tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42786408171389643192024-03-13T19:21:55.655-05:00My Life In A NutshellJudi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.comBlogger121125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-10298311898363429652016-05-09T13:59:00.000-05:002016-05-09T13:59:15.064-05:00Old Time Rock & Roll - a Desert Trip aka Oldchella<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XspWsdklPp4/VzDdlPNCWSI/AAAAAAAAARM/9zRf0Ii1QdQuv6yIE5bgSz03qteSLa6IgCLcB/s1600/Goldenvoice%252Bpresents%252Bin%252BCalifornia%252BFriday%252BAdipwilidg%252BEtiiaggi%252B%25E2%2580%25A2%252BEgetti%252BIpsu%252BSaturday%252BElit%252BEgestasw%252B%25E2%2580%25A2%252BNibh%252BLigula%252BSunday%252BSodales%252BUrna%252B%25E2%2580%25A2%252BNec%252BAnt%252BOctober%252B7%252C%252B8%252B%2526%252B9-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-XspWsdklPp4/VzDdlPNCWSI/AAAAAAAAARM/9zRf0Ii1QdQuv6yIE5bgSz03qteSLa6IgCLcB/s320/Goldenvoice%252Bpresents%252Bin%252BCalifornia%252BFriday%252BAdipwilidg%252BEtiiaggi%252B%25E2%2580%25A2%252BEgetti%252BIpsu%252BSaturday%252BElit%252BEgestasw%252B%25E2%2580%25A2%252BNibh%252BLigula%252BSunday%252BSodales%252BUrna%252B%25E2%2580%25A2%252BNec%252BAnt%252BOctober%252B7%252C%252B8%252B%2526%252B9-1.jpg" width="320" /></a>Sometime during the two week festival known as Coachella, where 125,000 people gather five miles from my home and throw a party complete with multiple concerts, fashions, foods, camping and celebrities, a rumor was leaked (I suspect by the very entity that feigned upset. . . Goldenvoice) that another mega concert would be held in the fall with true rock icons on a playbill not to be believed. <br />
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Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, Neil Young, Roger Waters, Paul McCartney and The Who. . .all in a one square mile area over two weekends in October? Who wouldn't want to do that? I mean that is the pinnacle of music as we know it and it's happening a bike ride from my house.<br />
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Email started flying between people. Do you want to go? Should we get a block of passes? One day? Three Day? VIP or General Admission? The questions, the plans. Just think about it for a minute. In one 48 hour period you could conceivably see six epic shows and still go home and sleep in your own comfortable bed. I even have out of state friends asking if they can stay here when they go to the show. This is a really big deal. It's a no-brainer to me and so I email back. . . I'm in. <br />
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Notice I say "I' and not "We". I bring it up to Moondoggy, excited, "everybody's going" I tell him. "Not me," he says and I am slightly sad but still determined. I make plans to man computers with a friend to try and get our passes (VIP is the way to go) when tickets go on sale at 10 a.m. Monday. Everything is set.<br />
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Sleeping soundly through the night, I am suddenly awakened with a jarring thought. This pass will cost anywhere between $1000 and $1600 (GA is $399). . .that's a lot of money. It's a cruise or a new computer (which I am in need of right now.) But it's THE STONES, THE WHO, I mean this will never happen again. I go back to sleep.<br />
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Bam! Awake again. What if something comes up and we can't go? It's not like they sell concert insurance like they do trip insurance which means there is no guarantee that I could sell my pass. Hmmm. But, what are the odds, really. I go back to sleep.<br />
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I wake up and Moondoggy is on the computer. . . on the website and he's looking at ticket options. "Come here," he says pointing to the schematic of the seating. "Are you wanting passes to the Standing Pit?" Standing? For a whole concert? With a bunch of other standing people? Um. . no. "These seats," he says pointing to the seats in front of the stage, "are down here behind the Standing Pit, And these," he points to the Grand Stands (and priciest of the options) don't even face the stage so you will have to stand and turn to see. Which are you hoping to buy?" I start seeing the dollars in terms of comfort versus Mick Jagger singing "Satisfaction". Mick Jagger. . . not the younger Mick Jagger who preened and pranced to the song originally but the now Great-Grandfather Mick Jagger. He can still do it but. . . and what about Keith Richards? I mean is he really still even breathing? <br />
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And then I recall the last concert I went to - Aerosmith, a few years ago. What I really wanted during the entire show was ear plugs. And I once camped out to buy Dylan tickets which turned out to be the biggest disappointment ever. . .do I want to replay that to the tune of a grand? And I've seen Pink Floyd and now the dollars flying around my brain are marching back into my subconscious wallet. I could buy the entire works of each of these groups for less than the cost of this epic weekend five miles down the road and still have money left, my hearing intact and a peaceful uncrowded place to enjoy the music. Besides what if one of these guys breaks a hip?<br />
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And with that, I emailed my friend, "I'm out."<br />
Think I'll be driving Uber those weekends instead.<br />
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<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-34102355803907637512016-03-22T11:34:00.002-05:002016-03-22T11:34:49.546-05:00When The Plan Goes Out The Window. . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Srj1M1xiBNc/VvFxbfNbX0I/AAAAAAAAAQ0/w1isK7Zvd9ogUmEKkaI8Ufz2mL5FIDHyw/s1600/Staging_for_Fire_Web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Srj1M1xiBNc/VvFxbfNbX0I/AAAAAAAAAQ0/w1isK7Zvd9ogUmEKkaI8Ufz2mL5FIDHyw/s320/Staging_for_Fire_Web.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday I was reading through the weekly newspaper from my former town in Northern Illinois. I moved away two and a half years ago but, as I explained to a California friend recently, when you've lived in a small town for over thirty years you really do know everyone - if not on a personal level, then at least to recognize them on the street and know who they are. It's something like a large, dysfunctional extended family that share the same estate. . .you see Odd Bob in the hardware store, you know it's Odd Bob but you may not talk to him because, well, he's kind of odd, right? You don't say anything to anyone either though because chances are good Odd Bob is the store owner's second cousin who married the postmaster's daughter but she had an affair with their son's second grade teacher and everyone knows but Odd Bob. You get the idea. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4OK8ZD_q92E/VvFxeJiO6FI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/WToeqA5Q7bApVe0PeA6ChSuRk634ped7w/s1600/Banjac_Gary_2%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4OK8ZD_q92E/VvFxeJiO6FI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/WToeqA5Q7bApVe0PeA6ChSuRk634ped7w/s320/Banjac_Gary_2%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="276" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">So, yesterday I was reading the newspaper when I came across an article about a retiring firefighter; not just ANY retiring fire fighter but, my own personal, had an "intimate moment" with firefighter and he is retiring from the department. I never knew Gary Banjac on a personal level. I knew his name and I knew he was a firefighter and one late, late night we came face to face at the most vulnerable moment of my life and we both lived to tell about it. But first, a little history. . .</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad. I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex. Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe. Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in. The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape. I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town where I had next door neighbors; within screaming distance I always say. Now back to my story. . .</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it (which no longer is possible because the underbed clearance is less than space my butt displaces), me using my mad kick-boxing skills, or me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell. I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'. So, one night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone. I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I did have Moose the Wonder dog - my scrappy Bichon Frise who requires constant grooming and foofing so he looks like a white cotton ball - terrorizing menace that he is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door, somewhere in my house, has been opened. The dog cocks his pretty poofy head, listens for a quick second and then goes nuts barking and leaps off the bed scrambling headlong into the living room. Me? I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do after all Self Preservation is my middle name. And what do I do? Go out the window? Hide in the closet?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No, I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor. You would think at that point I would have stopped and turned back, maybe hidden somewhere, right? Someone in my house in the middle of the night using a flashlight to see does not signal a good outcome. Any sensible person with a history of knowing what to do when the murderer comes would've stopped. Me? NO! Instead, I keep going where I come face to face with a man. . . in a dark clothing who now rounding the corner to the hallway where I am coming from.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Remember that scene from "E.T" where Drew Barrymore discovers ET in the closet? She screams this high pitched, fear driven scream and ET screams the same scream because both are startled beyond reason? Well, that's what it was like for me, not the intruder, just me. I screamed for both of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Oh NO! Wrong house," the man says to I don't know who because I can't see - it's middle of the night dark, but then I notice another man standing in the front doorway. The intruder calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen! Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen. Wrong house. We're leaving. Go back to bed." Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking that if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and I'm thinking, "Did he just tell me to go back to bed?" Before the intruder closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?" He stops and without even taking enough time to make up a name (because that's what I might've done) says, "Gary Banjac (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is)."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I briefly considered doing just what he told me to do by going back to bed but, I noticed a ghastly smell. I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas over the incident. At least, I hope it's just gas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I flip on the light and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Holy Hell! I get a gander at what the intruder was looking at when we came face to cafe in the hall. I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring and may or may not have a gaping hole somewhere south of my waist. I am also wearing an old gray tank top. Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have and I am sporting it like a model right now. My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top. And amazingly, I'm not scared, I mean I knew who it was, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police. I waffled. I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting. . .sort of. She did not think it was funny either. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight. I am going to have an officer stop by."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well crap! I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests. I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world. And a minute later he was there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The young, good looking, former marine was on duty. I wished I had brushed my hair! He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm. She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight wellness calls to her house. There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again. All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado! They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said. "I knew something was off the moment I came in because there was nothing on the floor to step over, no paths through the house," he looked around, "Your place is clean - looks nice!" Gary Banjac had just redeemed himself in one sentence although perhaps it would've been nice if he would have said I didn't look scary, too. Whatever. I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair," I commented to my reflection. Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall. I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again. It wasn't the dog, it was my breath. Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As for the practiced escape plan? It went out the window without me.</span></h2>
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-32050642565602377872016-01-01T06:09:00.000-06:002016-01-01T06:18:28.838-06:00DON'T DO IT!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Q8K7FbT7Lw/VoZufg6Qz7I/AAAAAAAAAQI/uRljSpx7HBY/s1600/6358695855007153731505043292_newyears.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-9Q8K7FbT7Lw/VoZufg6Qz7I/AAAAAAAAAQI/uRljSpx7HBY/s320/6358695855007153731505043292_newyears.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://judicoltman.com/" style="color: black; font-size: 20px; line-height: normal; text-decoration: none;">READ THIS BEFORE MAKING A RESOLUTION</a></h3>
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They started early this year, those gym and weight reduction commercials that assault us every time we turn on the television. They have a great hook, one that a majority are taken in by every single year. The New Year's Resolution. That one time where you pledge to do something different, better, more often all in the name of new year. A flip of the calendar. Seriously? If you didn't get my message last year when I painted the scenario: resolve, join gym or diet program, go great guns for a week or two, get tired. . .or hungry, cheat, self flagellate, try again, give up. The result? Dollars thrown away and unnecessary guilt all because you felt compelled to announce a resolution when the calendar changes. Who wins? The gym, the diet program and now the self help centers that are ready to rush in and repair your ego. . .for a price. I've said it before and I'll say it again, DON'T DO IT! Instead, join me for some red wine and dark chocolate touted as heart healthy not to mention delicious. That's my kind of good health!<br />
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You're not going to listen to me, are you? </div>
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-50459240688260675652015-11-11T08:59:00.000-06:002015-11-11T09:13:11.504-06:00The Moments That Remind Us . . .<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mbDg-B0yHMQ/VkNXMVN64aI/AAAAAAAAAPs/q4qjaLIC7Sg/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mbDg-B0yHMQ/VkNXMVN64aI/AAAAAAAAAPs/q4qjaLIC7Sg/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a>There are important people in your life and then there are IMPORTANT people. Unsung heroes. Your hairdresser, your nail tech, your dog sitter. Not much stands in the way of my hair appointment, little stands in the way of a manicure but nothing, and I mean NOTHING gets between me and our dog sitter. She is an esteemed part of our family. My dog loves her. He happily prances out to her car and never looks back even after spending days moping because the suitcases are out. Jan's here? See ya! The same could be said of our neighbor's dog. She loves Jan, too. So, when my dog sitter's husband passed away recently, it wasn't a shock but still a surprise. when we got word from her sister-in-law that there would be an open house to honor Jan's husband, John, at our community clubhouse, neighbor Carol and I decided to go up there, pay our respects to Jan. I didn't really know John but he loved my dog so. . .<br />
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We, Carol and I, decided we'd go together. So, we dressed, put on make-up and made our way to the clubhouse at the appointed time. The plan was to seek out Jan, extend our sympathies and then get out of the way so that others who are really closer to her could socialize. That was the plan.</div>
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The clubhouse was packed. Recognizing almost no one, we assumed it must be family and scanned the crowd looking for Jan. Near the food table? No, but there were some delicious looking cheese and meat spreads and desserts. Near the beverages? No. Near the 4 men standing in uniform near the door? Uniform? Hmm. John was former Navy, perhaps they were there to pay respects, too. Finally we spot Jan holding court at a large table and she is delighted to see us, encourages us to get some food and take a seat, "They should be starting soon."</div>
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Starting? Carol and I are perplexed. Starting what? Is this a memorial service? Collectively we went through the gamut of options. Certainly we don't belong at John's memorial service. Do we sneak out the back door? Squeeze past the uniformed men? What do we do? We aren't family. We didn't really know John. And so we stood awkwardly, with smiles plastered across our faces, talking through our teeth:<br />
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Me:"What do you want to do?" Smiling, smiling.</div>
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Carol: "I don't know." Looking around, smile firm and toothy, "Lets go get a drink."</div>
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We shuffle in synch across the room to the beverages and get some iced tea. I never know how to naturally place my arms in these situations, so holding a cup of tea seems like a good fix.</div>
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Me: "Now what?" Ever smiling.</div>
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Carol: "I don't know." Looking around and pointing with her eyes to the far wall, "I think that's a guest book. Let's go sign it and then slip out the door."</div>
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Collectively, we walk stiffly back across the room, in synch, toward the table with the book. Only it isn't a book, it's a memorial card with John's information. We each pick one up. </div>
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Me: "Now what?" Smiling, smiling.</div>
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Carol: Smiling, "I don't know."</div>
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Just then, a man kindly urges us to take a seat, he would, he said, be starting in a minute. I looked at Carol and she looked at me and our smiles, still plastered on our faces said it all, "We're staying."</div>
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And so it began with a few words from Jan's brother-in-law. He reminded us that John was a veteran, a career man in the navy doing the jobs that don't garner bravado but most certainly keep that well oiled machine going; the jobs below deck that are necessary for keeping the whole vessel afloat. He traveled the world, served our country faithfully and then he settled in California where, the speaker said, he tried to become a gentleman farmer. Always a gentleman, John was, apparently a lousy farmer. His final years were spent at Ralph's Grocery Store - he worked the deli and had a list of regulars who would only allow John to cut their order. He was that well liked.<br />
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The Veterans who had been standing along the side of the room were now beckoned forward. They marched up in synch (now THEY know how to look natural doing it) and solemnly snapped a crisp flag out and then carefully, methodically, each movement made with full intention and perfection, folded the flag<br />
into the familiar, revered triangle before then presenting it to Jan who was seated, surrounded by family. I looked at Carol, a tear forming in the corner of her eye and knew I was sunk. </div>
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The veterans then stood at attention while one of the men slowly, methodically raised a trumpet to his lips. I turned to Carol and said, "They are going to play taps." She shook her head, "I can't watch. I'm going to lose it," she said. "Lamaze breath," I replied. I've found that Lamaze breathing has done more for me in the control of crying than it ever did in childbirth. So now I am breathing, hee, hee , hee as the crystal clear notes of Taps resonate through the room. Hee, hee, hee. It wasn't working. Carol, by then has given up. The veterans, well oiled in their minuscule movements then march off the floor to the chant of one of the men. Hee, hee, hee. Now I know exactly what to do with my arms because I have to wipe the flowing tears from my face. It was short and sweet but, it was powerful.<br />
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Awkward standing, unnatural arms, feeling like a voyeur at someone else's private moment - all of that disappeared when I realized that this kind man who loved my dog had spent a good part of his life in service to our country. He is a true unsung hero and deserves honor and an audience.<br />
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Happy Veteran's Day to All Veteran's and Thank You For Your Service.</div>
Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-80408353381129013592015-11-07T07:00:00.000-06:002015-11-07T07:00:04.769-06:00Am I Working on Any New Books? Or, How Marketing Killed My Muse<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dLGH5YZMhVo/Vj1yyiXvT3I/AAAAAAAAAPY/RmsNxulKRVM/s1600/Me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dLGH5YZMhVo/Vj1yyiXvT3I/AAAAAAAAAPY/RmsNxulKRVM/s320/Me.jpg" width="239" /></a>I'm often asked if I am working on any books right now. My guess is that people ask this for several reasons but most likely because it's a nice way to make conversation. Or, they are interested in the elusive "writer person" they know who rarely discusses writing in social company or and this is one is guided by my own conscious - they wonder why in the hell I haven't written (and really I mean publish) anything new since my last book which is now 3 years old. My pat answer is yes, I have works in progress (WIPs to those who speak the lingo) but the mojo just hasn't been there. And that would be the truth. What I don't tell them is that my brain is going all of the time. I have more great beginnings than even I realize but somewhere between five or 10,000 words in, I lose focus. I get side tracked. I've spent a lot of time thinking about this recently because I've got some really good ideas and it's time to get moving. So what stops me? Again, my default response would be to lean toward humor - my muse lives at the beach while I live in the desert. We aren't on speaking terms right now. Something like that.<br />
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The truth is and it dawned on me just recently is two fold. The first is marketing. When a writer signs with a publisher they often receive an advance check followed by royalties (pennies per book) on sales. Unless you are John Grisham or Patricia Cornwell or some other famous author, the amount of time and money spent marketing your book by a publisher is best summed up as "not much." Many of us have opted to go independent, publish on our own. There are benefits to that, the most important being royalties earned on every book - paperbacks maybe $1 but the ebook market is 70%. I always encourage people to buy ebooks whenever possible. It is environmentally sound. . . and I make more for my work : ) The downside is that an independent author is responsible for their own marketing. And that, my friends, is the rub. Marketing is time consuming. Where are the best places to advertise? Spend time researching it. What is the return on a marketing dollar? Spend time on spread sheets. Does your book fit in the parameters of said market? Spend time researching best avenues for your genre. The digital age has thrown even more curve balls because the algorithms change constantly. Algorithms - look it up. Keeping up with that is important for keeping sales afloat and it takes a lot of time. By the time I have completed my marketing homework everyday, I'm ready to toss my computer out the window. So, basically marketing has killed my writing muse. Today I decided I am done marketing. Sales have been good for all of my books, I can't lie but, I'm done. If I'm going to write, I have to get to it - whether sales remain constant or not. Ok. Gosh, that feels good. Now on to the next reason and full disclosure - this gets kind of heavy.<br />
<br />
My last book, No Such Thing, was based on a deeply disturbing time in the lives of the community in which I was raised. A serial killer, a pedophile preyed upon young kids in a very small area, abducted them, held them hostage, abused them and then killed them. Something like that sends deep ripples through the community in which it occurs. It anchors its vile tentacles to every single person who becomes aware of the crimes and shapes how people live the rest of their lives- sometimes in subtle ways for which we are often unaware. For me it was even closer because of who the "final" victim was, Tim King. Tim was the youngest brother of my friend and the friend of my youngest brother-in-law. Still, I AM NO ONE in comparison to the family members who lived on after their children or siblings were abducted and murdered. I wanted to write a book that told the real story. I wanted to write it true to what was known but what was known has inflated, changed shape and become bloated by lies and lore. And, the worst is that there is still no ending. It's still an open case because none of the suspects have been charged. So, I had to go with fiction because I needed an ending. It sucked the life out of me to write it and it's taken awhile to dissipate the consumption that this case causes in me. I don't know that it will ever go away but, it's time to allow these other characters to live the life they have been living in my head for so long.<br />
<br />
Thanks for asking, my friends, because it forced me to face some truths and thanks for listening but I've got to go. . .there's some writing to be done.<br />
<br />
<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-60777981823807793082015-11-05T08:15:00.002-06:002015-11-05T08:15:37.024-06:00Wake The Kids, Phone The Neighbors! El Nino Is Here!<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_f6QbFJ-ML0/VjtkNvTUXlI/AAAAAAAAAPE/A3CECCyWssk/s1600/tomer_el_nin%25CC%2583o_338791.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_f6QbFJ-ML0/VjtkNvTUXlI/AAAAAAAAAPE/A3CECCyWssk/s320/tomer_el_nin%25CC%2583o_338791.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Rumors of snow in the mountains, unseasonably warm
temperatures in the Midwest and almost no hurricanes in the Atlantic Ocean all
point to the arrival of the feared and dreaded El Nino. What does that mean for
us desert dwellers? Cooler temperature and even some rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Real rain<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(which is desperately needed to assuage the drought) and the most unique
and overblown weather reports I’ve heard yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With a mixture of heightened adrenalin-driven giddiness and tempered
seriousness, our weather people spend a good portion of the news show
describing and reminding us of what El Nino is and how much havoc it brought
the last time, followed by how it will effect us as well as
other parts of the country </span><span style="font-size: large;">in the coming days</span><span style="font-size: large;">. And I will give them this; it can bring weather
related disasters to many areas. . . just not here so much. Yet, these driven and hard-hitting professionals will level
their eyes and look into the camera and deliver the forecast that by all
accounts, should send us running and screaming, tying down trees, bringing in
outdoor furniture and hunkering down. Example?Rains are called monsoons and generally
equal about .2 of an inch, if that. Sometimes it has been no more than a spattering of drops on my windshield - IF I'm in the right location at the right minute. A winter storm might bring some winds and
cooler temperatures and snow in the mountains – which, by the way, is exactly
where I like my snow; pretty to look at. </span><span style="font-size: large;">. . from a distance. By comparison, the California
weather people – ours especially, who report on these major weather events with
the accompanying bluster and bravado still don’t have a clue what real weather
is like. Yesterday we had some cloud cover, with the cloud bank surrounding the
tops of the mountains while our temps were hovering in the low 70s yet this was
the weather headline, </span> <span style="font-size: large;">delivered by
an</span> <span style="font-size: large;">attractive weather caster (because I’m
not sure if she is a meteorologist or not) wearing a darling little sleeveless
dress, “Major Winter Storm Barrels (BARRELS!) Through." To prepare, </span><span style="font-size: large;">I wore blue jeans. . .and a light long-sleeve
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<span style="font-size: large;">Come on! I’m from the Midwest; give me something to justify
my new adorable winter jacket and cute boots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s all I’m saying.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-64134802246212544932015-09-25T09:24:00.000-05:002015-09-26T08:43:47.351-05:00I Think My Exercise Classes are Twerking<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">We all have them, those moments of clarity when in the midst of some activity, the fog that lingers around old memories like a Vaseline covered camera lens dissipates and the memory becomes focused but the meaning and understanding of the memory have a newer, deeper perspective. That happened to me just this morning and the result was life altering - sort of.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When I was a little girl, like many little girls, I took ballet lessons and then later modern dance and jazz. As a teenager I stopped formal lessons but, along with my friends, went to night clubs to dance- mostly in Canada which, in retrospect was intuitive given what I have just figured out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I've always been active. In the 90s I did step aerobics, then in the 2000s I moved to kick-boxing. I loved the kickboxing. There is something cathartic about kicking and punching a bag and I did this with a core group faithfully through 4 instructors before my knee gave out followed by the demise of my commitment to any structured exercise class. What was next? Running. A friend of mine decided one day to train for a marathon (yes, just like that) so in solidarity I decided to train for a 5k (you know because it's ALMOST the same) and much to my utter dismay, I became a runner. I love running but, it can become monotonous and it did, so I took a break only restarting a running program recently. All of this is background for explaining why I took the next step.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not an athlete per se. If you look at me nothing about me screams athlete. Nothing. But, I walk an average of 18 miles a week (I have a dog so. . .),often ride a bike and sometimes swim (although swimming for me is a pleasure activity so why would I want to foul the mojo by making it exercise?) And yes, a few weeks ago, I added running back into the mix. But look at me and what do you see? Well, lean and tough does not come to mind.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, I decided to step it up and joined a Zumba class. Zumba, for those of you who are also stuck in exercise class void, is basically step aerobics without the step and done to music with a distinct Latin flavor. It is salsa, mambo and a little bit of hip hop. I spent the early 2000s leaping around a gym kicking at men holding bags. . . how tough could a little dancing be, right?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Channeling my former dancing self, I showed up to my first class, stumbled through it, went to the second class and gained some confidence since the moves were no longer foreign and, man, I felt pretty good. So, yesterday I went to my third session. In walks Patty, the instructor who I quickly learned was BORN salsa dancing and off we go. There are lots of minuscule little foot movements in Zumba, back and forth, front to back to side to back to front to back to side and well, you get the picture. All of this is done within the first measure of a song and keeps coming at you relentlessly. Determined to catch on, I studied her feet and when I finally had it down, she had changed foot movements. Then, I realized that in conjunction with footwork was hip movement, booty popping, then shimmying and finally arm movements that included waving in the air, shaking them out and then an arms-to-the-side morocco playing simulation. All of this ALL AT THE SAME TIME. And it was then, at this junction that I looked in the wall length-mirror that we all stand in front of for the class and watched in horror as this room full of old women twerked. TWERKED! Even more horrifying? I was one of them. If you have not witnessed a room full of just to the right of middle aged bottoms twerking consider yourself blessed and avert your eyes immediately.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">As I watch myself move to the music like some out of control carnival ride through hell I realized what my mom, my instructors and my friends had quietly been trying to tell me all of my life: I can't Dance. And with that, I stopped moving and burst out laughing - laughed so hard I almost peed (and ok, it may not take hard laughter for that to happen anymore). I laughed at the site of my unatheletic, soft body that <i>thought </i>it was dancing well but really looked like it was fighting off a large bat and decided, what the hell - I'll keep coming because I can laugh or I can cry, either way it burns another 1.3 calories a minute so I might as well laugh, right?</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Note of Apology:</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">To the dance teachers at Borgo Sisters School of Dance in Royal Oak, MI - I now understand why that starchy pink tutu was never going to be mine. I am sorry that it took me 4 years of your time to figure that out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">To Miss Jeanne, my jr. high PE teacher - It wasn't the song you made us perform a dance routine to, I rather liked 'Winchester Cathedral" by the New Vaudeville Band even if it was played on my parents radio station. . . I really wasn't misbehaving or mocking your choices, <b><i>it was the fact that I can't dance!</i></b></span><br />
<b><i><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></b>
<span style="font-size: large;">To My Friends (especially those who daringly crossed the border on any given night because we could drink legally in Canada) - Wow. Way to allow me to look like an ass all of these years guys. No one told me? I know, that is not an apology.</span><br />
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-49765605837000802322015-09-11T08:29:00.000-05:002015-09-11T08:29:59.211-05:00People and Places - A Cruise through Central Europe. . . Or the Mississippi<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h3>
PEOPLE The More They Age, The More They Stay The Same</h3>
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When we retired we decided to make travel our goal while we are still able to travel. Our first post retirement trip was to China last year. It was all encompassing, exhausting and eye opening. The first hing we discovered is that most travelers are ,well, older. The group we traveled through China with was a collective age of 70 but their energy level was intense. So, this year when we booked a European river cruise, I expected to be traveling with older people. I wasn't wrong.<br />
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The trip, a Viking Cruise trip is called The Grand European Tour; a pompous moniker for a 15 day trip down the Rhine, Main and Danube rivers. We began in Amsterdam and ended in Budapest. Unlike an ocean ship that has multiple decks, night clubs, game rooms and casinos - floating cities, the river longboats are far more low key. No casino, no night club, just a lounge, a sun deck and staterooms. The boat holds 190 passengers and by the end of two weeks, you know most of them and recognize all of them. Having worked in the school system for a number of years, I learned how to remember names and faces aaaannnnnd personalities.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-68iPV4s7pRo/VfLVWyzhRGI/AAAAAAAAAN8/7Rn9T3fKg90/s1600/IMG_2535.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-68iPV4s7pRo/VfLVWyzhRGI/AAAAAAAAAN8/7Rn9T3fKg90/s320/IMG_2535.JPG" width="320" /></a><br />
Corraling a group of cruisers, most of them senior citizens, is not unlike trying to keep 5th graders in line or better yet, trying to herd cats. There are the people who can't seem to make their listening devices work no matter what. There are the people who monopolize the tour guide's time by asking ceaseless questions, usually the same question rephrased in different ways and there are the ones who want to show off all they know by stumping the tour guide.<br />
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<br /></div>
Thus, I maintain that taking a two week river cruise with 189 other people isn't any different than taking a 5th grade field trip; a<br />
two week field trip only this time, I wasn't the one responsible for the group. And as with any class, we had our jocks, our know-it-alls, our questioners, our cool kids, our "unique" kids (you know, the ones you all fear will sit by you) and our middle of the road kids. It was a fairly cohesive group, actually and because we are all adults, there was no jockeying for the best seat or to sit by our friends. . .or was there?<br />
<br />
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8k_rcyE7Z3o/VfLWZZhgn8I/AAAAAAAAAOI/ApJk77562y0/s1600/IMG_2603.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8k_rcyE7Z3o/VfLWZZhgn8I/AAAAAAAAAOI/ApJk77562y0/s320/IMG_2603.JPG" width="320" /></a>One of the added tours we took required us to get on a full windowed coach and drive the "Romantic Road" which is not romantic in the least but it is picturesque the way driving along the Mississippi through Illinois is picturesque, and go to the walled village of Rothenburg, Germany. I was standing behind the first couple in line and hoping to get a front set for me and Moondoggy (and should have by the count in front of me) when this couple literally pushed me back and ran up the steps and sat in the front seats, one on each side in the middle of a seat meant for two. I stepped up, stopped and looked at them, "I thought you were together," I said in my passive aggressive tone and they said, "We are saving these for our friends." Oooookay. Fine. I'll make sure I am first on the way back so I we can have a front seat. Game on. And so we drove the Romantic Road and viewed it from the second seat surmising that yes, if we didn't know we were in Germany, we could, in fact, be in northern Illinois. No loss. When the bus arrived and BEFORE we disembarked, pushy man asks the tour guide, "Same seats on the way back, right?" The guide fumbled with the question and finally said, "Please be sure you are on the same bus." So pushy guy, his wife and their friends spread their jackets across the front seats to save them. I smirked. Jokes on you guys.<br />
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<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-62294129593600146292015-08-03T09:42:00.001-05:002015-08-03T09:42:45.577-05:00It Was An Honor Just To Be Nominated<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">You've heard them all say it, the actors who are nominated for Oscars, Emmys, Peoples Choice etc., that tired old line that sends most people into fits of eye rolling and internal snickering. . . "It was an honor just to be nominated."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday I was informed that my novel, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Judi-Coltman-ebook/dp/B00A7I1KJA" target="_blank">No Such Thing</a>, was selected as a finalist for the 2015 Book of the Year in the Paranormal/Supernatural category. This same book was, when it was first published in 2013, a quarter-finalist in the Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. Was I proud? Yes. Was I excited? Yes. Did I think I would win over-all? No, and I didn't. But, just to be acknowledged in such a way gave me a validation I cannot explain. It's always a crapshoot to lay words on paper, arrange them in such a way as to try to tell a story that burns in your gut without becoming gratuitous or out and out raunchy, yet open the collective eyes of readers to the deeply slimy world that exists under our noses.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/No-Such-Thing-Judi-Coltman-ebook/dp/B00A7I1KJA" target="_blank">No Such Thing</a> is fiction. It is based on real life crimes committed by a monster(s) under the moniker Oakland County Child Killer in the late 70s; a series of crimes that have never been solved. It is personal to me but even as I tell you that, I am no one compared to the victim's family members who are still waiting (and fighting) for investigations. The case is still open and ongoing, the possible suspect list ebbs and flows with time. Theories are a little like jello, stable in some states and completely without structure in others and the same theory can be brought from liquid to solid to liquid again on the words and opinions of those in charge. Frustrating doesn't touch the level of angst these families feel.</span><span style="font-size: large;">It was my initial desire to write this as non-fiction but, like my jello reference above, the story is like a jellyfish. It floats along guided by currents, but underneath, the tentacles grow, intertwine and tangle. They also sting like hell. It is impossible for me to wrap my brain around all of it - I'll leave that to the journalists who weren't asked to switch majors because they embellished.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so, I had to write this story. I wrote it because it has been with me since March 16, 1977. I wrote it because, with fiction, I could bring all of these "non-provable" theories and suspects to life. I wrote it because I had to. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I will know in mid-August if it is the actual winner of Book of the Year (Paranormal/supernatural). If it is, I will shout it across the cyber world (and probably out in my front yard so, fair warning to the neighbors). If it's not, I can honestly say, it is such an honor to be a finalist but more than that, I hope I can continue to reach people and open them up to these cases that plague Oakland County, Michigan and took the vital, potential-rich lives of four kids: Mark Stebbins, Jill Robinson, Kristine Mihelich, and <a href="https://catherinebroad.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Tim King</a>.</span></span>Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-18202905920954642472015-07-06T08:21:00.001-05:002015-07-06T08:35:46.342-05:00#WinningAtParenting<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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One of the great gifts in life I have found is watching your children become parents. Somehow, given all of the obstacles life has thrown in the way, I managed to have 2 healthy, well adjusted, unincarcerated kids. The oldest has even gone so far as to find a soulmate, marry her (and he married up, for sure) and start his own family. <br />
<br />
Sure, sure, I get untold pleasure from spending time with my beautiful, smart and headstrong granddaughter. But really, the gift comes from the years of a smug, know-it-all teenager now finding himself trying to reason with a toddler. A headstrong toddler.<br />
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They began, like any other parents; reading the books, taking classes, preparing themselves to carefully and safely bring this vulnerable human into the world and raise her to the best of their ability and newly learned knowledge. <br />
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After the baby arrived, they solemnly partook of the "golden hour" - a time of skin-on-skin contact and quiet bonding before we grandparents were allowed in to see the baby. Fair enough. Soon after, a special nurse came in to give them lessons on sterilizing, hand washing and feeding the baby that included completely undressing the baby before said feeding - one can presume because it was a more organic state, I guess. Naked feeding? Did no one even care that it was January 1st and flipping cold outside? My son's mother-in-law and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. . .after all, what did we know? Later, when the baby started fussing even after a diaper change and feeding, I suggested a pacifier (or some clothes) but was met with blank stares. Oh, no. . .we are going to teach her to self soothe, they said. OoooKkkkk.<br />
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The morning after their first night as parents, we grandparents were enjoying a celebratory breakfast before heading back to the hospital when I got a text from my son.<br />
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Son: When are you coming?<br />
Me: After breakfast. Why?<br />
Son: We want someone to hold this baby because she won't stop crying and we've been holding her all night. We need sleep. And what's for dinner?<br />
Me: What do you want?<br />
Son: To go out<br />
Me: Do you have a sitter lined up? We'd love to go out.<br />
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He didn't think it was very funny but when we arrived at the hospital, we noticed that the baby was no longer naked when being fed.<br />
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Several months later we visited again. I marveled at how big our little girl was getting and I also noted that she now had a pacifier attached to her outfit for easy access. I asked my daughter-in-law if the books had helped prepare her for parenthood. Her response was beautiful. "I feel like," she said, "all of the books should begin with the sentence, 'Throw this book away and listen to your mother.'" Yep, she gets it now.<br />
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They recently had their second child and I was fortunate enough to witness his birth. What a gift. I am fairly certain, though, that she would have welcomed a marching band into the room, so at ease was she. <br />
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Even better was the text I received from my son the following morning:<br />
A photo of a sleeping baby -<br />
Son: Lessons learned from First child: jammiees during feeding, pacis and bottles make for a happy baby and (relatively) well rested parents. #winningatparenting<br />
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The final act of complete parental graduation? When the granddaughter was introduced to the new brother she pulled the paci from her mouth and stuck it in his, spit and all. They have arrived.Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-27406652988557034682015-06-01T09:25:00.001-05:002015-06-01T09:25:51.623-05:00Gidget Gets a Restraining Order<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hOWqCaM2J18/VWu-fdeUiJI/AAAAAAAAALw/4Z75R7ORMdQ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hOWqCaM2J18/VWu-fdeUiJI/AAAAAAAAALw/4Z75R7ORMdQ/s1600/Unknown.jpeg" /></a>I've talked about her before, my alter ego, my 17 year-old self who is thin and active with long blond hair and a cute little shape, bubbly personality and a boyfriend. I call her Gidget. The boyfriend, also with long hair, tanned and athletic is nicknamed Moondoggy and in my little mind, they surf in the ocean after school every day. Well, this old gal may be heading toward the mid 50s but Gidget lets me know she's still right there every so often. <br />
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A little over a year ago on a Saturday night, we were sitting in our favorite brewery and pizza joint when Gidget tapped me on the shoulder and whispered in my ear, "Look! Over there! See that guy? It's Moondoggy!"<br />
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I shook my head, she was mistaken. I married Moondoggy - he was sitting right across from me wearing his "Old Guy" disguise; gray hair, shorts, sports shirt and reading glasses. She gave me that, "Ohhh, Honey" pity stare and beckoned me to look at the other guy again. I did.<br />
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I must admit there was a certain glow around him; a light, an aura, perhaps. Shoulder length dark honey hair, a killer smile, but I married Moondoggy so could this maybe be someone famous? In my pizza joint on a Saturday? Maybe? I did the only thing I know to do. I took a discreet picture of him and texted it to Gidget's partner in crime, the friend who was beach boy crazy with me, went through more beach loves that lasted a week before moving on than anyone I know. . . the one who settled on a beach in Florida with her final beach boyfriend but appreciates 17 year-old Gidget's continual search for Moondoggy and will allow her own 17 year-old self to respond even though she is 55.<br />
<br />
"Is this guy someone famous?" I texted.<br />
<br />
Immediate response: "Not that I can tell, go ask him."<br />
Me: "No."<br />
Her: "Ask the bartender."<br />
Me: "No. I just thought he looked familiar. That's all."<br />
Her: "He's cute - just go ask him."<br />
Me: "Not sure the spouse would appreciate that."<br />
Her: "Fine, but it will haunt you."<br />
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So I quietly enjoyed watching him as he laughed with his friends, drank a few beers and smiled that killer smile. The guy eventually left and when he walked out, Gidget followed. I'm a grown woman. I was ok with that. And then. . . I forgot about him.<br />
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Last week Moondoggy and I were sitting in a restaurant having brunch. Someone tapped my shoulder and whispered in my ear. It was Gidget. "Hey! Look who's here." I looked around. Seated at a table with a couple of guys was this guy. Shoulder length dark honey hair, killer smile. I tapped Moondoggy and said, is that guy famous?" <br />
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He casually looked up and grunted, "I doubt it." <br />
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Gidget poked me in the ribs, exasperated, "Seriously?"<br />
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So I did the only ting I know to do. I took a discreet picture and texted it to Gidget's partner in crime.<br />
<br />
Me:"Is this guy famous?"<br />
Her: "Go ask him."<br />
Me: "No"<br />
Her: "Ask the bartender."<br />
Me: "No. I just thought he looked familiar. That's all."<br />
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A few minutes later she texted back-<br />
Her: "He does."<br />
And attached to the comment was the picture I sent a little over year ago side by side with the picture I had just taken. Same guy.<br />
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I'm not sure what is more worrisome here: That 17 year-old Gidget still cajoles me into looking at cute boys when I am perfectly happy with my Moondoggy (even when he is wearing an Old Guy disguise) or that I had absolutely no memory of taking a picture, texting it across country, having a fairly long text conversation about this guy and repeating it again a year later. Either way, I'm in danger of having a restraining order slapped on me.<br />
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<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-79567858158637746242015-05-23T07:04:00.000-05:002016-03-22T11:41:03.221-05:00When The Plan Goes Out The Window. . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday I was reading through the weekly newspaper from my former town in Northern Illinois. I moved away two and a half years ago but, as I explained to a California friend recently, when you've lived in a small town for over thirty years you really do know everyone - if not on a personal level, then at least to recognize them on the street and know who they are. It's something like a large, dysfunctional extended family that share the same estate. . .you see Odd Bob in the hardware store, you know it's Odd Bob but you may not talk to him because, well, he's kind of odd, right? You don't say anything to anyone either though because chances are good Odd Bob is the store owner's second cousin who married the postmaster's daughter but she had an affair with their son's second grade teacher and everyone knows but Odd Bob. You get the idea. </span><br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4OK8ZD_q92E/VvFxeJiO6FI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/WToeqA5Q7bApVe0PeA6ChSuRk634ped7w/s1600/Banjac_Gary_2%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4OK8ZD_q92E/VvFxeJiO6FI/AAAAAAAAAQ4/WToeqA5Q7bApVe0PeA6ChSuRk634ped7w/s320/Banjac_Gary_2%2B%25281%2529.jpg" width="276" /></span></a><span style="font-size: large;">So, yesterday I was reading the newspaper when I came across an article about a retiring firefighter; not just ANY retiring fire fighter but, my own personal, had an "intimate moment" with firefighter and he is retiring from the department. I never knew Gary Banjac on a personal level. I knew his name and I knew he was a firefighter and one late, late night we came face to face at the most vulnerable moment of my life and we both lived to tell about it. But first, a little history. . .</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">During my first year of wedded bliss, approximately nine months were spent alone as my husband was working abroad. I, on the other hand, was living in Virginia Beach working as the on site manager for a large apartment complex. Everyone knew Moondoggy was not around, thus, I slept with an axe. Yes, an axe and no, not to do serious physical harm to the murderer I was sure would be breaking in. The axe was for breaking the window so I could make my escape. I hated being alone at night. . .still do, although it got immensely easier when we moved from the big house in the woods to the small house in town where I had next door neighbors; within screaming distance I always say. Now back to my story. . .</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For thirty years the thought of being alone all night has conjured elaborate scenarios involving me slithering out of bed and slipping under it (which no longer is possible because the underbed clearance is less than space my butt displaces), me using my mad kick-boxing skills, or me breaking the window for attention and then running like hell. I have lain awake at night plotting every escape route, strategy and hiding place possible should I be stuck alone and the murderer come a callin'. So, one night, due to work schedules, Moondoggy had to work an odd midnight shift and there I was, alone. I wasn't even nervous about it, after all, I did have Moose the Wonder dog - my scrappy Bichon Frise who requires constant grooming and foofing so he looks like a white cotton ball - terrorizing menace that he is.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">There I was, minding my own business, sleeping in the middle of the bed with ALL the pillows and my dog, when my ADT alarm beeps the little staccato beat indicating that a door, somewhere in my house, has been opened. The dog cocks his pretty poofy head, listens for a quick second and then goes nuts barking and leaps off the bed scrambling headlong into the living room. Me? I have prepared for this moment for years, I know exactly what to do after all Self Preservation is my middle name. And what do I do? Go out the window? Hide in the closet?</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No, I climb out of bed, head down the hall toward the living room where I see the light of a flashlight shining along the floor. You would think at that point I would have stopped and turned back, maybe hidden somewhere, right? Someone in my house in the middle of the night using a flashlight to see does not signal a good outcome. Any sensible person with a history of knowing what to do when the murderer comes would've stopped. Me? NO! Instead, I keep going where I come face to face with a man. . . in a dark clothing who now rounding the corner to the hallway where I am coming from.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Remember that scene from "E.T" where Drew Barrymore discovers ET in the closet? She screams this high pitched, fear driven scream and ET screams the same scream because both are startled beyond reason? Well, that's what it was like for me, not the intruder, just me. I screamed for both of us. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Oh NO! Wrong house," the man says to I don't know who because I can't see - it's middle of the night dark, but then I notice another man standing in the front doorway. The intruder calmly and quickly raises his hands in the air and clearly announces, "We're firemen! Wrong house!" Like a scene from some slapstick comedy movie, he starts backing up repeating, "We're firemen. Wrong house. We're leaving. Go back to bed." Moose is doing his best warning growl (although secretly thinking that if one of those guys produced a ball, all bets were off) and I'm thinking, "Did he just tell me to go back to bed?" Before the intruder closes the door and leaves, I say, "Wait, what's your name?" He stops and without even taking enough time to make up a name (because that's what I might've done) says, "Gary Banjac (and I am now awake enough that I know who he is)."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I briefly considered doing just what he told me to do by going back to bed but, I noticed a ghastly smell. I think Moose might have had a little "nerve" gas over the incident. At least, I hope it's just gas.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I flip on the light and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. Holy Hell! I get a gander at what the intruder was looking at when we came face to cafe in the hall. I am wearing my best thread bare pair of red Mickey Mouse jammy pants that long ago lost the drawstring and may or may not have a gaping hole somewhere south of my waist. I am also wearing an old gray tank top. Gravity hit the girls long about pregnancy time and never left, so, without a bra, a tank top is about the worst look I can have and I am sporting it like a model right now. My kids have said they need therapy after seeing me in that tank top. And amazingly, I'm not scared, I mean I knew who it was, right?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I called Moondoggy at work to relay the humorous tale, calm down, and allow my dog to relax because something smelled awful and I'm pretty sure it is my perfect little dog. Moondoggy was not happy at all and asked me to call the police. I waffled. I WAFFLED but acquiesced, dialing 911 assuring the operator It was NOT an emergency but felt it needed reporting. . .sort of. She did not think it was funny either. "Ma'am there have been NO fire calls tonight. I am going to have an officer stop by."</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Well crap! I've already seen myself in the mirror and, looking around, I realized that I was not prepared for guests. I quickly threw on a hoodie sweatshirt, fluffed the couch pillows, took my old coffee cup to the kitchen, decided I didn't have time to do dishes so opted to shut that light off and sat down with the shade up to wait for the officer, like it was the most normal thing in the world. And a minute later he was there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The young, good looking, former marine was on duty. I wished I had brushed my hair! He took some info but offered what he thought had happened:</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">The next street over in the same location lives a woman who is infirm. She often makes errant calls to the fire and police stations and sometimes they do midnight wellness calls to her house. There is a new driver on duty and he got confused with the streets. . .</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As he was telling me this, there was another knock at the door and the two firemen returned after making their call, to apologize again. All I can think about at that moment was about is my hair, which looks like a tornado! They had in fact, been doing exactly what the police officer said. "I knew something was off the moment I came in because there was nothing on the floor to step over, no paths through the house," he looked around, "Your place is clean - looks nice!" Gary Banjac had just redeemed himself in one sentence although perhaps it would've been nice if he would have said I didn't look scary, too. Whatever. I looked at these three men standing in my living room, one apologizing profusely, one turning redder by the minute (he must be the new driver) and one who now has to make a report about the whole thing and I said, "Next time I'll make coffee and have donuts," to which the police officer, a funny guy, says "Donuts?" </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As they left , I scooped Moose into my arms and took one last look in the mirror, "and I'll even brush my hair," I commented to my reflection. Moose sniffed close to my mouth and jumped away running down the hall. I smelled that putrid, rotting sour odor again. It wasn't the dog, it was my breath. Forget brushing my hair, I should have brushed my teeth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As for the practiced escape plan? It went out the window without me.</span></h2>
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-18804398159512635302015-05-06T12:28:00.001-05:002015-05-06T12:30:52.206-05:00Simply, Thank You<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Mother's Day. It's one of those recognized days that fell by the wayside for me in 1983 when my mother passed away. I dutifully bought cards for my mothers-in-law (because although I've only had one husband, I had two MILs simultaneously) but never looked forward to it, never made a big whoop-di-do. Never. . .until I had my own kids. Mother's Day took on a new meaning; an appreciation and excitement because my kids were so proud of their gifts. What could be better than a mayonnaise jar full of "daisies" - the sunshine yellow dandelions teeming in our yard? Or the rock that one child, with a red Sharpie, meticulously wrote:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Happy mothers day mom</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">My kids made Mother's Day beautiful again. But in all of this, I've learned that the loss of my mom at such a young age profoundly affected how I look at mothering in general. And, I've learned that all (and I'm sure someone will argue this but I'm not participating) women are mothers whether they have children, or are sisters or friends. We mother each other. And because I've come to realize that I am searching for the mother in everyone I meet, probably to fill a continual empty space, I've gleaned some nuggets of advice that I carry with me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To Lydia- Who, when I was lamenting the misfortune of someone with whom I had a dicey relationship with and feeling guilt about having unkind thoughts about them just prior to their misfortune (I know, long sentence, try to keep up), pointedly asked, "What makes you think you have that much power in the world to think a thought in your brain could cause someone else misfortune? You're not that important!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To Melissa- Who, when I was in a moment of frenzy between double-booked commitments, reminded me to remember that, "The important things get done." It's simple as that and makes perfect sense. Think about it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She also is the one who wisely recommended that when you use a paper towel to open the public restroom door to exit, if you must, throw the paper towel on the floor when you leave. If there isn't a trash can by the door, there will be one there soon enough. She's right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To Lou- Who taught me that an open mind is essential for growth and that standing in judgment of others is a dangerous place to stand. How did she do this? By the way she raised her kids, honored her calling (she is a gifted teacher who STILL teaches into her 80s) with truly needy kids in her basement after school, every day, fostered kids whose racial make-up was a direct contrast to our lily white neighborhood and lives her life in a luminescent peace. So effective is she that she has no idea how important she is to me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To Judy - My mom's best friend whose fight with cancer preceded my mom by 5 years but, I believe prepared us all to face it with humor. And of course, she knew the value of "lemonade" - the code word for vodka laced beverages enjoyed in the afternoon by both Sally and Judy as they melted into fits of giggles and private jokes.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There are more - a book full, actually. My kids resuscitated Mother's Day for me and taught me to enjoy it but, there are myriad women every day who rescue me. Happy Mother's Day to all of you and those I've yet to meet!</span><br />
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-32975631378638224562015-04-29T10:34:00.000-05:002015-04-29T10:34:34.346-05:00Friendly Driver's Education Reminder<span style="font-size: large;">There is something that has been bothering me for the last year. I've allowed it to burrow in my craw, sometimes I am able to quiet the irritation, other times it consumes me. I thought, at first, it might be something related to the age demographic were I now live, but on further study can confirm this affliction is equal across the age board and isn't unique to California. I don't know when or how, but somewhere, somehow, people seem to have forgotten how to drive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I didn't notice it so much back in the Midwest. I learned to drive in Michigan where the driving experience is the essence of the economy. In Michigan, traffic moves, albeit on the worst infrastructure in road maintenance I've ever seen (with the exception of one 18 mile stretch of mountain road in rural North Carolina - but that's another story that involves banjo music.)</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In Illinois, the majority of my driving was also rural with the exception of jaunts to Chicago where slow traffic is the result of a lot of people trying to get somewhere at the same time - Chicago drivers drive with purpose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, out here, in California, I have been plagued with angst because the drivers seem to <b>not</b> have learned basic driving sense. The Smith System has 5 principals for safe driving. They are as follows:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">1. </strong><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Aim High </span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Focus on what is in front of you and way ahead<br /><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">2. </strong><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">The Big Picture</span></strong><br />“Be aware of your surroundings at all times” </span></div>
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<strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="font-size: large;"><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">4. </strong><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Leave Yourself an Out</span></strong></span></span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The fourth principle of the Smith System states to leave yourself a way out</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">5. </strong><strong style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; font-family: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Make Sure They See You </span></strong><br /> As a driver, make sure that other drivers can see you and anticipate your move. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I agree with these but I think there are even MORE IMPORTANT tenets that should be followed. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">1) PUSH THE PEDAL PEOPLE. I swear that when I get in the car and start driving, I will come upon the casual driver who is traveling in the left lane on a 55mph road and they are doing a steady 42mph. No faster, no slower. It happens every single time and usually within 5 minutes of leaving the house. Which brings me to my next tenet. . .</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">2) STAY OUT OF THE LEFT LANE IF YOU ARE NOT FAST MOVING TRAFFIC. When did people start forgetting this? People seem to choose a lane when they leave the house and stay in that lane for the entire duration of their trip whether they are going 5 miles or 50. There is nothing more aggravating than getting going up to the speed limit only to be slowed because the persons in the middle or left lane are meandering down the road 10 miles under the speed limit without a purpose. And because they chose this lane when they left, they are intent on staying in it until they arrive at the destination.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">3) STAY AWAY FROM SURROUNDING CARS. There is this annoying trait where drivers feel that they need to drive right next to you or, even worse, in your blind spot. This is not for a moment or two but, because they refuse to change lane, lasts for miles and miles. I'd try to speed up to shake them but I'll be stopped by someone in front of me who won't PUSH THE GAS. And now? I'm boxed in and the tunnel visioned drivers round me aren't paying attention to any of my signals that I want to move over. Heck, the guy next to me has no clue my signals are on because he's still in my blind spot and apparently he can't read lips. . . although that may be a good thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> It's simple folks: DRIVE WITH A PURPOSE!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not suggesting speeding, or crazy lane changing, I'm just asking people drive with a purpose, be self aware and stay the hell out of my way. Simple, right?</span>Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-43617086023855652742015-01-24T08:12:00.001-06:002015-01-24T08:12:28.738-06:00Does She or Doesn't She? There is NO Question!When I started this blog a few years back, it was because I lived in a small town in the midwest. Ordinary, everyday people made unordinary things happen and most often, they were pretty funny. Thus; My Life in a Nutshell. <br />
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Well, since then, I have moved. . . bugged out of the midwestern small town and headed west to the desert of California. It's taken some time but we are finally finding the rythmn here and in that; new material. It's not the same comfy little nutshell, in fact, it's a whole other kind of nut out here.<br />
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Moondoggy retired in September 2013, a planned for, anticipated event that we anxiously awaited and we moved to an "Active Adult" community in the land of sun and movie stars. We call it the "Old Folks Home" (thank you, Carol for that moniker!). It is about the same size as the town we moved from so the nuances aren't much different. The same rules for living apply: Don't speak - and I do mean literally "speak", disparagingly about someone because that person might be in a club, in a class or Bridge partners with the person with whom you speak. Pass judgment on others but keep your mouth shut - unless it's just too obvious not to comment on, which, apparently, Moondoggy does. Constantly. Retirement, has given him way too much time on his hands (I say I married him for better or worse, but not 24/7 and have lobbied for him to find a part-time job - if nothing else so I can have my solitary writing time back) and his judgement filter has been shut off (of course, I hear that happens when you get old.) Case in point? Plastic surgery.<br />
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Don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to cosmetic surgery as a tool for eternal youth unless said surgeries are obvious and, well, bad. Bee stung lips, of which I have never been a fan, can quickly look like the red waxy lips from our youth that we got at halloween. . . only not that good prompting Moondoggy to comment out of the side of his mouth into my ear, "Geez, Botox much?" . . . I think he meant Restylane. Eyes lifted halfway up the forehead, eyebrows in a constant state of shock and, tight, high cheeks bones that betray a crepey neck waddle are plentiful fodder for discussion and here at the old folks home - heck even just in the valley in general, we've seen our share. Someone needs to tell these people, and by the way, I'm not just talking women here (see Kenny Rogers), that it's not a good look. In fact, I propose cosmetic surgeons employee a impartial third party to assess whether potential patients should be getting some of the procedures they desire and I have the perfect person for the job, too. That aside, don't you think if some stranger stood in front of you and told you the truth about how you look or how the surgery would make you look, many people might opt out? So to the last whose I age I know to be 83 but has a face pulled so high that I am tempted to peek under her hair to see the scars. . .would you like to speak to my husband? <br />
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<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-22070011362325341002014-12-06T15:44:00.003-06:002014-12-06T15:44:52.397-06:00The Policeman is our Friend. . .Part Two<span style="font-size: large;">It takes a little over a year for someone who moves to a new state to be plotted back on the grid. It comes in the form of jury duty and Moondoggy is definitely back on the radar. Living where we do, with a high density of retirees, this area is ripe for the picking.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Jury duty here is a week long obligation. . .or one trial, whichever is more painful. Moondoggy received his notice and was scheduled to call in on a Sunday evening to see if he needed to appear at the courthouse the next day or remain on call the whole week and stay within an hour of the courthouse. The first call was a reprieve and an admonishment to call again the next evening. This continued all week until Thursday when the recording directed him to call in again Friday morning by 10:30. Waiting around, he made the call at the appointed time and was then directed to appear <b><i>immediately</i></b>. Begrudgingly, he showed up within the hour and was then directed to wait an hour and half until the lawyers and judge returned from lunch. Upon their return, the judge gave an overview of the trial, a DUI case and named the defendant as well as the arresting officers. And that's when Moondoggy's ears perked. The arresting officer's name rang a bell. . .and from what he could see, the guy looked vaguely familiar. It was him, the motorcycle cop who had brazenly pulled Moondoggy over, on his bicycle several months ago and issued the $300 ticket. The incident had been festering in Moondoggy's craw for months - the giver of the "chicken shit" ticket now a reviled legend. It was so bad that all I had to do was make a joke about stop signs and I could raise Moondoggy's hackles beginning a tirade that could last for hours. And there he was, in the same courtroom with the enemy. The enemy needed him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">By about 1:30, the beginning of jury selection began, seating all but 2 jurors by 3:00. Moondoggy thought he was in the clear until they dismissed the rest of the group and decided to pick the last 2 jurors from the remaining group. . . of which Moondoggy was one. Then, it was time for a small break. By now, he is seething.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At 3:45, they only need one more juror and they really want to get this jury empaneled and go home for the weekend. Moondoggy is called for questioning. Normally, he is the first one to believe that someone who drives drunk should be prosecuted - a prosecuting attorney's dream. In most cases, that might be the reason he would have difficultly being impartial. But when the judge asked him, "Is there any reason you might have difficulty being impartial," the weight of the stress of a week of being on jury call, the now four and half hours spent waiting for them to get this jury set on Friday afternoon (which meant that he would be obligated into the next week) and the trifecta of the resurging anger over the bike ticket inspired his response. "Yes, in fact, there is, your Honor. I believe the arresting officer - Officer M- there, is the same officer who pulled me over and wrote me a ticket. . . while riding my bike." The judge, who had been shuffling papers, looked up and suppressed a smile."Your bike?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, my bike. He said I blew a stop sign in a residential area." The titters and giggles started in earnest, first with the empaneled jury and then moved on to the attorneys and the judge. "It wasn't a pleasant experience," Moondoggy continued, "$300 worth of unpleasant, actually."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The judge pulled it together and asked, "And you would have difficulty remaining impartial?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, I believe I would."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It took about 3 seconds for the judge to dismiss him with the blessing of both attorneys who were still cracking up. Moondoggy exited the courtroom but not without stopping for an extra long gaze at the cop who was now the butt of a courtroom joke. Moondoggy just smiled. Karma comes full circle. Now we just have to wait wait for karma to deal with the cyclists. </span>Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-58861355874612775592014-11-30T17:46:00.000-06:002014-11-30T17:46:31.086-06:00The Officer Is Your Friend. . .Unless He Hates You<span style="font-size: large;">Something happened last spring that changed my view of an activity I enjoy. I hate it when that happens. Moondoggy and I enjoy biking. Biking is big out here (it's a year round sport, thank you, Mother Nature) and on any given day it is not unusual to see several pelotons of biking enthusiasts in their matching spandex, whirring en masse down the roads along the dedicated bike lanes and there are bike lanes everywhere here. I am not of that ilk - spandex on me is a fashion NEVER and my bike is not a road bike per se. It is an upright, old-fashioned handle bar model and I sit atop and calmly tool down the road - think Wicked Witch the West. I am not a threat on a bike and road bikers generally tolerate my presence. Moondoggy, however, is far more avid and has been for years (he's ridden the Canadian Rockies, Grand Canyon to Washington state and up many local mountains, here) and he used to wear the spandex but, no more. The bikers here, the spandex wearing, group riding die-hards, have a bad reputation and neither of us could figure out why until two things happened.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I know it's a problem in other places because I Googled it (Why are bikers such assholes), but here, especially, the large groups of people on bikes, have an attitude that pisses off drivers and pedestrians alike and I've heard complaints from people about "those" bikers early on. They want and have road rights (Ok), they want safety (Of course) but they also want to choose which road laws they have to obey and they do so on a whim. Case in point, I was once at a stop light where the dedicated bike path ended about 25 feet before the intersection. The biker (and his 20 matching friends), instead of waiting behind whatever car they came up behind - like cars do, decided to ride between the curb and the car to get to the intersection and turn right. He (and his 20 friends) were indignant, furious even that I had not (nor had the five cars behind me) left 3 feet on the right so he could get by. He decided to stop directly in front of my car and say so, "Bitch, you HAVE to give me 3 feet." Um, no, I don't. I have to give you 3 feet if you are RIDING on the road and there is no path and I come upon you and decide to pass. . .then, I have to give you 3 feet. That is the law. Otherwise, YOU, you little biker prick with all your biker prick friends, have to follow road law and get behind me (<a href="http://www.dmv.ca.gov/portal/dmv/?1dmy&urile=wcm:path:/dmv_content_en/dmv/pubs/vctop/vc/d11/c3/a1/21650.1" target="_blank">VC21650</a>). And now, I get why regular people hate bikers. Apparently cops do, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Fast forward to last Spring. Moondoggy was out on a lengthy ride that takes him through a residential area where the pelotons like to go. He rode up a long hill, made it to the top and then turned to ride down, a time to enjoy the spoils of having pedaled up. He is a lone rider. He likes it that way. And as he is cruising down, wind in his hairs when along the path he hears a loud siren and it's coming up right behind him. It's a motorcycle cop, lights strobing, and Moondoggy's getting pulled over and ticketed. Why? "Because we've had complaints from residents about bikers not stopping at the stop signs." People are slowing, taking in the scene as they drive by, this motorcycle cop with full on siren and lights flashing like it's a major bust, just sitting on the bike path as he lectures my gray haired husband. Moondoggy looks back - there was a T intersection with a 3 way stop. There was no sign on the bike path, no road on his side that intersected where he was riding and he had ridden through but, technically, had he been driving a car, it would have been a blown stop sign. Ergo - ticket. And while the motorcycle cop is writing out his $300 ticket (a moving violation on your license by the way), a whirring peloton whizzes by, ON THE ROAD, blowing by not one, not two but THREE stop signs (4 way stops, I might add where there is real cross traffic). Moondoggy points out the mass violation to which Motorcycle cop responds, "I'm just one man, sir." The cop was as much of a prick as the bikers are and he (we) are left with a very bad taste in our mouth about both bikers and cops. Moondoggy has carried that anger about being caught in between the ongoing battle between cyclists and local cops not sure which he hates more when Karma stepped in recently and showed him that yes, there is an upside to anger.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">. . .to be continued.</span><br />
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-67778498284653849982014-10-28T21:47:00.000-05:002014-10-28T22:06:53.765-05:00When Halloween Goes Global<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">My sister called the other day to share
her latest assessment of life, as we do with </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">each other from time to, when she
stumbled upon a subject so glorious I just could </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">not let it go. And because it would be
poor form to not give credit to the genius who </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">conceived this gem, I have to give a
shout out to my sister’s highly revered</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">hairdresser – Tammy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">There was this costume party coming up
and a group of women were discussing </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">what to wear when Tammy suggested they
all dress as GIRL SCOUTS! Not just any </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">girl scout mind you, but as COUGAR GIRL
SCOUTS! They would all wear their</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">uniforms with enough cleavage and bra
showing to have no mistaking the intent. </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">They would wear a sash that contained
different levels of achievement badges (the </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">“Walk of Shame” badge, the “Triple Play”
badge and, of course, “Proper Condom</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">Application” badge) and carry canteens
filled with. . .wait for it. . . Cosmopolitans! Their troop </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">number? 69!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">When I heard this, I howled. But, I
could not just enjoy the laugh for the moment </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">because the scope of this is priceless.
Let’s drop the “girl” part, because face it, </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">none of us look 10 anymore. Let’s call
ourselves Cougar Scouts. And let’s forgo the </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">traditional scout uniform and get a
little creative. I, myself, have always coveted the</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">white patent leather go-go boots from
the early ‘70’s so I think they should be the </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">official footwear. I also like a cute
tennis skirt with built in panties, after all, we may </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">be cougar’s but we are not easy so it
will take some fancy talking to get to the </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">goodies. Any color is acceptable but it
must be paired with a black tank top. I mean</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">we are hot – temperature hot that is,
and we are NOT going to be burdened by </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">unnecessary layering. Besides, black is slimming. To accessorize the ensemble, we </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">need a belt – animal print of course, a
matching wristlet to carry lipstick, compact </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">and cab fare. Good scouts do carry
canteens and they should be filled at all times</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">with the beverage of choice (mine is
red wine) and instead of binoculars, I suggest </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">blinged-out cheater glasses. If you
really want to carry something more binocularly, </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">how about a View Master with a picture
wheel of gorgeous men? Brownies wore</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">beanies, Girl Scouts wore berets,
Cougar Scouts will wear a scarf as a headband </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">(with or without a Hollywood Bump It
and fake hair) and, of course, a tiara for </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">formal meetings. Meetings will be
established by each troop with an annual meeting </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">in either Florida or California on
alternate years with an optional spa visit mid year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">We could sing altered camp song's:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">Do your boobs hang low, do they wobble too and fro</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">Can you tie 'em in a knot, can you tie
'em in a bow Can you throw 'em over your </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">shoulder like a continental soldier Do
your boobs hang low-</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">Ok - now in rounds. . .<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-size: large;">Forget Halloween, I see this as a
national club with troops not only in every state, </span></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">but every town across the U.S. This
could be huge! But what about troop dues, you </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: large;">ask? There aren't any. Hell, we already paid ‘em!</span><br />
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-50397254188782251722014-10-17T09:51:00.001-05:002014-10-17T09:51:22.281-05:00No Beach, No Cocktail, Then it Must be China<span style="font-size: large;">Visiting China is a many layered cultural immersion. It is not a vacation. I've drawn this distinction in the past - there are vacations (lolling on the beach, cocktails, cabanas) and then there are trips (National parks, rafting, Europe, - anything that involves learning and thinking beyond whether I want to swim in the pool or the ocean.) China is a trip and I mean in that in all of it's layered meaning.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When you arrive, you hit the ground running and you don't stop until crawling into bed for the day. Our first tour day began with a western breakfast at the hotel (and thank goodness for them - I'll explain in another post) and BAM we were headed to Tianenman Square followed by the Forbidden City, The Summer Palace of the Dragon Lady and finally, the Pearl Market before heading back to the hotel with enough time to change, go to dinner and then to the Peking Opera. To sum up the sights, all I can say is 1987 Student Uprising is not a topic of discussion and watch The Last Emperor (you will see the Forbidden city AND get a feel for the Dragon Lady). What I really want to tell you is about the Opera because THAT was a trip. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We had VIP seating which meant we had a table upfront and we were served snacks and beer. Our tour guide told us the opera was an old tradition and truly a cultural experience. Then , he said he'd meet us at the door when it was over. . .he wasn't staying and now I know why. Our opera was made up of 3 stories that had nothing to do with each other. There was, for clarity, an electronic sign on one side of the stage that ran the dialogue and song (and I use that term loosely) in English and Chinese. The second story, perhaps the most memorable was about a girl trying to catch up to her lover who was on a boat going down the river. She hires a man of questionable character to taker her down the river after him and then spends 10 minutes singing, screaming and yelling for him to go faster so she can catch her lover. That's it. That and the instrumental. Between the music and singing, I felt like this assault on my ears was akin to watching what happens in my brain when too many glasses of wine produce a hangover. Here is a <a href="http://youtu.be/xYWiQ_RnLWE" target="_blank">Link</a> - you only need to watch the first minute - minute and a half to get the idea. It is no wonder our guide decided to find something else to do while we enjoyed the cultural experience.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Having a guide is beneficial for a number of reasons but, his ability to tell us in-depth history was a boon. . .until we realized not everything he (not just him - other guides we had, too) said seemed to stand to reason. It first occurred on our tour through a historic Hutong - a neighborhood that has remained untouched and is now preserved. We walked past a charming mail box and he stopped us and said, "That is the oldest post box in China." Many of us drank the koolaid but Moondoggy looked at the box and pointed to where above the slot it said LETTER in English, "But John," he said, "It says 'Letter'." To which our tour guide quickly changed the subject.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In Xian we saw the famous Terra Cotta Warriors. There is nothing I can say to describe the magnitude of these clay men. There are thousands. They all have different faces. It is simply overwhelming. Our guide in Xian (along with John) was CiCi. CiCi lived in Xian all of her life and was eager to share her city. On the way to the warriors she told us the story of their discovery:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">A farmer was digging a well when at about six feet down, he unearthed a head. He thought he had dug up the devil and he was frightened. So, he called the government knowing they would know what to do. And they did. They moved him out and built him a new home and started excavating. . . then, because this farmer now had nothing to do. . .they gave him a job. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">He is at the gift shop everyday to meet people (but no pictures unless you pay) and autograph a book about the warriors and their history. So, we met the farmer and bought the book and had him sign it. I mean, how many times do you get THAT opportunity? We even bought the new updated version. We know this because there was a yellow burst in the upper left hand corner that said "NEW".</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Days later as we cruised the Yangtze River, we took an excursion up stream on the Shennong. It was beautiful, hilly, lush and green. Monkeys scurried along the river's edge and farmers worked their land. There were soaring cliffs and caves along the route and high in the crags from time to time were coffins - yes the kind that hold dead people. These coffins were perched in the crags balanced on two pieces of bamboo. They were, our guide said, two thousand years old. Well, looking at the coffins and the bamboo supporting them, it just didn't stand to reason so Moondoggy asked, "So those coffins have been up there for 2000 years?" The stream guide replied, "They weigh 500 pounds and have been up there for 2000 years. No one knows how they got them up there but it is believed being up there allowed them to be closer to God." Which is another interesting anomaly because most Chinese are Buddhist or Taoists so. . . . There is a picture attached of the coffin. I'll let you be the judge - does it look like it has survived 2000 years of time, weather and seismic movement?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When we returned home, we got together with our neighbors, who had been to China in the early 2000s, to compare the experience. At one point, during a discussion of the Terra Cotta Warriors, our neighbor disappeared and returned with a book she bought and yep. that's right, had signed by the farmer who discovered the first warrior. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Her book, too, had the yellow burst in the upper left hand corner and the word "NEW" splashed across it. Moreover, when we compared signatures - they were different. Makes me wonder how many "farmers" they have and how many shifts of autograph sessions they hold? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because this was a trip and not a vacation (remember - no beach and no cocktail) what did I learn? Don't believe anything you hear and only half of what you see.</span><br />
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<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-22030126864039735052014-10-07T20:27:00.003-05:002014-10-07T20:27:59.006-05:00Bucket List: China or 17,000 steps through Beijing<span style="font-size: large;">The trip from California to Beijing was a two day ordeal that included a night in Chicago before a thirteen hour flight from Chicago to Beijing. Chicago? A chance to see at least one of my kids? Hell, yes. So, after a lunch with youngest son we headed for O'Hare and a 13 hour plane ride? Most people shudder at the thought of thirteen hours in a plane - with good reason. But, THIS was a Bucket List trip thus; we upgraded to First Class (thank goodness for frequent flier miles!) And, Oh My Gosh, the secrets they keep. You can go online anywhere and get a look at the pods (here, let me help, <a href="http://www.aa.com/i18n/travelInformation/duringFlight/firstClassCabin.jsp" target="_blank">First Class Pods</a>) but what they don't tell you is you get to <b>keep</b> the pj's, slippers and toiletry bags and even the bedding, which includes sheets, pillows and blankets. And along with the personal Purser, free flowing wine, booze and beverages. . . they offer HAND DIPPED ice cream sundaes with Haagen Daz ice cream. It's possible they offer massage, manis and pedis as well, but it's a secret and I am now sworn to it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, thirteen hours later, we arrived in Beijing - and were met by our guide, John who informed us that the rest of the group would be arriving the next day. They were, he said, a group of 14 who all knew one another. This opened up many concerns we had not considered. Who were they? Where were they from? There were few western tourists in our hotel but there was a group of 14 <a href="http://www.aka1908.com/" target="_blank">Alpha Kappa Alpha</a> sorority sisters that had arrived - which, if they were our group would have made for some interesting group photos (See link) and as the only male, might've made Moondoggy feel uncomfortable. There was also a group from New Zealand - elderly, walker-pushing Kiwi's which would make for a slow trip. Judging by our itinerary there wasn't going to be much down time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Imagine our relief when, the next morning we met our group and found they were a bunch of Kansas City Midwesterners. They claimed to by 70ish but I didn't buy it. Fact is, these people out energied me by a long shot. Among them, one of them was a travel agent (which was helpful), one retired dentist, one retired school secretary (and we all know they REALLY run the schools) and 2 retired teachers (a staple in any travel group). And as always, there was one who had a naughty streak and she toured the whole of China wearing heels. Betts, whom I often referred to as "Betts in Heels" was a retired ER nurse and she approached China like a crouching tiger. I saw this woman climb the Great Wall, navigate the uneven brick walkways and slick modern squares in heels and always with a smile. Seriously, these people were game for anything so I had put on my Big Girl Panties and go with the flow. Which brings me to my first observation: It is a wonder that the Chinese are not a dehydrated culture. On any given day, I consume a good gallon of water (I live in the desert). Our hotel room offered a complimentary 16 oz bottle of water every day - an amount I drink before coffee in the morning. They are very clear, DO NOT DRINK WATER FROM THE TAP thus; bottled water was a requirement and after your complimentary bottle, you can purchase from the mini bar another bottle at a cost of about $12 a bottle. Uhh, no. So our first mission was to find bottled water at what was a Chinese version of 7-11. A gallon of water cost $3 so I bought 3 and lugged them back to the room. And it's a good thing I did because the second surprise was that meals came with your choice of beer, wine or water. . . in a 6 oz glass. BUT JUST ONE GLASS. Asking for more totally threw the wait staff off their game - even when we were clearly willing to pay. It became our running joke - anything you want to drink is included.. . but just one glass. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I knew I was going to like this group after our first tour day in Beijing. We had walked the length of Tienanmen Square, explored the entire Forbidden City and walked along the Long Corridor (that's what it is called, really) of the Summer Palace, learned more Chinese History than was packed into an entire semester of school and walked a total of 7 miles by the end of the day (and all of it with Betts in heels). We had about an hour and half to rest up and get ready for a Peking Duck dinner. Most people would head back to their rooms but not this group. . .they headed to the bar. Yep, we all got along just fine.</span><br />
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<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-86193133867380864152014-10-03T08:57:00.000-05:002014-10-03T08:58:38.932-05:00Bucket List: China<span style="font-size: large;">When my kids were growing up we tried fairly hard to give them a fully rounded life experience beyond the confines of Ogle County, Illinois. We traveled often, trekking across the country to National parks, up and down both coasts, Alaska, Central America, the Caribbean and across Europe. We've snorkeled the Caribbean, zip lined through the rainforest, skied the Austrian Alps, climbed mountains, rode trains and flown in small 4 seater planes over glaciers. In Europe we prided ourselves on navigating through the countries and their cities on our own. We'd see the big tour buses pulling up to the sites, the people stumbling off wearing headphones and following their guide who usually carried an umbrella or a flag high in the air as they lead the line through the locale. We would snicker as we took our time, ambling on our own, feeling pity for the people forced to arrive and leave on a schedule. "I can't IMAGINE EVER traveling like that," I said, smug and self righteous.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We traveled to China recently; it was a tour. We had a guide who carried a flag and we rode around on buses. We wore headsets that broadcast his running commentary on what we were seeing while we milled about the sites and we then we would get back on the bus. In short, we were "those" people that I once loathed. And you know what? I'm not ashamed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">How was it? I never had to purchase an admission ticket. I never had to stand in line to get in with the thousands of others who were visiting the same sights. I got detailed information on what I was seeing instead of having to stand at every sign and read the English translation. I didn't have to drive in the traffic nor navigate my way through a Chinese airport alone. And I never had to schlep my own luggage anywhere. It was picked up from my room and reappeared at my next location without a hiccup - even when one of the flights was delayed by 13 hours. That, alone, is worth its weight in rice. I can't imagine seeing all that we saw, flying around that country from city to city and cruising down the Yangtze without our guide. His name was John and because of him, my view of guided tours has changed completely. Well, it was him or I am just getting older. The company was <a href="http://www.avalonwaterways.com/" target="_blank">Avalon Waterways</a> and yep, I'd do another tour with them. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My next several blog entries are going to be about this trip. So, join me or not - it's up to you.</span><br />
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-65380705925854744042014-08-20T18:15:00.002-05:002014-08-20T18:15:54.288-05:00You Can't Fight City Hall<span style="font-size: large;">When Moondoggy retired, he decided that in honor of leaving an atmosphere that was stress heavy and meticulous, he would endeavor to be kinder and gentler. And, he will tell you he has been fairly successful, if you ask. So, it was with a bit of shock that I watched him slowly get spun up about something as benign as a dog license.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As new residents in SoCal, we wanted to do what's right, be good citizens, and that included getting our two dogs properly licensed with the city. So, after we took the dogs into the vet and got them all caught up on shots, we trotted across the street to the city hall to register them and get their licenses. Easy, right? We had immediate proof of shots in hand, cash at the ready and the desire to do the right thing. Except, that the city hall people don't care so much about the shots as they do about making sure the dogs are fixed. For what it's worth, mine are both males and they have been neutered. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The city hall employee, who, I am positive was sick the day they taught customer service at city hall school never even cracked a smile when she boldly said, 'I can't and won't license these dogs. I need their official certification that they have been fixed." Um, ok, how hard can that be, right? They have been seen by the vet and she can confirm that have been neutered, so we trot back over and ask the vet for official certification of neutering. The answer? "We can't give that to you because they weren't neutered here." Moondoggy, still of the kinder and gentler demeanor says, "No, they were both neutered in Illinois but sense you have it on record here that they are in fact, unable to reproduce, can you give me something to take back to city hall?" The simple answer was "no." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Moondoggy has a vein the pops out of his forehead when he starts to get frustrated and it was throbbing by this point. But, instead of getting worked up, we went home and called the vet in Illinois who happily volunteered to send whatever paperwork they had concerning our dogs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That paperwork arrived yesterday so today we headed back to city hall ready to be good citizens. Moondoggy waltzed in, proof of shots, and paperwork from Illinois that included the date and bill of Porter's( my 2 year old dog) surgery and a medical record for my 12 year old dog, Moose, that was labeled "neutered." The same city hall lady who shunned us before took one look at the paper work and said, "those aren't official certificates of neutering." Moondoggy kindly explained that Illinois does not have those certificates but this paperwork proved that both dogs had been fixed (one 12 years ago). She glanced at them again and said that since there was a date of surgery and a bill that said "paid", she would license Porter because it proved we paid for it, but she could not license Moose. The vein popped on Moondoggy's forehead but he took a deep breath and said, "I don't have a receipt for a 12 year old surgery on my dog, but the paperwork clearly says he is neutered." She indignantly drew herself up a few inches and replied as if it should be perfectly obvious, "But it doesn't show you <i>paid</i> for it." The logic of that argument completely gobsmacked Moondoggy but he recovered brilliantly, "Ok," he said, "I need a one license for my dog Porter, please." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"What," she asked, "about the other dog?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Moose? I don't need a license for him, he's a cat."</span>Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-54137446256581853692014-08-04T08:43:00.000-05:002014-08-04T08:43:18.907-05:00I Don't Know Why I Swallowed The Fly<span style="font-size: large;">Summer in the midwest means mosquitoes - swarms of them. Some people wear bug spray, some fog their yards and some just don't go outside. Upon moving west to the desert, I waved goodbye to the national bird of the midwest and haven't looked back. I've even been kind of smug about it, sitting outside in the evenings smirking at the lack of mosquito company. Well, it appears that karma has caught up to me and she's thrown down the gauntlet.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't battle mosquitoes here. No, instead I battle flies. Ordinary houseflies that have been bred to be bold, pesky and prolific.They say that the perfect storm of location (across from agricultural fields, a few miles from the Polo grounds, on a golf course) coupled with an overly humid summer has created a mass swarm of flies that seem to like my yard. I know I'm not alone because neighbors and friends have commented about them, too, but it seems like I have the yard all the flies flock to just like the one house in the neighborhood where all the kids played.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I said, these flies are bold, they aren't put off by swatting. So, I have launched an all out assault and I'm here to tell you what has worked. . .and what hasn't.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My first line of defense was bug spray. Not wanting to douse myself with untold quantities of DEET every day, I did some research and came up with a formula that isn't as dangerous. It involves a magic mix of Avon's Skin So Soft Bathe Oil (bought off Amazon) with vinegar, water and eucalyptus and Lavender essential oils (also Amazon). And it works, too . . .except that I have to bath in the stuff and it is oil. . .which is oily and, well, at least it smells good.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I looked into the old bag of pennies in water. The reflection of pennies in water throw off the fly's directional compass. Fail.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I tried planting mint around the backyard. Fail (anyone need some mint?? I have plenty now.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I tucked dryer sheets in the cushions of the outdoor furniture and laid them out on tables around the yard. Meh.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I tried Citronella candles. Mild success but I think that's because I killed one fly and left it next to the burning candle to serve as an example to the others.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I tried an electric fly swatter. (Don't ask but it does involve a very satisfying zap and sizzle if you hit a fly). Amazon Prime!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We tried fly traps (Amazon again). Bags filled with something that smells like rotting fish guts that ended up attracting every fly in the county to my yard. Fail.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We found a highly touted Maxforce Fly Spot Bait. . .a mixture you spray where flies congregate, attracts them and kills them in 60 seconds. Amazon reviews were impressive. I watched as flies started milling around the areas we sprayed acting all nonchalant, then dying, sometimes mid-air and falling to the ground. It was great. . . for about 2 hours and then it was like we never sprayed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The flies love us and so does Amazon.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, We heard that flies don't like fans because they disturb the flight pattern. So, we bought one. And this is what I've finally figured out: If I spray myself with my magic mix, wear a sequined outfit or swim suit and tuck a little dryer sheet in my top, sit with the fan facing me while holding a can of Black Flag for good measure, I can go about 10 minutes before the flies figure it out. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Truth be told, I don't believe these flies are really flies. I think they are drones and if that is the case, the next time they start flying around me they'd better be carrying my next Amazon order.</span>Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-10211916736255757812014-07-26T09:20:00.001-05:002014-07-26T09:20:33.018-05:00Let Us Pray<span style="font-size: large;">A while back. . . like over a year ago, I made a blog entry concerning my views on politics and God. I won't rehash either but, it serves this entry to know that I do believe in God. That is to say, I believe in God but I don't necessarily believe in religion and the by-product of it all is that I am having a crisis of prayer.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not looking for debate on whether prayer is good or helpful. I'm not looking for specific instructions on how to pray either because that seems to be from where my problems stem. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My church classes, both as a child and an adult, taught me that God is all knowing and all forgiving. God makes the plan and as Christians, we live to honor His name in our actions. Ideally, we are to offer ourselves every day to Him and ask Him to use us to do His work. I accept that. I also accept that in bad times, He always provides a gift. So, in considering the above, this is where my crisis of prayer comes into play.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In church I was taught to pray specifically. "Dear Lord, we pray that you guide the captain, the co-captain and the navigator of this plane. We pray that you are with the mechanics as they ensure the safety of the craft. We pray this in God's name. Amen." That's pretty specific; a targeted prayer . . . except that it flies in the face of the whole acceptance of "God makes the plan" part. No amount of praying is going to change the course of His plan, right? So why are we praying?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">On a daily basis, friends ask for prayers, sometimes for sick loved ones, sometimes for healing, sometimes for something more tangible like getting a job or a part in a play. And I dutifully respond - "Praying", "On it" and I expend energy on whatever was requested. But what if what is being asked is not in His plan? What if His plan is to NOT let the asker get the job, or (hard to accept) not recover from an illness?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Prayer warriors, prayer chains, prayer groups; prayer is a common bond among many. Our beliefs might be 180 out from one another in many subjects but we come together in prayer. The question, though, that keeps going through my head is this: If God is perfect and He made the plan, then aren't our prayer efforts in groups or alone really just collective wishing? And if having faith means, at its core, that I trust that His plan is perfect even when is seems utterly horrendous, then isn't praying for a change like saying, "I don't like what your doing and I want it to go this way instead?" And isn't that line of thinking the opposite of believing in God is all about? Specific, targeted prayer flies in the face of Faith. It seems to me that the prayer should be more along the lines of "Please allow me to accept what is happening" or "Thank you for this difficult situation because I know You have a gift for me in all of this." I struggle with this daily, trying to realign my thoughts and prayers to be less specific, less about what I/we/others are asking for and more about how to find the Easter Egg, if you will, in what is happening around me. What would Jesus do?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm seriously looking for input here, in fact, I've been praying about it. Anyone want to weigh in?</span><br />
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Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4278640817138964319.post-3262995800235467802014-06-29T10:32:00.002-05:002014-06-29T10:33:12.013-05:00Lucy and Ethel or a Reasonable FacsimileBefore my children grew up and moved out and we moved on, one of my best friends (known in our house as My Cindy) happened to live next door. The close proximity and fact that our kids were best friends provided countless opportunities for us to hang around one another. Many was the day where one of us would say, "Hey! I was thinking about doing X, come with me. .. help me. . .whatever." And sometimes (most times), the ideas seemed a little crazy to the outside world. Somewhere there is a home movie taken by a family who came to a New Years Party My Cindy and I threw for the millennium. And sometime during the evening after a lot of champagne, she talked me into photo bombing - even before it was a thing - their home movie of this party. So, as we danced around the dance floor, we maneuvered ourselves in front of the video camera and Cindy whispered, up close to the lens, "Riley (name of the camera holder's son), Date my daughter. . . .Erica M." and then we danced away without the camera man really even noticing (until they viewed the video at home. . .with their family.) It was antics like that that earned us the nicknames of Lucy and Ethel. We interchanged who was who depending on the situation and who had the hair-brained idea. Although I maintain I was Ethel way more often!<br />
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One of the things I miss, having moved away, are my Lucy and Ethel days. So, when Moondoggy asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I said I wanted a spa day and I wanted him to join me. I showed him the website of <a href="http://www.twobunchpalms.com/" target="_blank">Two Bunch Palms Spa</a> and left the room. He gave me that "Lucy???? What are you planning?? " look but 20 minutes later he emerged from the den and said, "You're booked." <br />
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"Just me?" I asked. <br />
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He huffed and conceded, "No. . .both of us. Mud baths, herbal wraps with facial and massage, mineral spring soak and lunch." I was elated! Him? He was being a good sport but, joy! I had an Ethel<br />
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When we arrived, we were given robes and lead to the hot spring to soak before our mud bath. "Can't we just stay here?"Moondoggy asked as we basked in the hot mineral spring. Nope.<br />
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Our therapist met us and led us to our own private hut with two tubs brimming with hot peat mud, instructed us to get naked and climb in, wiggling ourselves deep into the mud. "This is disgusting," Moondoggy murmured as he lowered himself into the tub. I ignored him and let the warmth and weight of the mud blanket me. And then it got quiet. We lay there submerged up to our necks in mud with occasional sips of water provided by out therapist who held the glass and gently placed the straws to our lips. Not a word was spoken until the therapist informed us we had 5 minutes left. Then, out of the mouth of my ever complaining Ethel who was simply being a good sport for my birthday came this, "I don't want to get out."<br />
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By the time the herb wrap and facial with massage was started, he was like an old pro. As we lay there on separate tables allowing the herbal oil soak into our newly massaged bodies, I said, "Thanks, Ethel, for doing this. I've had fun."<br />
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His response, "Shhhh. Don't harsh my mellow." I fear he may become a Lucy.<br />
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<br />Judi Coltmanhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04986075786486591395noreply@blogger.com0