so I just stop trying. There's an excuse for everything. But WW really does seem to be the key, because I've been successful with it many times and it's very easy to stick to it if you use the tools. </div><br /><div></div><br /><div>I have the i-Phone app, which is WONDERFUL! No points calculator, no food journal, etc. to carry around. It's all kept on the i-phone; even the tracking charts.</div><div> </div><div>So, what will make this attempt different than all the rest? Well, it's only day five. I don't know the answer to that yet, or even if it will be different. But I will keep you posted.</div><br /><div><span style="color:#330099;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#330099;"></span></div><br /><div><span style="color:#330099;"></span></div>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-7620449987288038082010-07-20T10:48:00.006-05:002010-07-21T08:29:38.718-05:00Warped Tour - Post III - Because Road Trips are Fun TooI truly believe that people like to take road trips with me because of my mad navigational skills. It's true! Every time I direct people, we end up at the right place; in a round about way.<br /><br />Of course, any little trip, whether it be for just a day, or overnight and even a weekend, is never quite as enjoyable as the roadtrip itself.<br /><br />Our BIG Warped Tour Weekend was no different. We started off in B-CS in rare form, Ginger's Ipod playing all the tunes our ears could stand and the girls in the back, twittering on their I-phones about how cool their mothers are (don't laugh Kelsey and Austyn; you know it's true).<br /><br />We made all the right exits and all the right turns (you can thank me AND the little voice in the on-board mapping system with the sexy accent). Yes ma-am...you are welcome!<br /><br />Of course, no road trip would be complete with out the laughter and the all too important "I HAVE TO GO PAYE PAYE" (pee pee) so I kept my eyes peeled for a suitable exit for when needed.<br /><br />The first one I saw, I told Ginger "Hey, let's pee here" so we exited the roadway and onto a feeder road that was lined with....grass and a broken down neighborhood; but no gas station or fast food places. We, almost immediately, realized we were not near a suitable place to go "PAYE PAYE." Indeed, we found ourselves immediately on the wrong side of the tracks in an unknown town and the first person we saw was a scary guy on his porch smoking a crack pipe, no doubt awaiting his crack bitch to come home from her waitress job at the Waffle House and fix him a sammich.<br /><br />"NOBODY MAKE EYE CONTACT!!!" Ginger yells as we all proceeded to be interested in whatever the church was to our left, holding in the "PAYE PAYE" as we laughed at our blunder, bumping over pot holes and gravel. I reassured Ginger that if she just made a left at the stop sign, we would get back on our road and we could exit at the NEXT stop.....just "DON'T LOOK BACK....CRACK GUY COULD FOLLOW" - the voice of the mapping system irritating my own navigation as she said "Recalculating..." (shut up beyotch!)<br /><br />We were very fortunate though, as the Crack Man Whore was likely too wasted to get off his porch and merely followed us with his eyes, no doubt wondering how much he could get for the rims of the car, were we to stop long enough in front of his house. That was not to be a problem though, as Ginger peeled rubber all the way back to the highway.<br /><br />You would think that our next exit would be perfect for the "PAYE PAYE" but we were racked with uncontrollable giggles as we pulled up to the "Gas and Stuf" and were unable to control our mirth as we realized that if these people couldn't spell properly, then they for sure kept their nasty bathroom under lock and key and we would have to buy something in order to release the "PAYE PAYE" - we just couldn't do it and after a few seconds deliberation and much laughter, Ginger pulled out and back onto the highway in search of suitable release.<br /><br />It would have been easy to hold in the "PAYE PAYE" had we not then come across a couple of interesting billboards that made us not only ponder their meaning, but caused us to burst into more uncontrollable laughter as we tried to decipher their code.<br /><br />The first billboard, I have not been able to find a picture of with my many searches on the internet, but it was undoubtedly an ad campaign warning young children/kids of the dangers of smoking. It had a picture of the back of a school bus and merely read "UNDER AGE SMOKING? MEET YOUR NEW RIDE...."<br />So, we had to ask ourselves....are they saying that if you smoke, the only job you'll ever get is that of a school bus driver? (*SNICKER SNICKER* *SQUEEZE SQUEEZE*) Or do they mean that if you are caught smoking, they will make you ride the school bus? Like, with all the other smokers? And if so, does that mean you can smoke on the bus?<br /><br />I dare say, we still don't have that one figured out...<br /><br />This one, however, was clear from '<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">almost</span>' the beginning:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TEXKZ5N-sII/AAAAAAAAADA/MfD9kF5XdvE/s1600/racybillboard.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5496021466480554114" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TEXKZ5N-sII/AAAAAAAAADA/MfD9kF5XdvE/s320/racybillboard.jpg" /></a><br /><br />As you can imagine, as soon as we saw the "Condoms to Go URL", we were busting a gut, and all four of us were in shock-hysteria-laughter...the kind that is silent because you are laughing too hard to even breathe. Oh, you snort now and then, for sure, but mostly you just gasp for air and nod to the person next to you in case they don't understand that you are just laughing. I nearly lost my grip on my "PAYE PAYE" and Ginger was forced to pull into the very next stop. A halfway decent place, run by some guy who was probably named Achmed. It had a subway AND a pizza place inside as well as pool tables and FOUR STALLS in the bathroom! Talk about elation. RELEASE THE PAYE PAYE!<br /><br />The problem was....one of the stalls had no door at all. No door.<br /><br />No.<br /><br />door.<br /><br />It's hard enough to release the "PAYE PAYE" when you know you aren't going to sit on the toilet seat at all. But to hover with ease over a john with no door on the stall takes some defined acrobatics (See reference to my <a href="http://burchluck.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-06%3A00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00%3A00%3A00-06%3A00&max-results=6">rules for bathroom etiquette</a>). I gallantly chose this stall for myself....seeing as it was likely the most unused (ha ha...see I had a reason guys!!!) and there was much sighing of relief.<br /><br />And more sighing. We had been waiting a looooongggg time ya know....<br /><br />I want to say that there wasn't any soap, which seems likely given that this place wasn't all that much to the naked eye...but we all washed none-the-less (Ginger being the germaphobe that she is......and really....who wouldn't be in a place like this?!).<br /><br />We each grabbed a snack, some drinks and were back in business and hitting the road, our eyes NOW peeled for hopefully more hilarious billboards.<br /><br />None of them had quite the effect as the first two though, so we busied ourselves with finding the correct exit for our hotel.<br /><br />It was an EXQUISITE hotel. Very nice. 28 floors I believe. If you ever get the chance, I totally recommend the Hilton Anatole in Dallas, Texas. One word of advice, however. When you make reservations, ask about any conventions that might be taking place that weekend. Just a thought.<br /><br />We actually hit on a very "different" kind of convention. It was for the National Federation of the Blind - their annual convention. It was HUGE. We were most likely the only sighted guests that weekend. There were walking sticks and seeing eye dogs everywhere. And of course, I had to re-pave my way to hell by uncontrollably saying things like "Don't worry - nobody saw that" and other worse things that I REFUSE to mention. I don't want any blind people happening on this site and taking offense. Plus, I was offended myself.....sorry God....and please bless the blind.<br /><br />There was one occasion when we all loaded in the car to go to Denny's - our favorite thing to do when we are exhausted after a concert. We pluggedthe restaurant address into the Garmin and I "helped" direct Ginger on the route...only to find that the Denny's was just across the street from the hotel. We literally drove across the street to eat....while the BLIND hotel patrons dared to walk across the traffic to get to the same place. The blind people got there quicker than us!<br /><br />We actually had many, enjoyable interactions with the blind during our stay. One seeing eye dog actually nosed my ass. But most impressive, was Speed Racer, the nice looking blind fellow that approached us and asked us very politely if we knew where the atrium was. He was blind, yet he had beautiful eyes. I wonder if he knows that?<br /><br />Ginger pointed in one direction (she pointed ya'all.....) and then told him it was just in the way he was already heading and then over to his right. She didn't even really know if she had told him correctly (she did, by the way) but we watched in awe as he used his walking stick and quickly headed in that direction, deftly avoiding all obstacles in his way well before he got near them. . I don't even think I could have kept up with his pace, even if I had to go "PAYE PAYE."<br /><br />It was baffling to see many of the blind people struggle, AND overcome some of the things that we usually take for granted. Yet is was also amazing!! The other senses that a blind person develops to overcome their lack of sight continues to amaze me. Just listening to some of the conversations many of the blind people had with their colleagues and friends, I was almost ashamed to admit that their intelligence was way above mine. Ashamed, because my narrow-mindedness somehow always led me to believe that if you can't see, how can you learn? How could you know as much as somebody with full sight?<br /><br />Dude....Helen Keller....Hello?! Yes, me....who laughs at things like getting lost in crackville and dirty billboard signs and getting lost while looking for a restroom. Am I to believe that I am really as shallow as that? I do feel I am a changed person at having witnessed the everyday struggles and difficulties that all blind people have to learn to overcome.<br /><br />I'm also pretty sure that "Speedy Gonzales," the blind man that we gave directions to inside the hotel, could have navigated us home to B-CS quicker than I did as we drove through Waco, trying to find the highway 6 exit that I was SURE was 'just up ahead' not quite realizing that the exit we needed was the one we had just used to stop and go "PAYE PAYE." *<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">sigh</span>*<br /><br />It took a lot of willpower for Ginger not to throw her french fries (the ones Kelsey didn't eat) into the back seat at me, (along with her nicely quartered fish sandwich) as I quietly said "I <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; FONT-WEIGHT: bold">think </span>it's next..." Yeah....my mad navigational skills.<br /><br />"Will power is to the mind like a strong blind man who carries on his shoulders a lame man who can see." Arthur SchopenhauerAngie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-33724186392088778892010-07-06T14:54:00.014-05:002010-07-06T16:54:18.715-05:00Enterobius vermicularis-The Warped Weekend: Part Deux<span style="font-family:Calibri;">What makes a responsible parent give up their hard earned weekend to take their teenage offspring to an activity that is decidedly one of the last places on earth any parent would ever want their child to be?Temporary insanity? Let me help you out here with a little "Emo-Parenting 101" - and then see if you can't answer that question. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;">This past weekend, my friend Ginger and I accompanied our daughters to Van’s Warped Tour on what was decidedly the hottest day of the Dallas summer, so that they could <em>rock out</em> to some of their favorite bands while her and I enjoyed 1 or 2 refreshing, ice cold, $10.00 beers (yeah, we were done after 2. Beers that is. We were done drinking before 1:00 p.m. and Ginger was sporting a nice headache before 2:00. Nice....</span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span>If you don’t know what <a href="http://www.vanswarpedtour.com/warpedtour/index.asp">Van’s Warped Tour </a>is – Lucky you (and lucky your pocket book)!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Basic explanation is that it’s a <strong>“clothing optional-modern-day-Woodstock”</strong> but instead of Hippies, it’s attended by melodramatic teenagers who don’t smile and keep their hair covering at least three-quarters of their face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Except for our daughters, who were grinning ear to ear, for the most part, and were complete angels. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">The bands that Ginger and I wanted to see played at 1:15, and then at 7:15 and 8:10....giving us a big SIX HOUR gap in which to people watch; and boy did we see some. . . . people.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Like this guy, who wore only a bandana, held up with suspenders and a conspicuous pair of knee pads.</span><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOKuHtn49I/AAAAAAAAACI/Kn2_Al-gsd8/s1600/bandana+boy.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 240px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490884895643788242" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOKuHtn49I/AAAAAAAAACI/Kn2_Al-gsd8/s320/bandana+boy.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">"I'm too Emo for my shirt, too Emo for my shirt...so Emo it hurts...."</span> </p><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;">Yeah, yeah…so nobody who is <strong>Emo</strong> thinks they are <strong>Emo</strong>…and I don’t think my daughter and her friend are <strong>Emo</strong>…but they sure do party with a LOT of <strong>Emo </strong>people.</span><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOLSiMpazI/AAAAAAAAACQ/-1S2KELt2Cs/s1600/playing+in+the+bacteria.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 226px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490885521228524338" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOLSiMpazI/AAAAAAAAACQ/-1S2KELt2Cs/s320/playing+in+the+bacteria.jpg" /></a></span></p><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;">At least our daughters weren't hanging out with these girls, who, much to the dismay and mortification of soon-to-be-Nurse Ginger, splashed each other with reckless abandon in a puddle of oozing, foul hepatitis water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Playtime was actually over when we walked by and they were just sitting in the middle of it.</span></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;"></span></p><br /><span style="font-family:Calibri;">It was all Ginger could do not to ask for their parent’s telephone number so that she could call and warn them to watch for signs of high fever, chills or a red, swollen, pus-oozing rash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Somebody at this venue MUST have gone home with ring worm or staph infection.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> Ginger is certain of it!</span></span><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I can't say that we were too impressed with much of the screaming, from the bands or the fans (ever tried to take a nap at a rock concert? It's hard!) but we did like the sound of this one guy who calls himself <a href="http://www.purevolume.com/icanmakeamesslikenobodysbusiness">"I can Mess Up any Lyric" or "I'm messed up but I can sing." or was it "Nobody can mess things up like me" </a>I can never get it right...but he was good. He had a more mellow sound that I like, and he actually sang the words instead of screaming them. </span></p><p style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 10pt" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Calibri;">I also liked this guy, <a href="http://therocketsummer.com/">The Rocket Summer</a>. Some guys can really sing, and we appreciated their efforts to not alienate the few, shocked parents who were in attendance. He reminded me a lot of Bon Jovi, but Ginger doesn't like Bon Jovi, so that's not it either. I think it's just that we understood what he was saying so that made it music.</span></p><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 217px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 306px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490886943531272482" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOMlUsDCSI/AAAAAAAAACY/tnzICWhJeB0/s320/the+rocket+summer.jpg" /> <p>This is the Mosh Pit that Ginger's daughter SWEARS she was not near...and okay...I have to say I believe her. I just don't think she would be that crazy or make herself look that foolish!!!<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDON-jx5nMI/AAAAAAAAACg/FKYfZtc0h40/s1600/mosh+pit.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 216px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490888476590709954" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDON-jx5nMI/AAAAAAAAACg/FKYfZtc0h40/s320/mosh+pit.jpg" /></a><br /><br />In all, the most unnerving thing about the concert was that many of these kids parents could NOT have known what their kids were wearing, where they were actually going (other than a concert) because I resfuse to believe that there are this many parents who would allow their kids to do things like this:</p><br /><p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOQQamuIPI/AAAAAAAAACo/lqjsxG5D90k/s1600/crazed+fans.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 212px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490890982388801778" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOQQamuIPI/AAAAAAAAACo/lqjsxG5D90k/s320/crazed+fans.jpg" /></a><br /></p><p>Or this:</p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOSagDdX2I/AAAAAAAAACw/3Zy49RZETKE/s1600/bloody+guy.png"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 185px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490893354673463138" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOSagDdX2I/AAAAAAAAACw/3Zy49RZETKE/s320/bloody+guy.png" /></a><br /><br /><p>Or especially this:</p><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOS5qW18gI/AAAAAAAAAC4/455pxN5uGOA/s1600/crowd+surfer.jpg"><img style="WIDTH: 320px; HEIGHT: 242px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490893890015064578" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDOS5qW18gI/AAAAAAAAAC4/455pxN5uGOA/s320/crowd+surfer.jpg" /></a><br /><p>So, are we crazy moms or cool moms for spending a Saturday outside, in temperatures of not less than 100 degrees or more, with a bunch of wild, crazy punk teenagers and music that made our ears ring? I would have to say crazy for sure because we definitely won't be doing it again. Next year - the dads can go!</p><p>The one thing that made it bearable is that we at least knew where our kids were and what they were doing (for the most part) and what they were definitely <strong>NOT</strong> doing. It's really kind of frightening to know that your child is right in front of the stage (Ginger's daughter has a talent for pushing right to the front without a problem; I'm still kicking myself for not having her drag me up to <a href="http://www.whoistravisclark.com/">Travis Clark</a>!) and you suddenly see all kinds of crap (water bottles, plastic beer bottles, etc) flying in that direction. Ginger and I would just turn and look at each other and shrug. What are you gonna do? At least our girls made it out of there safely, whether it was because we were there or because they are just smart kids, who knows?</p><p>Things we learned for certain this weekend are as follows:</p><p>1) rain panchos can be used for sitting, but when used later as an actual pancho, should be worn dirt side out.</p><p>2) it's really stupid to pay somebody $1.00 to take a picture of their concert schedule, especially if your friend then does the same thing for free - DOH!</p><p>3) A tree will not protect you from the rain as well as a bathroom.</p><p>4) A teenagers entire wardrobe can be purchased at a concert merch table.</p><p>5) Our daughters are so NOT Emo. Puh-leeze! They don't cut! </p><p>6) I really like to say "merch."</p><p>7) we are pretty cool moms whether our daughters admit it or not.</p><p>Oh, lest I forget the <strong>former</strong> circus side-show freak, who retired from Ringling Bros. in order to peddle beer at concert venues, that was trying to pick up on Ginger by impressing her with tales about his possible pro-wrestling career, and later on, the over-weight, very inebriated merch guy (I think he used to be a Carnie) who wanted <strong>BOTH</strong> of us, though he never got his eyes as high as our faces.</p><p>....yeah....we've still got it.... </p><p><strong>TO FOLLOW: PART TRES - Road Trips, Vegetable Abuse, Smoking on the bus and Blind people.<br /></strong></p>Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-5471226885359851142010-07-05T09:56:00.008-05:002010-07-05T12:56:18.665-05:00Enterobius fermicularis - The Warped Weekend - PART I<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDH5uEdweTI/AAAAAAAAACA/HanmyNYvAiE/s1600/cuke.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 86px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 86px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5490443990609197362" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_YdfOkTs71gE/TDH5uEdweTI/AAAAAAAAACA/HanmyNYvAiE/s320/cuke.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Since I knew it would be difficult to sum up the recent Warped weekend in only one blog, I'm going to do this one in short installments.<br /><br />To say the least it was, for the most part, a blast. To say the most, well, you’ll just have to read on and be patient.<br /><br />One of the most annoying yet endearing qualities about me (yes, I just called myself endearing) is that I have this insatiable desire to make sure that everyone has a good time. I have been like this since childhood; unable to bear in any family member or friend their “saddened, angry or bored mood”, I would entertain them with jokes or antics on the road, the hotel room or in the tent, depending on our location. Any topic was fodder for the distraction. It bothers me to see others not having fun or enjoying themselves as any road-trip is meant to be enjoyed. It is both a curse (for me and whomever I may be with) and a release.<br /><br />In either case, I ended up being the “<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic; FONT-WEIGHT: bold">fun sucker</span>” for my daughter at <a href="http://www.vanswarpedtour.com/warpedtour/index.asp">Warped Tour </a>and I am remorseful enough that I should admit that here for the world to see. Sorry Punky!<br /><br />I’m sorry that I had to stop being a friend and act the roll of parent after the jolt of fear that seared through me when I thought you were being kidnapped and sold into slavery!!<br /><br />Turns out, I was not far off, what with the Vans Warped Tour staff’s blatant attempt to play on the excitement and vulnerability of fans and convince them to serve in their catering tent, dishing slop to the many performers and staff that is necessary to put on a show of this magnitude. Who cares if you spend two hours on your feet, NOT rocking out to the bands you actually paid good money to see, but instead serving up beans and rice to their roadie’s and stage hands, hoping for a glimpse of your favorite rockers or maybe a smile from some cool drummer?<br /><br />At least they give the kids a green bracelet to get back stage for any performance; <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">cool </span>right? Well, it could have been had I not made my daughter feel so terrible about abandoning her friend <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">K</span> (who opted to watch and rock to her favorite bands rather than join the other unwittingly enslaved fans in the torturous heat to play cafeteria lady serving strangers dinner) that the entire experience was ruined by her discomfort at having believed she ruined everyone else s' concert experience (those being the words I used to scold her through several texts as I tried to figure out WTH she was doing and where she was).<br /><br />I basically cussed her out for making me feel uncomfortable, because I was afraid others would not enjoy themselves because she had jumped at what she thought was a chance to meet one or two idols, but instead turned into a chance at hard labor; I foolishly felt that she needed a lesson in humility so I bombarded her with texts of how inconsiderate and rude she was being. How could she leave her friend to conquer the concert alone? Why would she not stick around to actually witness band performances? Was this not what we spent so much money to do?<br /><br />So now, her most memorable souvenir will be the <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">unused </span>backstage pass bracelet that she couldn’t bear to use out of the guilt that I had rained upon her. She did try to convince me to put it on and try to go backstage for <a href="http://www.myspace.com/wethekings">We The Kings</a>, so I could witness, possibly up close and personal, the <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">ONLY </span>band I had truly any desire to see, and my own shameless idol, <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Travis Clark</span>. But we were all far too exhausted to even last through the whole set. I could barely even harmonize my beautiful rendition of Demi Levato (K's personal idol - <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">NOT!!</span>) singing "We'll Be a Dream." *SIGH*<br /><br />So, for ruining my daughter’s <a href="http://www.vanswarpedtour.com/warpedtour/index.asp">Warped </a>experience, I am truly sorry. I love you Punky! Thank you for realizing in yourself a passion for wanting to meet your idols and doing all that you can to do so, even if you realized only that you don't ever want to go into the catering business!! Keep the green pass as a badge of honor for having endured your mother's realistic fears and tortuous and vitriolic text messages and the heat and sweat that you endured before you finally and literally bumped into <a href="http://www.myspace.com/jakegermanymusic">Jake Germany</a> on our way out of the bacterial breeding ground.<br /><br />This was but one experience, the uncomfortable one, that was hopefully overshadowed by many of the events that brought hysterical laughter and tears to us throughout the rest of the weekend.<br /><br />With the next blog installment (to follow this one shortly) I will make it up to everyone that "I" made uncomfortable and then some!<br /><br />P.S. my daughter does NOT approve of this message! She said I did NOT ruin her time, that she had a blast and would do the catering all over again because she actually did get to meet and serve several band members; she would not have left K if K had not been with two other people and quite capable of enjoying herself....blah blah blah blah blah.... Okay...so what she is actually saying, is that "I" didn't ruin her day with my ugly text's to her. That's a plus for me then! It means I did my job well!<br /><br />Coming soon: <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Gas and Stuf, putting an end to vegetable abuse, Emo State Fair and Side Show, rain, wet rain, sideways rain and a convention for the blind</span>.Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-57647969730512888262010-06-16T11:12:00.005-05:002010-06-16T12:49:26.056-05:00Things you should not do while textingWe all know it's stupid to text and drive. That's a given people. Too many people have lost their lives...I won't even go into it because it's too depressing and I'm not one for mucking up the internet with what you should and shouldn't do while driving. If you don't know by now, you're an idiot.<br /><br />However, there are some things you would never have guessed would be a problem to do while texting. My pet peeve is people who text at the dinner table (ahem...my daughter) or people who, directly in the middle of a conversation with me, will take out their phone to answer a text and still try to hold a conversation with me. They believe that I think they are listening. Yeah...mmmm...no.<br /><br />Off my soap box now. I'm a texter. Sometimes, out of necessity, even at the dinner table, or at the very least to message my kids and call them down to dinner. Hey, I'm lazy, I admit it that as well. I also text at work when I can just as easily pick up the phone and call, or the once popular but now almost as ancient as actually talking to someone, E-mail.<br /><br />It used to turn me off when I would hear people on their cell phone in a public bathroom stall, I mean...come on? Seriously? That conversation couldn't wait? When I am at home, however, this rule can and will be bent. After all, I am only human.<br /><br />So yesterday, while in the midst of a text chat with my dear friend Cathy, starting with me reminding her that she was soon to be the mother of an 18 year old and how did that feel, ha ha, rub rub (even though I shall suffer the same fate in less that two months) I had to go ... for lack of a better word...pee. So I took my phone with me. What? This is MY blog!!!<br /><br />Anyway, it was then that I realized that I needed "feminine" supplies and there were none in my bathroom cabinet. So, I already had my phone out, I texted my daughter quickly and asked her to bring me some. I didn't merely just ask...I told her WHY I couldn't come get them myself. Without realizing that I was actually still in the chat with my friend, I hit send, realizing too late that I had basically just asked her to drive 20 miles from her house to bring me a feminine napkin. Oy!<br /><br />Easy fix...we LOL'd and TMI'd through text while I quickly copied the original request, pasted it into a new text and properly sent this to my daughter. No harm, no foul, right?<br /><br />Yeah....Burch Luck, remember? Fast foward to this morning, my FAVORITE radio station, Candy95 holds this contest where you can win "TWIFECTA" tickets (tickets to see Twilight, New Moon, then Eclipse all on the same night at the movie theater on the night that Eclipse comes out - hey - it was for my daughter!). Typically, what I do is pull over (because it's UNSAFE to text while driving) and text the KEY WORD to their number then copy and paste the text and resend repeatedly until I get the message that they already have a winner (because I have Burch Luck and never actually win - but hey, it's always fun to play). Apparently, my text happy fingers didn't quite copy today's key word (FORKS) and I instead pasted my text about needing feminine supplies....<strong>TO THE RADIO DJ's - Frito and Alli!!</strong> OMG! I'm sure they didn't see it, since they typically get 1500 texts in the first 20 seconds, but I certainly saw it and immediately turned 3 shades of red and elected not to participate in today's contest in order to not draw further embarassment to myself.<br /><br />Toilet Texting.....who knew?!?!Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1645664284741939463.post-42897475573999264832010-03-07T08:26:00.006-06:002010-05-24T10:55:29.876-05:00Summer Weed EatingSummer is almost here and so is the dreaded swimsuit season. Not that I readily jump into a swimsuit, at least not in front of other human beings; but as we are planning on getting a pool this summer (nothing fancy, just something for the kids to do during the day) I'm sure I'll likely go with something.<br /><br />That being said, the first thing I think about when selecting a swimsuit, or contemplating actually wearing one, is the dreaded 'bikini line' and the gnarly razor bumps most people get from shaving.<br /><br />So, this year I decided to forgo my trusty regular bic razor for these nifty little wax strips; a sort of DIY grooming product, and at a much lower cost than paying someone to get down there, which is not up my alley, pardon the pun. If you have never seen this product, it's a box of a dozen plastic strips with a thin coating of wax which you simply apply in the areas in which you would like to remove unwanted hair folicles. You press it on, let it warm to your skin, then remove it quickly for perfect hair removal. Or so one would think. This is a Burch Luck story though. If you consider yourself a prude, you probably don't want to read on.<br /><br />The day I decided to perform this "bikini line ritual", I thought I would also take a nice relaxing bath in the whirl pool tub, complete with classical music, several well placed scented candles and a glass of wine (yes...I'm still allergic to alcohol....but sometimes, a little wine can be soothing...until the itching starts...but that's another Burch Luck story).<br /><br />The water was running in the tub, the candles were lit and a nice, soothing Enya CD was serving as my 'project' background music. I strategically laid out the wax strips as well as the other necessary supplies (included in the kit) which includes a ridiculously small bottle of oil (for excess wax removal) and VERY CAREFULLY read the directions. Twice. You can't be too careful in this area, don't ya know?<br /><br />I followed these carefully read directions, placed the first wax strip in the bikini area and rubbed it in a little (IT'S IN THE DIRECTIONS PEOPLE!!!) to warm the wax so that it could adhere to, well, whatever. Anyway, I let it sit for the recommended 2-3 minutes, held my thigh skin taut with one hand, grabbed the wax strip with the other and ripped away! <br /><br />Yeah...ouch.<br /><br />I looked at the strip in my hand and realized that, aside from <strong><em>some </em></strong>of the wax, there was nothing on the little strip. WTH?! Why the pain the then? I tried to put the strip into the trash so I could tend to my throbbing nether region, and then realized that it was stuck to my fingers with what little wax remained on it. I attempted to peel it away with my wax free hand. Yeah...now both hands had wax and were sticking to everything. I did manage to fling the strip, but it went flying and despite my best efforts, I was unable to find it; and anyway, I knew I needed to remove whatever wax was still on the bikini line. That's when I had the sudden realization that the wax was still on the bikini line and had very nicely attached itself to, well my thigh and my bikini line; they were adhered together very nicely. I tried peeling it away, but my fingers were just managing to stick more wax to me and, as you might imagine, it hurt like the dickens.<br /><br />So, I realized I would have to use the aforementioned oil. Again, it is a ridiculously small bottle resembling one of those perfume sample bottles. I held it with one hand, removed the lid with the other and then realized the the bottle was waxed to one hand and the lid was waxed to the other. *Sigh* Burch luck, right? Wait, it gets better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it.<br /><br />After numerous attempts to 'knock' the lid from my finger tips by scraping it on the faucet, I was finally able to disengage it and watched helplessly as it went down the drain. I figured I'd leave the oil stuck in my hand as I applied it, however, I foolishly felt that I would need something to 'apply' the oil to all wax infected areas, so I stepped over to grab some toilet paper, realizing, too late of course, that I now had toilet paper stuck to my fingers, but hey, that's what the oil is for, right? Using the toilet paper, I applied the oil...on the oil container to get it off my fingers then tossed the t-paper aside (successfully - woo hoo) so I could attend to the, by now, very sticky wax down below. It took the whole bottle of oil to clear the area and at least 90% of the unwanted bikini line still remained. You would think this fiasco ended here, but this is a Burch Luck story.<br /><br />If you will recall, the water was still running for my bath, but as it was to my back plus with the nice Enya music, and 'other activities' I actually forgot about the bath. The water didn't run over or anything...it's a big tub...though that would have been comical, right?! I did have to make a mad dash to turn it off though, and that's when I realized I had found the wax strip I had previously flung...it was sticking to the bottom of my foot and as I took a step, it picked up a strip of toilet paper and as I leaned over to turn off the water and then lifted my foot to begin more wax removal, the trailing strip of toilet paper caught on one of my candles. Even though one might expect toilet paper to be non-flammable, that is actually <em>not </em>the case. It can burn pretty quickly, if it's the cheap kind (and if you know my husband, you know that, of course, we have the generic, made from recycled sandpaper brand). So, I did what any normal human being with flaming hot toilet paper waxed to their person would do. I plunged my foot into the tub, wax, paper, flames and all.<br /><br />Yeah. So much for a nice relaxing bath; and the self waxing job? Left a strip of bruised and broken skin that covered twice the area of my bikini line. Luckily; I did this in March, before it was actually time to wear a bathing suit. <br /><br />Bikini line, healing nicely. My pride...not so much.Angie Deghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01592988190269301982noreply@blogger.com3