tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4791591894981343032024-03-14T20:35:43.486-07:00Lady with the Spinning HeadLeanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.comBlogger51125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-13023233952332591032015-12-26T10:42:00.000-08:002015-12-26T11:04:35.702-08:00No Place Like Home for the Holidays<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i><b>Christmas Day, 2015<o:p></o:p></b></i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m alone in my house, the laundry is sorted, and <i>Love, Actually</i> is on the tv. My kids
have gone to their dad’s for the afternoon, Dan has gone to a movie with
his sons Dave and Sam, and I’m kicked back in the new La-z-boy recliner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Since moving to California in 2004, every year I
have lamented the distance between my family and me. We had spent every holiday
together for my whole life to that point: 42 years of them. Mom and Dad, my
three siblings and the spouses and kids that followed used to celebrate together;
suddenly, it was just me and my husband and our three kids out west. We
didn’t even make it to our second Christmas in California. We separated a
little more than a year after moving here and subsequently divorced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Even after I remarried and gained two wonderful
stepsons, I was still sad at the holidays. But time and distance, along with
the cost of airfare, chipped away at my memories. Eventually I gave up my
hopes for a big holiday reunion. I will always love my family, but it just wasn’t going to happen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">There’s this great word I learned this year: <i>hiraeth.</i> It’s Welsh and means “a deep,
wistful, nostalgic sense of longing for home; a home that is no longer or
perhaps never was. A yearning and wistful grief for people and things long
gone.” I was stricken by its perfect definition of the things I was feeling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Maybe it was the knowledge that my sorrow had an
actual word, which meant that countless others had felt it too, which led to
this year’s epiphany. Sam, a chef, had moved to Portland. Charlie was away at
college. As I decorated my house for Christmas, which I really <i>do</i>, something occurred to me. Like the Grinch, <i>it started in low… then it started to grow.</i> Maybe Christmas, I thought,
wasn’t about the family of my old life; maybe it was now going to be about my
new family. I realized that <i>my</i> house,
the one I deck out in lights and Santas and nutcrackers, would be the one that
family came home to.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This Christmas Eve, it all came together. Dave, his lovely girlfriend, and their charming, well-behaved dog were there. Dave and Sam’s aunt, cousin and grandmother on their mom’s side
even came. The house was filled with the smell of Sam’s cooking (pork
shoulder!) and the sounds of laughter and animated conversation. Wine was
flowing, cookies were devoured – and I was completely and totally happy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">This morning we tore through our presents. Now that
my kids are older, they take more pride in choosing the right gifts for their
loved ones, which made everything sweeter. And then things started to wind
down, as they always do. I took a nap. Everyone else left for a bit, and I
sat down to write.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Last Sunday, when Sam walked in the door after Dan
had picked him up from LAX, he stopped for a moment, taking in the twinkling
lights on the tree, the stockings on the mantel, the Santas on every surface.
“Whoa,” he said. “I forgot how much you do Christmas!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And now, it’s clear that I have an even better
reason to do Christmas: my family is coming home. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Arial Narrow"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><i>Christmas Day will always be, just as long as we have we.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-5429916217021718672015-07-19T16:25:00.001-07:002015-07-19T16:25:04.992-07:00Folding T-Shirts
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">“Just as I suspected,” says Jim the appliance repairman.
“It’s the pump. I have to order the part, but we can probably get this all done
by Wednesday.” That’s almost a week. At least there is a weekend in between to
go to the Laundromat.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">On Saturday I’ve carved out the whole morning to eat the
frog. If it's your job to eat a frog, it’s best to do it first thing in the
morning, said Mark Twain. And if it's your job to eat two frogs, it’s best to
eat the biggest one first. Laundry for five people is a pretty big frog. I take
my time sorting out the loads; it seems like every piece of clothing the girls
own is in their hamper, and my husband’s contribution is mainly socks,
underwear and the pricey no-iron permanent press dress shirts I always give him
for Christmas. Ironing dress shirts is not a frog I am willing to eat.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">Knocking on his door first, as always, I peek into my son’s
room and ask him for his dirty laundry. He is sitting at his computer, as
always, and he pulls the earbud from one ear to hear me repeat my request. He
jerks his head towards the hamper. I notice that he is online filling out
housing information for college. He just got accepted a week ago, but it was
his number one choice and he is eager to get started. The usually cool and
nonchalant teen sees the light at the end of the tunnel. I pick up his hamper.
“See you in a couple hours.” He nods without changing his gaze.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">At the last minute I decide to bring a couple of the
sleeping bags that need washing too. Loading up the car, I mentally check off
everything: detergent, reading material, a sandwich for lunch, a water bottle,
and cash for the change machine.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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Dan grabs his keys as I get ready to take the last hamper out to the car. “I’m
off to have lunch with Dave,” he says. Dave is his oldest, my stepson. “I’m off
to the Laundromat,” I say, “which means you have to be really nice to me for
the rest of the day.” He smiles and kisses me and carries the hamper to the
car.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">•••</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">
Wishy-Washy is a pretty nice joint for a Laundromat. Lots of vending machines
filled with laundry supplies, soda, snacks – there’s even a coffee
machine. I wonder what a Laundromat cappuccino would taste like but decide not
to find out. As I haul the hampers inside, four other cars pull into the
parking lot. Saturday is laundry day for a lot of people, I think, heading to
the change machine where my twenty dollar bill is turned into eighty quarters,
which promptly make the front pocket of my jeans look like the nut-filled cheek
of a greedy squirrel.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">
There is a rhythm to Laundromat laundry. I like to use liquid detergent so
after eight washers are stuffed with clothes I move down the line, sliding in
the quarters. Water fills the machines and then I move down the line again,
pouring the liquid detergent into the water. There is time to eat lunch and
flip through an old copy of Entertainment Weekly before the wash is done. Then
back down the line again, <i>one two three four</i>, putting the wet clothes
into the wheeled basket and tossing them into the huge industrial dryer, <i>five
six seven eight.</i> Permanent press here, heavier stuff over there, sleeping
bags down there. It’s a little crowded but Wishy Washy has a lot of machines.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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There’s something really zen about a Laundromat. You just do laundry there,
that’s all you do. I suppose the truly mad could find a way to multitask, like
the twenty-something woman behind me who has not stopped talking on her phone
the entire time she has been at the dryers, dumping her clothes into Ikea bags.
<i>You know, last month we just went ahead and got a storage unit, </i>she is
telling some poor soul. <i>I just couldn’t stand all the clutter anymore,</i>
she is saying. An Asian lady and her daughter speak in rapid Korean as they
pull their wet clothes out and scan the room for open dryers. The man beside
them leans against the washing machine and stares into space. Or maybe he’s
watching the TV above the dryers, tuned to ESPN and showing some football story
about a famous player who overcame adversity of some sort. I can't tell.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">
The dryers work really fast and suddenly I’m doing the dryer waltz. One turns
off, check the clothes, if they’re dry throw them in the rolling basket, <i>bum
bum.</i> If they’re not, put in another quarter, <i>ba-bum</i>, or move the
clothes to the other dryer that’s still going, <i>ba-da-bum.</i></span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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Everything is washed and dried in an hour. Amazing. I look at the stack of
clothes all laid out, waiting to be folded, and sigh: this will take an hour
too. But somewhere in my head I appreciate how wonderful this is, how fresh, to
have nothing else to do for the next hour but fold clothes. Nothing else. There
will be no distractions – no kids, no dirty dishes, no damn dogs barking – for
a whole blessed hour. I haven’t even looked at my phone except for the one time
I checked Facebook while waiting for the dryers. That’s when I noticed that
Wishy Washy is in a dead spot for my cel provider, so no phone calls either.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">•••</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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Maybe the staring man, or the Asian lady, watches as I set about to fold the
t-shirts. I have a very particular obsession with folding t-shirts. First I
pick it up at the bottom, fingers pulling it apart evenly at the side seams and
<i>fwap</i> snapping it flat in the air. Then I fold it in half perfectly from
the bottom and match it up at the armpits. Laying it flat on the table, I
caress the fabric into submission, smoothing the wrinkles, pressing the hems at
the bottom and on the sleeves flat with my fingers. The sleeves are then folded
down and smoothed out, one pinch of the shoulder seams, and then it is folded
in half. The collar is always on the left when I lay the folded shirt aside.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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The staring man and the Asian lady would peg me for an OCD housewife with a
spotless house judging by the way I fold the t-shirts. Snap, fold, smooth,
fold, pat. They stack up, looking fit for display in a store. But my house is
far from spotless, my desk is home to stacks of mail and school paperwork which
I will get to just as soon as I can, <i>it’s making me crazy too, honey.</i>
But maybe it’s not. Maybe it stays that way because if I finish it, then I will
no longer be needed. I reach for the next t-shirt. It belongs to the high-school
senior who was filling out his college housing application. It’s a plain white
t-shirt. He wears it underneath his band uniform.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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I linger over this particular shirt, matching the shoulder seams painstakingly,
smoothing the white cotton and picturing him in his band uniform, playing pep
songs in the stands during the football games. Last fall I sat with the other
band moms nearby, watching, clapping along to the school fight song, laughing
with an odd new happiness: pride, mostly, in this strapping young man who stood
swaying with a tuba across his shoulders, as he lived his young life at full
volume. Pride, and excitement for the future he was sailing into.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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I smooth the v-neck into perfect halves. He will be leaving. He will not live
with us anymore. I will not be knocking on his door just to see how’s he’s
doing, watching him pull the earbud out so he can hear me. His sister can’t
wait to take that room over, once he goes to college. The folded white cotton
t-shirt goes onto a stack, and suddenly I am thinking about the little white
cotton onesies with snaps at the crotch, like the one he wore in his one-year
portrait with too-big jeans and bare feet, blond hair and cheeks chubby with
giggles. Holding a small brown bear, perching on a wooden stool, <i>look over
here sweetie! Smile!</i> A plain white t-shirt. He should do his own laundry,
says my husband, and so he does. But the machine is broken and I have washed
his things, cargo shorts and Star Trek tees and all the same kind of socks. He
only wears one kind of sock, a white crew sock that says Hanes on the bottom,
so I always know which ones are his.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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The stack of t-shirts feels endless. There are two more plain white ones and as
they are stacked perfectly atop one another I think, <i>I won’t be doing this
for him anymore.</i> There’s a twinge until I remember coming home from college
myself, a million years ago, dragging a bag full of dirty laundry behind me.
Which my mom somehow didn’t mind washing. And now I understand why.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">And then I am folding the girls’ shirts, with Hello Kitties
and Little Ponies, and for a while I’m able to stop thinking about how much I
will miss the boy.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: center; text-autospace: none; text-indent: 48.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">•••</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 12.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">
Finally the hampers are loaded with folded clothes, and they go into the car
first so the dress shirts on hangers can lie on top. The sleeping bags are
rolled up and ready to go back in the garage until the next Y Camp overnight.
When I get home, he is there, the strapping boy, and he helps me bring in the
laundry without a word. But he smiles when I set his hamper on the bed.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">
“Thanks, mom,” he says.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">My eyes linger one extra moment on his face, taking a
picture.</span><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Goudy Old Style"; mso-bidi-font-size: 15.0pt;">“You’re welcome, son.” Really, that’s all there is to say.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMA1fdx1uQRRTe7YB_0dI_W9B2XbpyF4M40w7SBzpU5YNAjYOvSZmXqygixEb-jJ-rih2hA7_5fCshRgKJAkZotVRMSU2kI3-tscDim2IeFVnVZvx5WYDj3_HVhIonvzACsOYG1TW_t5a/s1600/IMG_1047.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLMA1fdx1uQRRTe7YB_0dI_W9B2XbpyF4M40w7SBzpU5YNAjYOvSZmXqygixEb-jJ-rih2hA7_5fCshRgKJAkZotVRMSU2kI3-tscDim2IeFVnVZvx5WYDj3_HVhIonvzACsOYG1TW_t5a/s320/IMG_1047.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com48tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-44026259859081043202015-05-10T14:00:00.000-07:002015-05-11T07:35:02.055-07:00On Mother's Day, from far away<div class="MsoNormal">
Dear Mom,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yesterday I realized that this would be the tenth Mother’s Day
we’ve been apart since I moved away. After spending the first 42 years of my
life within spitting distance of you and Dad, ten years ago I found myself
thousands of miles and three time zones away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything changed. My marriage crumbled not long after the
move and I longed for your comfort. My best friend died from breast cancer and
I wanted so much to cry on your shoulder. The kids were growing up without
their grandparents, aunts and uncles, and I was so alone. Even after I met Dan
and remarried, I wanted you here to be a part of my new expanded family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it’s been ten years now. It’s kind of a cliché but I’ve
been moving through the ten stages of loss and grief over missing you. I have
many friends who have lost their moms, and for them Mother’s Day is a stinging
reminder that she isn’t there at all. So maybe grieving for you while you are
still here, safe and sound in your comfy house in Florida, seems silly and self-indulgent.
But it’s still a loss: a loss of the way I had always imagined my life as a
mother would be, with you in it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First was denial: <i>I will build a new life on my own out
here. I don’t really need them; phone calls will be enough. </i>Next was anger: <i>why
don’t they come visit me, don’t they know how hard this is? They must not love
me. </i>Then bargaining: <i>I know – you guys need to move out here! I’ll help you!
Even Arizona would be closer and it’s a great place to retire, the climate is
so good for your arthritis! </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then there was the depression. As my kids grew, some
days I was so sad that I wanted to leave California and move back to be near
you. Of course that couldn't happen, because my kids’ father would not agree
to let them move. And there’s also the small detail that I swore I would never
move back to Florida, which I consider the sweaty armpit of America. (Hey, some
people are just not cut out for humidity and giant bugs.) But that’s how much I
missed you. Our all-too-short visits over the years only made me miss you more.
I felt helpless as I watched you and dad grow older, and wondered if you were
really happy with us so far away. Did you miss us too? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How different our lives have been. When I graduated from
high school, you weren’t even 40. My firstborn is graduating this year and I’ll
be 53. I remember you as a young mother, clever and vibrant and so beautiful; I
remember how Dad adored you (and still does). I remember feeling special as a
child, how you always encouraged my creativity, and how I hungered for your praise and approval. But I also remember
that you didn’t like me all that much when I was a teen, and who can blame you:
I was an over-emotional train wreck of hormones and drama. Somehow we survived
that and grew closer as I got older. We actually<i> liked</i> hanging out. We liked
spending time as a family, my siblings and our spouses and children
as they came along. I remember Memorial Day and Labor Day and birthdays at our
house, all of us together having cannonball contests in the pool and grilling burgers
and eating watermelon, all the things I hoped would go on forever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I moved away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ten years on, I think I’ve finally hit the acceptance phase.
This is my new normal: a phone call every week or two, pictures on Facebook,
cards for birthdays and holidays. It’s become enough. I know you are there and
I know without question that you love me and my kids. I know I could hop on a
plane if you needed me and that’s a comfort. I know my sister is near you and
that is also a comfort. I know you and Dad have each other, and that is the
biggest comfort of all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just hope you know, no matter what the new normal is, that
I still miss hanging out with you, and I love you more than words can say. Happy
Mother’s Day, Mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leanne<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VtX_B3HW06ECm6MqcObuuuNsPj94Nx_m5NYtPOqMhpvK0NjRHClXgBgHrZtem1rHS4R1Cp3OkzmnaX37ARPju99lNpSlHDJ1hW9oCMf-HzO5_j4f-2Vc6okIuxwxd8UDWtHpXrSkz_CE/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-05-10+at+2.07.51+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_VtX_B3HW06ECm6MqcObuuuNsPj94Nx_m5NYtPOqMhpvK0NjRHClXgBgHrZtem1rHS4R1Cp3OkzmnaX37ARPju99lNpSlHDJ1hW9oCMf-HzO5_j4f-2Vc6okIuxwxd8UDWtHpXrSkz_CE/s320/Screen+Shot+2015-05-10+at+2.07.51+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Me, mom and brother Bobby testing out the new Polaroid camera, 1966-ish</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-45434048904561689532015-02-18T18:00:00.005-08:002015-02-18T18:16:01.124-08:00Livin’ la vida Foodie <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<i>“A <b>foodie</b>
is… a person who has an ardent or refined interest in food and alcoholic
beverages. A foodie seeks new food experiences as a hobby rather than simply eating out of
convenience or hunger.” - Wikipedia</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Let me
start here by saying I’m not much of a foodie. I’m more of a foodie-by-default.
My foodieness is a product of my stepson and his dad, my husband.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Sam,
the stepson, is a chef at a very fancy L.A. restaurant, one of the finest and
most renowned in the city. He was a foodie-in-the-making when I first met him
at age 15, when he and his dad spent lots of time together exploring restaurants around Los Angeles. By 16 I had him pegged as a future chef. He’s innately talented
with food and very passionate about cooking (and a hell of a lot of fun at the holidays). <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Sam
and his older brother Dave, also a foodie, live about 40 minutes from us, and when Dan goes to see them there is always a restaurant involved. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We
had the best pho tonight. Tried this Italian place Dave heard about. Went to another ramen place down on Sawtelle. We had Thai food in West
Hollywood that was so spicy, Sam couldn’t feel his face.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Then
they start throwing around the famous chefs’ names. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tried Roy Choi’s new place tonight. Nancy Silverton’s pizza place was
one of the best. We went to Michael Voltaggio’s restaurant, it was amazing.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">So I
mostly get to <i>hear</i> about the foodie life, but occasionally I get to tag along.
I enjoy a well-prepared meal, and appreciate the culinary arts thanks to Sam.
But I hail from Ohio, where dining out is a filet and baked potato (I tease, because I love them), and I'm not the most adventurous diner out there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Here’s
the thing about Los Angeles. L.A. foodie culture is just kooky. Sometimes I think
restaurant guys sit around getting high, trying to think of the weirdest way to
get people talking about them. Take for example the recent trend of "communal
seating". This is where you go to the most popular restaurant in town and there
are only long counter-height tables with stools and you have to sit scrunched
up next to a total stranger, because your companion is either across from you
scrunched up next to a total stranger, or next to you with a total stranger on
his other side, and you can hear everyone’s conversations because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they are scrunched up right next to you.</i> Try to eat a meal with your elbows pinned to your sides, I dare you. I went to a communal seating restaurant exactly one time. After that, whenever
my foodies wanted to take me to a new place the first thing I would say is<i> they don’t have those obnoxious tables,
do they?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Early
in his career, Sam worked at one of <a href="http://www.ludolefebvre.com/" target="_blank">Chef Ludo Lefebvre’s</a> infamous “pop-up”
restaurants called LudoBites. This is where he opens a restaurant for about 8
weeks and 8000 people try to get reservations and 300 succeed. That’s a lower
admission rate than Stanford, people. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">So the
thing now, apparently, is to be a really big-deal chef and then open a
restaurant that is SO EXCLUSIVE that not only can people not get in, but once
they get in they’re not sure they’re in the right place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Allow
me to give you an example. Last year, a friend of Dan’s was able to get the
four of us into a fiendishly exclusive place I will call Clandestine (because I want to help them stay secret, of course). The Chef was
all the buzz, and the restaurant served (almost) nothing but petite cuts of beef that
you cooked yourself, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yakiniku" target="_blank">yakiniku</a> style, at your table. Grilled tongue. Throat
sashimi. I’m talking every part of a cow, and supposedly – if you were a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> foodie – you would be able to appreciate the difference between Outside Ribeye and Inside Ribeye. There was no liquor
license so you had to bring your own beer or wine, and if the Chef thought your
bottle was worthy, he would allow you to share it with him. This was one of the
gateways into getting his business card, which would give you the chance to come
back again. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">But the
thing that blew my mind was, the signage and window paint outside the
restaurant all said Teriyaki House. I thought there had been some kind of
navigational error: aren’t we going to Clandestine? What’s this teriyaki business?
This is one of the most exclusive, you-have-to-know-a-guy places in town and
there’s no sign? In fact, the place looked run down and a bit shady. But once
you’re in, there you are, paying $140+ a head to cook your own food on a grill
in a poorly-ventilated room and get the chef drunk. My foodies <i>loved it.</i> I did not get it AT ALL. I
couldn’t tell Outside from Inside Ribeye, the cow throat made me want to puke,
and the whole experience made me long for a filet and baked potato. Which is saying something, because I’m really not a huge red meat fan anyway, and there were EIGHT BEEF COURSES. It was the kind
of thing you’d expect to see in a Judd Apatow movie and you would think he made
it up. Dan, Dave and Sam accepted business cards from the Chef. I passed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Which
leads me to Valentine’s Day 2015, the catalyst for my story. Dan managed to get
us into Petit Trois, the latest creation of the aforementioned Chef Ludo. It’s
right next to his <a href="https://www.troismec.com/" target="_blank">Trois Mec</a>, which has recently won raves as L.A.’s best new
restaurant. Petit Trois doesn’t take reservations, but on Valentine’s Day they
handed out a few through one of those special credit card promotions and Dan
jumped on it. He was so excited; we would be the first among our foodie-group
to eat there. It was a surprise for me. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">We
tooled along Highland in the Hollywood area and Dan pulled into the parking lot
of a shabby little strip mall across from a Mobil station. It was anchored by
Yum Yum Donuts. The other stores were a dry cleaner, Tasty Thai, and Rafallo’s
Pizza. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">I was
very confused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Especially
when I saw the valet stand in front of the Thai place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">What the ---?<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Then I
saw the valet sign: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">parking for Trois Mec
and Petit Trois</i>. I’d heard about Trois Mec and got super excited. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">“Oh my
god, Dan! Are we going to Trois Mec?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">“No,
Petit Trois, but it’s supposed to be just as amazing.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">“Okay,
but…” I looked around. “Where is it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">He
pointed to the Thai place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">That’s
right. And Trois Mec, L.A.’s Best New Restaurant, the one you have to email for
a “ticket” (not a reservation) two weeks in advance, has a bright yellow sign
reading Rafallo’s Pizza above the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Petit
Trois, at least, did not have communal tables. But it did have the next worst
thing: no tables. All of the seating was at a counter along the wall, where you
sat hunched on barstools. Hard, wooden barstools. The whole place was no bigger
than my living room and packed with beautiful hipster foodies who did NOT have
reservations and did not mind waiting an hour or more for a seat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">We sat
down in ten minutes, thank God, at the most intimate part of the counter: the
two stools at the far end. What happened next was simply <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one of the best meals of my life.</i> I cannot emphasize how brilliant
this food was, every bite, from the artisanal bread to the dinner omelet to the floating island
dessert, a cake-like wedge of meringue surrounded by crème anglaise and
pralines. Ludo himself brought our appetizers. The wine was excellent; we tried
a glass of each red (I highly recommend this, it's way more fun than ordering a bottle). There was nothing weird or shocking here, not a cow throat
to be found. Just pure, elegant, perfectly prepared food, and I would gladly
wait an hour or more to sit on the barstools and dine there again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">I’ve
lived in a few places in the USA, and I could be wrong, but I don’t think there are secret
restaurants in Cincinnati or Orlando. We went to a teeny-tiny place like Petit
Trois in San Francisco once, but they had their name on the door, and you
didn’t need to know a guy to get in. Listen, I love living here, I really do.
But when it comes to foodie culture, I’m always going to be that Ohio
girl thinking <i>“is this for real?”</i> and probably writing about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="color: black;">Because
come on. Eight beef courses? Maybe I should give Judd Apatow a call.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9q1JQ3QVxgTfBKDCifOPWcLbAJKQoqS10w9jDotyFy181vkTGT3mknpbxzb7Gse65l8sDT5CBVaT7T9WYPS0ZtV-4GFwf-yqN4TGJE-s_qB5c4FdknMIKqm6bm-RqlgmNaCwVggumPlCc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-02-18+at+6.12.09+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9q1JQ3QVxgTfBKDCifOPWcLbAJKQoqS10w9jDotyFy181vkTGT3mknpbxzb7Gse65l8sDT5CBVaT7T9WYPS0ZtV-4GFwf-yqN4TGJE-s_qB5c4FdknMIKqm6bm-RqlgmNaCwVggumPlCc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2015-02-18+at+6.12.09+PM.png" height="269" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Hey, don't I know that guy with the bronytail?</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span></div>
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Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-25162877998934867002014-01-26T09:39:00.001-08:002014-01-26T09:51:11.654-08:00Goodbye, Huffington Post<style>
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<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">So goodbye,
Huffington Post, where my privacy is now gone;</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> </span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">You
can’t get into my Facebook, I’m going back to my blog.</span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">Back
to my howling and moaning ‘bout stuff,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">writing
all about you –</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">well
I’ve finally decided I'll read the news</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";">beyond the Huffington Post…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"><i>(to the tune of "Goodbye Yellow Brick Road". But you figured that out already.) </i></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> Since
about 2008, I’ve been a big fan of the news website The Huffington Post. The
writing was usually good, the subject matter expansive, but the best part was
always the comment section. Using a pseudonym, I joined a community of (mostly)
intelligent people making (mostly) astute and relevant observations. Sure,
there were trolls and haters, but nothing we couldn’t handle. Slowly I gathered
“fans” for my comments. I became a fan of people like "Coinyer", whose avatar was
a photo of Tommy Chong smoking a doobie; "Fogy", who gave the most brilliant
defense of marriage equality I’ve heard to this day; and "undecidedaboutPOTUS",
dubbed a HuffPost “political pundit” with around 3,000 fans.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> Writing
comments under my pseudonym was both liberating and challenging. Expressing
myself this way meant I was starting from scratch: no one knew me as Leanne,
and no one had any preconceived notions about me. My words were all that
mattered, and as a writer – <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wow – </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>what a thrill that was. I was building a
new identity, one of my own choosing – a keen and clever me, able to craft
sentences carefully before putting them out into the online community for
examination. Every “faved” comment gave me a rush. Every reply opened a door to
conversation. And a new fan – well, sometimes a girl’s just got to have her ego
stroked a little, and that did the trick every time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> HuffPost
was more than politics, too. I could join in on topics from “Which Best Part of
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Love Actually</i> is Actually the Best?”
(Colin Firth, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">duh</i>) to “McDonald’s
Drops Heinz Ketchup” (my comment: “Oh my God, it’s 11:15 on a Friday night and
I’m reading about ketchup. My life sucks.”) (that one got nine “faves”). </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> But
last August, the Queen of HP, Arianna Huffington herself, declared that she was
so disturbed by the increasing hostility – even threats of physical violence –
showing up from “trolls” in comment threads, that the comment policy must be
changed. “I feel that freedom of expression is given to people who stand up for
what they say and not hiding behind anonymity,” she said (abusing her verb
tenses).</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> So
now, in order to comment, I must link my HP account with my Facebook account,
giving them access to my personal information, including friend lists, and
allowing my HP comments to become part of my news feed. And since I won’t do
that, I can no longer comment. I considered putting together a phony Facebook
account, but did you know that FB now requires you to link a unique, verifiable
cel phone number to your account?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> See,
here’s the deal, HP. My Facebook account is wrapped up in my personal life, and
I don’t want you in my personal life. I do not want you to have access to my
friends’ info, nor do I want my comments showing up on my FB feed.</span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> There
are a lot of very nice people on my FB list. A lot of them do not agree
with my politics, and that is fine, because I try my hardest to keep my
politics off FB. I kinda think of Facebook as a raucous dinner party, where I
don’t know all the guests very well – just a few well enough to discuss the hotbed
issues – so I keep conversations lighter and more relatable. You know: kids,
dogs, food, the weather, Santa Claus, Doctor Who, silly hats. Fun things. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> “Not hiding behind anonymity” sounds good in theory, but the data says
otherwise. In a 2011 study, <a href="http://blog.disqus.com/post/15638234811/pseudonyms" target="_blank">Disqus determined</a> that over 60% of its commenters
used pseudonyms, and concluded that “the most important contributors to online
communities are those using pseudonyms.” </span><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> Huffington
Post user Fred H. (previously known as “ForrestGrump”) posted this comment:</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> Since Dec. 9… there were
about 5 million members that left the site. That number includes super users,
moderators, members with 10,000 or more fans & friends, intelligent
contributors, people who have been here for years with spotless records, people
who have a job, people who might be thinking about getting a job one day, Congressional
staffers, federal employees, political consultants, political appointees,
psychiatrists, actors and other public figures, people who live in oppressive
countries that will throw them in prison for their views, people in countries
that have banned Facebook, people who don’t own a cell phone with a texting
plan, people who don’t wish to give their privacy rights over to Mark
Zuckerberg, people who don’t want to let their friends and family in on their
political opinions, people who have violent ex-es stalking them and otherwise
people who don’t wish to open themselves up to the risk of retaliation for
their comments on line by unstable readers.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> So,
Arianna, at the end of the business day, you are alienating your most important
contributors in order to cut down on the looney tune comments. As they say: the
terrorists win.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> And
let’s be honest: this is also a financial decision on their part. Ever since
AOL bought the Huffington Post in 2011 (for $315 million) they have been
waiting for it to turn a profit, and data mining through Facebook equals big
money.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> I
haven’t quite decided what to do, so my profile is still up. But I won’t be
linking my FB account, so I won’t be commenting; and frankly if I’m not
commenting, reading the HP is not nearly as appealing. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have </i>been reading comments on this matter from those who’ve stayed.
Many of them don’t think it’s a big deal at all. But quite a few have used the
comment section of <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tim-mcdonald/end-of-anonymity_b_4418630.html" target="_blank">this article</a> to
say goodbye. There are several who have tried the “appeal process” to get
permission to post anonymously, but it doesn’t sound like that’s going too
well. One commenter said that HP even denied that exemption to an elderly woman
who doesn’t use Facebook. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> Coinyer
is gone, his account deleted. Fogy’s is still listed, although he hasn’t
commented since mid-November. And POTUS’ last comment was on December 10, just
hours before the new policy went into effect. At least 18 of my own fans have vanished,
deleting their accounts. I don’t know how many have just stopped commenting.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> I suppose the discussion could now move into issues of privacy, online ethics and
profit margins. For now, though, I really miss talking to nice, smart anonymous people
online, even if it’s just about ketchup. And, well, Talking Points Memo and The
Nation don’t have articles about ketchup. So I don’t know. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Goudy Old Style";"> Maybe
I’ll try spending more time with my family.</span></div>
Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-65723946565001998242013-11-02T17:41:00.000-07:002013-11-02T17:41:20.028-07:00There Ain't No Cure<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have a really shitty cold right now. The virus monsters were kind enough to wait until after my Saturday class at UCLA was finished; however, now I have my Saturdays back and I'm sick. This morning I woke up with sinuses so completely clogged that, if you wanted to kill me, all you would have to do is glue my lips together and I would suffocate. After a night of mouth-breathing my tongue was so dry I could hardly move it. I had to pour water into my mouth to pry it loose. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Writing this, I started to go into more gory detail about the alarming results of the morning’s nose-blows, but instead I will focus on being helpful, because that's the kind of gal I am. And so, to that end, here is my list of... </span></span><br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Things To Do When You Have A Cold If You Want To Feel A Little Better</span></span></b><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">1) Take a very long hot shower.<br /><br />2) Light your favorite candles even if you can’t smell them.<br /><br /> 3) This one is for the ladies: wear your favorite perfume even if you can’t smell it. For me, it is Stella by Stella McCartney. There, I said it. Go ahead and discontinue it now, you bastards at Sephora.</span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3V7eMYc3tPnOF8jYWmKC60LdBHDevl5-nDGlAmI7iW-bWFHfo5EtpnY5dRnD4GbAR1tbBlI8fv6FdZsvLEnNR6qyyMcIO07pbjjpALg8PmjLczD5b6xMK66P32Q1k0qmudHE9S2DS6U7/s1600/IMG_1119.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib3V7eMYc3tPnOF8jYWmKC60LdBHDevl5-nDGlAmI7iW-bWFHfo5EtpnY5dRnD4GbAR1tbBlI8fv6FdZsvLEnNR6qyyMcIO07pbjjpALg8PmjLczD5b6xMK66P32Q1k0qmudHE9S2DS6U7/s200/IMG_1119.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Alongside my previous now-obsolete favorites; not pictured, eleven shades of discontinued lipstick </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /> 4) Wear your favorite shirt and favorite comfy shoes, no matter how beat up they are. Also sweat pants or beat-up jeans, your choice.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">5) Get the Kleenex Plus with Lotion. You will not regret this.<br /><br />6) Take on a mundane task you have been putting off, because it just hasn’t been <i>quite important enough</i> during the course of your daily healthy life. For me, this was cleaning and reorganizing my jewelry armoire. Based on its condition, I don’t think it had been cleaned since January. Plus I found a bunch of missing earrings. It's like Christmas! <br /><br />7) Read <a href="http://www.nastyprisms.com/temp/cache/hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/2010/10/god-of-cake.html">“The God of Cake”</a> for the 107th time on hyperboleandahalf.com. Laughter really is darn good medicine. Thanks Allie Brosh!</span></span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VM-iGQYg0LlkPixBl8af9OZTyc5_F0yiz5WWsk8jUd3NXEjxvjaTmVFJPsCYVCu0TTWKLstmlYHoOXYuqU2Gn7om775YfRuRbd8qrLLcjsKj9tBJiTOhbTGLkUHXOXBrb8rzdy4_qEbt/s200/Screen+Shot+2013-11-02+at+1.44.13+PM.png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="200" /></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"> well... cake and decongestants.</span></span></i></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">8) Eat lots of fruit. Not Halloween candy (I’m serious here, <i>goddammit Leanne,</i> it doesn’t help in spite of how happy chocolate makes you in the short term). Now you have a legit excuse to make tasty smoothies all day long!<br /><br /> 9) Also: eat spicy food, because it's probably the only thing you can taste, and if it's worthy it'll open up those nasal passages. I recommend Vietnamese Pho.<br /></span></span><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlLjxmhRtvYAAqrU0pSqBb21oI-suV8V9qbIOeSdYPZTR9RgmW4S2JpSFWAiuEvPbvJkafh7lNF1eKB-NuUF2IqN_bWgJrZesPSA9SCVin0zhf8_80vXNotqPXuzBvLdVIyHmldx_Kq7_M/s200/Screen+Shot+2013-11-02+at+1.40.45+PM.png" width="200" /></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">The original Mucinex.</span></i></span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">10) Take naps whenever you feel the need. And if you feel guilty about it, the cold viruses will rejoice and multiply, so <i>do not feel guilty or you won't get better. </i>I'm serious. In fact, I'm going to go prove it right now.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">~~~~</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mmmm. Lovely nap. Now I have to get back to my earrings, people. Got some silver to clean. Hey, what do <i>you</i> do to feel better when you're sick? Comments below...</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>gesundheit! </i></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-13385624328324167682013-10-09T21:22:00.000-07:002013-10-09T21:22:39.609-07:00Lighting Candles
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">This morning I sat up in bed and almost fell back
down. The room was spinning – or was it just my head? I stood up and tried to
walk toward the bathroom. The floor pitched up and down like a cruise ship in a
tropical storm. Grabbing for the wall, I made it to the toilet, so dizzy my
stomach churned. </span><i style="font-size: 11pt;">Whoa.</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I sat there for a moment and as I absorbed the
feeling of extreme vertigo, I knew what this was: Meniere’s disease. (From
AmericanHearing.org: “</span><span style="color: #282728; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Meniere’s disease is a
disorder of the inner ear that causes episodes of vertigo, ringing in the ears [tinnitus], a feeling of fullness or pressure in the ear, and fluctuating
hearing loss.”) </span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">It
runs in my family. My mom and my aunt both have it. I had been ignoring some
other symptoms for weeks, like dizziness if I plopped my head down too fast on
the pillow at night. My right ear had felt like it was full of something for so
long – no doctor could ever find an infection – I couldn’t even remember when
it started. I chalked it up to bad sinuses, but it’s a telltale sign.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">How am I going
to get the girls ready for school like this?</span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> The dizziness wasn’t getting any better, so
I clung to the walls as I headed out to wake Emma up. She sleeps on the top
bunk of a loft bed, and I looked at the steps I usually climb to shake her by
the foot. This is going to be a
challenge, I thought.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By doing everything a little more slowly I was able
to rouse my sleepy 13-year-old and totter back to the kitchen. Luckily there
are a lot of surfaces to grab – countertops, the little wooden island from Ikea
– so I was able to get the morning routine started.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">The worst of the dizziness faded after about 25
minutes, and slowly diminished as</span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> the morning progressed. The girls went off to
school, Dan went to work, and I was on my own. Fortunately, today was my day
off from work. By 11:00 I was feeling better, although any quick turn of my
head brought on a sudden wave.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I reached my doctor on the phone, and he didn’t need
to see me or refer me to an ENT. He agreed that it was pretty obviously my
first episode of Meniere’s, which has no cure. My future will consist of
managing the symptoms. To that end, he forwarded me instructions on
rehabilitative exercises to help deal with the vertigo.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Mom was sad to hear my news. She said that she's
dizzy all the time unless she is sitting. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I did some reading about it online, checked Facebook
and email, read a little news. When I felt up to it, I got up to grab a shower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve been burning candles in the bathroom lately, as
I’m getting ready for my day. The one in there now is called Nutmeg & Spice,
from Bath & Body Works, and it’s heavenly. I’ve dabbled in candle making but I’ve never been able to achieve the “throw” of the Bath & Body Works
candles. They had one called “Salted Caramel” at Christmas, and after the first
one I went back and bought a sackful to give as gifts (and some to keep for me,
of course). Today, as I lathered up in the shower, the fragrance sort of
wrapped around me and I felt a jolt of contentment. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">10 minutes before, I was shrouded in fear, wondering
how this thing was going to mess up my life. Can I work in a preschool if I
have Meniere’s? The episodes are unpredictable, how am I going to schedule
things? What if it happens when I’m out alone – will I be able drive back home?
Is Dan prepared for what this could mean in our relationship – that I could be
useless when it acts up, and will need his care?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">All of that was gone with a whiff of Nutmeg & Spice. All I felt was the peace and calm that a scent can inspire, this wafting
weightless freedom, in rhythm with the steady fall of water from the
showerhead, and I was so profoundly happy to be alive at that moment, so
grateful that I could smell that smell and feel that water. Nothing else was on
my mind; nothing else mattered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Then I fell over. No, not really. Just kidding. I
was fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The throw was even stronger when I opened the shower
door, and I saw the three wicks glowing nearby. One good thing about having the
kids grow up, I thought, is that I can burn candles without extreme paranoia.
Yes, a good thing. Remember that when the 13-year-old is having a hormone
attack.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">We light candles for a lot of reasons: to give light,
in prayer, on our birthday cakes, even (if you’re lucky) (and careful!) when
making love. Candles separate the darkness from the light, literally and
spiritually. Once adding scent to candles became more popular, we gained another reason to light them: aromatherapy.
You can spray a scent from a can, or you can plug one into a wall outlet, but
it’s not the same as lighting a candle. Candles have history. Candles add heat
and light to the sensation of smell. Burning a candle is organic and elemental,
and while it appeals to our most primitive instinct – survival – it also
reflects our desire to become enlightened. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">And that’s pretty much why I don’t use plug-ins. I
light candles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’m writing this in the early evening, and I need to get dinner started. The happy
weightless feeling from this morning has lasted all day, in spite of brief
dizzy spells and the increasing awareness of the tinnitus that I’ve been
ignoring. I did my Target run this morning, crossing quart-size storage bags,
shaving lotion and pasta off my list. There was a special on Glade scented
candles: buy three, get one free! So now my house smells like a Fall Hayride, and
I feel fine. A little spinny-headed if I move too fast, but... <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Oh my God. I really AM the lady with the spinning
head! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTn5tkuEIMhe4XUEiN334VHS2ozEcwworHC4K92YqU4voTQY681LFQBVtH5dzmjj9XezQERRFhy4zAdGZV7LbtI9Phts1fe0s0B0d7wR9ktoeYwceQymv2I49ggCcTknljPCdxJx0tLR7/s1600/bono_wideweb__430x277.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicTn5tkuEIMhe4XUEiN334VHS2ozEcwworHC4K92YqU4voTQY681LFQBVtH5dzmjj9XezQERRFhy4zAdGZV7LbtI9Phts1fe0s0B0d7wR9ktoeYwceQymv2I49ggCcTknljPCdxJx0tLR7/s320/bono_wideweb__430x277.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<i>Hello, hello... I don't like this place called Vertigo...</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-79583937780385791062013-07-20T12:43:00.000-07:002014-02-18T18:40:36.610-08:00The Cleansing, part three: the thrilling conclusion!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;"><i>Here, I pick up where I left off last time. Read parts <a href="http://leannejohnsonlevine.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-cleansing-part-one-not-horror-story.html" target="_blank">one</a> and <a href="http://leannejohnsonlevine.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-cleansing-part-two-kale-chips.html" target="_blank">two</a> if you need to catch up!</i></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
11: Friday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Meat
today! Yayyyy!!! Cooked up some chicken and had it with wild & brown rice.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Claire
and I went to the mall together; she had Panda for lunch and I just watched and
talked to her. No cravings, I wasn’t hungry, and had no desire to eat for entertainment.
It’s amazing. Okay, there was one exception: walking past the smell wafting out
of Wetzel’s Pretzels almost made me lose my mind. So that, and cream cheese
bagels, have been my cravings. Bready stuff. Coffee, occasionally, when I go
past Starbucks, but I’m pretty sure that’s a Pavlovian response.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
picked up my Trazodone refill. But at bedtime I told Dan, “I would rather have
insomnia and wake up feeling good, like I did before, than take meds to sleep
and wake up feeling like crap.” So I didn’t take any.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
12: Saturday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">As
expected, a choppy night. I got about 5 ½ hours of sleep. Nevertheless, it’s 6 p.m. as I write
this and my energy level has been good all day. If anything, sitting and typing
right now is making me a little drowsy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Charlie
and I went shopping for the things he needs for camp. He wanted to go
Cheesecake Factory for lunch. I ordered the vegetable medley salad (no cheese)
with oil & vinegar. All cleanse-approved. And you know what? I really liked it.
And, couldn’t finish it all. Half went into the fridge.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
13: Sunday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">So,
last night I gave in and went back on the regular dose of Trazodone. And it was
okay. Slept better and still felt awake. “Don’t you like having a
cheerful wife in the morning?” I asked Dan. Which is sort of a rhetorical
question, of course. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Charlie
and Emma headed off to Camp Fox today; they’ll be gone all week. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
14: Monday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: #353535;">(Apparently, I was so busy that I
didn’t take any notes. Which is a good sign.)<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
15: Tuesday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
woke up feeling so fresh and present, as I checked emails and Facebook in the
morning it occurred to me that I wanted to meditate. I’ve started and stopped
this practice many times. Today I sat for 20 minutes, able to stay clear more
easily than ever before. It was pretty cool.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Then
I rode the high right to a yoga class at the Y, the first I’ve gone to in about
two years. When it was over, I felt like I could slay dragons.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">For
dinner I made a homemade lasagna for Dan and Claire, something I’d always
thought was too hard and time-consuming for me. Organic grass-fed beef, organic
sauce – yes it took longer than my old crutch, frozen MichaelAngelo’s, but it
was SO worth it! Claire, who never liked the frozen stuff, just loved it. Dan
too.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">It
feels so good to make healthier versions for my family. And you know, since I’m
not napping in the middle of the day, I have plenty of time for it. Me, cooking.
Who’da thunk it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
16: Wednesday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">169.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: #353535;">169?!? <o:p></o:p></span></i></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">That
is what my scale said this morning. I have lost seven pounds. Without feeling
hungry, without deprivation. I just eat different stuff. And I don’t know how
it could be water weight, since I’m drinking water ALL THE TIME.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Today
I got myself an infuser water bottle. It has a little insert that you fill with
fresh fruit, and it suspends inside the bottle when you fill it with water so
the fruitiness infuses the water. That orange tree out front is going to come
in real handy!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
also discovered La Croix fizzy grapefruit water. Mmmm, reminds me of Fresca!<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
17: Thursday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">My
grocery trips are getting a lot shorter now that I avoid processed foods. Not
cheaper, necessarily, but definitely shorter.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Worked
all day in Charlie’s room, moving his old desk into the back room and the nicer
one from out there into his room. This involved disassembling and reassembling
them both. Not all Ikea furniture is easy to do alone. My purification support
e-mails say sweating is good for removing the toxins. I sure removed some
today.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Larry
Mantle on KPCC had a segment on his show about the Master Cleanse, which
involves nothing but lemon juice, maple syrup and cayenne pepper in water for
ten days. Plus a laxative at night. Sounds dreadful. I am positive that I’m
getting all the health benefits that the Master Cleanse claims, without
suffering (well, those first couple of days WERE kinda tough… but I AM eating)
or depending on a fad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Oh
yeah, and last night I slept in my own bed. All night.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
18: Friday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">MAJOR
light bulb moment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
cheated last night. In the middle of the night – around 3, I think – I fell
back on my old midnight habit and had a chewy granola bar. Actually, I had two.
Long ago I convinced myself that I <i>needed</i>
this to fall back to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Remember
how I was saying that, since starting this, I woke up so alert even after a
restless night? This morning, after my binge, <i>oh my God</i> I felt terrible. An old, familiar terrible. I couldn’t
wake up. I couldn’t open my eyes. I wanted sleep - lots, lots more sleep. Because the house was empty (Claire
at her dad’s, the others at Camp Fox, Dan gone for work) I lingered in bed
until 9, even though I had gone to bed at 11. I could barely drag myself out of
bed, just like the old days, when I could only do it knowing a good strong cup
of coffee awaited me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Wow.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
rolled out of bed after a good face-licking from Bowie, and when I looked at
the sheet it was spotted with chocolate-chip stains from the granola bars. Holy
smokes. I don’t even remember eating in bed.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i><span style="color: #353535;">You don’t have to do this,</span></i><span style="color: #353535;"> I told myself. <i>You
control yourself in the daytime without any problems. It can be done, even if
you have to hide the granola bars, because that works and you are worth it.<o:p></o:p></i></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">45
minutes and a cup of blueberry tea later, I started to feel human again. And I
don’t ever want to feel as bad as I did this morning. So, no more nighttime
eating. The end.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
headed back out to Ikea to get the things I needed to finish Charlie’s room.
They get back tomorrow evening.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
19: Saturday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">It
occurred to me that I no longer have food cravings, I no longer think about
food all day, I don’t miss caffeine or sugar, and I feel <i>fan-fucking-tastic</i>. I eat when I’m hungry. But I’m eating good
stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
bought the good beef and the good sauce to make crock-pot meatballs for the
family. Making fresh meals has become a source of pride and pleasure for me.
Which is probably the MOST unbelievable thing to happen on this cleanse.
Unfortunately, as I followed the recipe, I realized while mixing the
ingredients together that my kids would NEVER eat anything with this much onion
in it. So I spent almost an hour picking tiny onion bits out of each meatball
as I rolled them. It’s a steep learning curve, folks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Dan
took Claire to see “Despicable Me 2” so I could finish up Charlie’s room. He got
a new mattress pad, clean sheets, and a nice new quilt to replace his old brown
blanket. There’s still a lot to do, and he’ll have to help me do it, but I
think it’s a remarkable improvement.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Unfortunately,
when I got him home from the Y, Charlie did not share my enthusiasm. In fact he
sorta freaked out. Another benefit of this detox is that I don’t have toxins in
my brain anymore – that is to say, I feel steady and more in control. I let him
rant, looked at him calmly and said, “I hear you. You are not happy I did this.
Now I want you to go take a shower.” (He was filthy from camp.) And you know
what? He did. Later, once he had eaten something, he apologized. He still wishes
I hadn’t done it while he was gone.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Also,
Claire still thought there were too many onions in the meatballs.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
20: Sunday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Tomorrow
is the last day. My emails from Support are advising me to plan how to
re-introduce foods. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Dairy will be my first
test; I plan to just have a glass of milk and see what happens. Maybe some
cheese. I need to know if it’s okay to put some half-and-half in my decaf. I
splurged on some Illy espresso blend, which has “caffeine content no more than
%.05” on the can. I'm okay with that.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">My
beloved flavored syrups will also be an issue. When I have some sugar, even
just a little in my coffee, will it set off the cravings? I’m never going to
have the Splenda-sweetened syrup again. Although most people think it’s
harmless, and I’m sure in moderation it probably is, the stuff is basically
chlorinated sugar with traces of heavy metals and I’d just rather not have it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I’m
doing a lot of reading about stevia. It’s interesting to note that the giant
agribusiness Cargill applied for patents on rebiana, the stevia extract they
use in Truvia. A patent on a plant! Also interesting that the FDA finally approved
stevia’s safety based on research by – you guessed it – Cargill and Coca-Cola.
Their Truvia product, now on grocery shelves, contains other ingredients
including erythritol (a sugar alcohol) and uses an elaborate chemical process
to extract the sweet stuff from the stevia leaf. Cargill has done a great job
of minimizing these facts and keeping them from the public. But <a href="http://www.100daysofrealfood.com/2013/04/25/stevia-food-babe-investigates/" target="_blank">here is a recent article</a> (one of many I found) that summarizes the benefits and dangers
of stevia. Buyer beware and all that.</span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Some nutritionists recommend different sweeteners to avoid sugar and chemicals. Agave is supposed to be low-glycemic – depending on who you
ask. I’m really not concerned with the calories, just the cravings. Other suggestions are raw honey or maple syrup. I’m not sure how those would go over in
coffee. Although maple syrup might be interesting.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
21: Monday. The last day.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I’m
starting to feel nervous about eating other things again. Today I enjoyed the
foods I’ve become comfortable with, and tried to remember the last time I took
an afternoon nap. Charlie and Emma were at home all day while Claire went to
summer school. Emma and I ran errands together at the mall. Claire had
gymnastics. I made them chicken in a sesame-ginger simmer sauce (okay, that was
from a jar, but the ingredients were fine) with rice, which they loved. It was
a good day and I want to feel like this forever.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
one post-cleanse: Tuesday<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Ending
weight: 166. I can’t believe I lost ten pounds in three weeks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">My
biggest challenge is definitely going to be facing my fear of adding foods back
in. Today I got so busy that I forgot to even eat until almost 1 p.m. Went
grocery shopping and bought chips for Claire’s lunch; I wanted to have some but
I’m so afraid I won’t be able to control myself that I just put the bag away.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;"><b>Epilogue:
five days later.</b><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Some
of my fears have been realized. I had some (organic, non-GMO, whole grain)
crackers with Laughing Cow cheese for lunch one day, and then allowed myself
some potato chips. In short order I was prowling the kitchen looking for more
food. I was not hungry; I just wanted to eat more. But what was the culprit? Starches?
Dairy? Both? I need to be more careful adding foods back in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Creamer
and a little flavored syrup in my decaf are fine. Dan’s birthday cake in my fridge is not. I feel
like I want to eat it all. Drinking milk is also a verified no-no: cravings
were triggered almost instantly. I did the midnight prowl one night and had the
same response as before. So I’ve put the red-light foods in a very inconvenient
location to reduce temptation.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">Dan
made pizza last night in his new pizza cooker, a birthday gift from me. It was
delicious, made with quality ingredients, and I handled it pretty well. No
tummy aches from the crust or the cheese, and I didn’t overeat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">And
so, dear readers, the challenge will continue, and I intend to take it slow. I
love having a smoothie in the morning, and as I learn the foods that work best
for me it will get easier to plan meals around them. My weight loss will
probably taper off, but I plan to hack away at those last ten pounds. I checked
in with Dr. Yoshi, and he is very happy that I stuck with it and had such
positive results.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">What
can I give you as a final thought? This experience has convinced me that the
processed foods we are being sold by big food conglomerates are, indeed, making
us sick. I believe that refined sugar is as addictive as nicotine. Soft drinks are a pack-a-day habit. </span>Breakfast cereals are basically candy. As much as the liver
is designed to remove toxins for us – the chemicals in our food, added hormones
in meats and dairy, alcohol and caffeine – it’s also very busy doing its regular
job of sending the good nutrients where they need to go. So giving it a rest
through this cleanse is, in my opinion, a very good idea.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
also believe that a poor diet, as cheap and easy as it is to acquire in
America, is the cause of so many of our ailments. The big
pharmaceutical companies want you to take a pill. I don’t think that’s the
answer.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #353535;">You
only get one body on this journey. It deserves your conscious, loving care. I
feel better than ever, no kidding. Just think about it.<o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-83954393168223192722013-07-15T22:23:00.001-07:002014-02-18T18:41:17.626-08:00The Cleansing, part two: Kale Chips<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Day
1 – Tuesday. Starting weight: 176. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Okay,
I am ready to do this. Where’s my coffee… oh yeah, no coffee. Water. In great
quantities. I make my first fruit smoothie with protein powder and flaxseed oil
and set off to face the day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’ve
given myself some projects to keep my mind off whatever cravings and
difficulties I might have. The kids are spending the week with their Dad, so I
can be a total bitch if necessary and only Dan will have to deal with me. First
thing to do, though, is shop for food. I need fruit that will blend, and
veggies… yikes, I’ve never been good at veggies. I’m the mom who steams
broccoli past the point of recognition. Maybe a broccoli smoothie?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">I’ve
been on a sea-salt-and-vinegar chip binge for a couple of weeks, so I decide to
make a coleslaw dressing with apple cider vinegar and olive oil. It doesn’t
take long for me to appreciate the bite. I try a brown rice and lentil mix,
too, but… <i>lentils. Yuck.</i> However, a
little olive oil and sea salt perks up pretty much anything. We got some rosemary
salt in San Francisco. Super yummy. But I better put Mrs. Dash on the grocery
list or I’m gonna swell up like a puffer fish.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Charlie
needs new bookshelves so I head off to Ikea. Putting cheap Swedish furniture together helps a
lot in keeping my mind off the loss of my beloved coffee. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Around
3:00 I feel tired and a little airheaded (more than usual, ha ha) so I take a
short nap, then get back to work on Charlie’s room. And so I make it through Day One - but my email from “Purification Support” warns me of the coming
discomfort.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Day
2 - Wednesday<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Morning
starts out fine – smoothie, water, supplements - and I delve back into my
cleaning frenzy. As garbage bags fill with junk he will never miss, and boxes
fill with outgrown clothes I am taking down to Once Upon A Child to make a buck
or two, the headache starts. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i>Where is my COFFEE??? </i>The blood vessels in my brain scream at
me. <i>We can’t CONSTRICT up here!</i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Okay,
I was expecting this. Ride it out. I call Dan and whine, and he listens
patiently. He’s always said I drink too much coffee. Of course, he is one of
those vexing people who has never had a food issue: doesn’t crave sweets, never
binges, drinks one glass of wine and then stops, insists the Diet Coke he
splurged on at lunch is keeping him awake 10 hours later. These people really
exist. I married one.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Another
3:00 nap, after which I finally give in and take some ibuprofen. The emails
promise the headache will subside, and I am 100% dedicated to this cleanse, so
I roast some Brussels sprouts and hang in there. Brussels sprouts! They’re
actually tasty! (Again with the olive oil and sea salt thing, though.) The
smoothies really help with the cravings. Watching TV, however, does not: that
Golden Corral commercial with the Buffalo Wings is killing me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Day
3 – Thursday<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">The
email from Purification Support says this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">“Don't be
surprised if old symptoms you haven't experienced in years begin to return
during the program. They should be of short duration and are considered a
beneficial sign that your body is purging toxins and repairing underlying
issues with your health. Old injuries or conditions may resurface for
anywhere from an hour to a day or more. This theory is known as
Homotoxicology and was developed by a German medical doctor named Dr.
Hans-Heinrich Reckeweg. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">In fact, one
patient had an old wrist injury swell up during day two. The interesting
point is that she broke it almost 30 years ago. There had been no
swelling or problem of any kind noted in the 30 years since the original
injury, however her body felt it necessary to bring heat, macrophages and other
white blood cells in to perform long overdue repairs. The swelling went
back down to normal after a couple days.</span><span style="color: #353535;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="color: #353535;">If
you do experience any reoccurrence of past injuries or symptoms we'd love to
hear about it!”<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">I don’t think too much about this. Maybe the creaky
knees are a result of this. The withdrawal headache is pretty much gone, to my
surprise. But today’s highlight is that I discover kale chips. Incredibly labor
intensive, but so rewarding. I bake a cookie-sheet-ful and eat them standing at
the stove. And then another. Yum.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day 4: Friday<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Today I begin to notice an ache in my pelvic floor
that radiates down the back of my legs and up into my lower back. It’s vaguely
familiar, but I ignore it while organizing my daughter’s hair accessories and
jewelry. By bedtime, though, it’s clear this is going to be a problem.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">My lower abdomen is tender and bloaty, but I chalk
that up to all the cruciferous veggies. I mean, really. Cabbage, broccoli and
Brussels sprouts! It’s a wonder I’m not farting myself across the room. I will
spare you the details of the bowel movements.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Otherwise, though, I feel good: no cravings, and my
energy level is way up. I mean, not like bouncing-off-the-walls, but like
hey-I’m-not-tired. Dan is so great. He makes me a salad every night, chock full
of veggies of every color. And I make more kale chips.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">I’ve been taking a medication called Trazodone for
about ten years, at bedtime to help me sleep. I take too many damn meds. So in
a fit of over-confidence in the program, I decide to stop. Tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Lying down, the ache in my lower body is just awful.
I pop half a Vicodin from my emergency stash and try to sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day 5: Saturday<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Oh, my God. I did not sleep last night. I tossed so
much that, at about 4 a.m. after maybe 3 hours of sleep, I crawled into
Claire’s bed, where I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to bring on dreams from
sheer will. No luck. At 6 I finally gave up, but the thing is: I’m wide awake.
I don’t feel tired at all. I’m up with my early-bird husband and I tell him
about my night and the pelvic pain. He says for the twenty-seventh time “I can’t believe you gave
up coffee.” That’s when I realize I don’t really miss it that much.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">The pelvic pain, however, is getting worse. As the
day goes on I find it hard to bend at the hips. I try lying down on a heating
pad but that makes it worse. What could this be? “</span><span style="color: #353535;">Old injuries or conditions may resurface…” Pelvic pain… <i>pregnancy?</i> A-ha! That’s exactly what it
feels like: those endless last few weeks of pregnancy, when the baby is
crushing your pelvis and you feel like there’s a bowling ball inside you. Am I
healing those places? Charlie was a huge baby who tried so hard to come out the
front door that my right hip joint suffered an injury, one I’ve been dealing
with since he was born. (SI Joint Dysfunction is the formal diagnosis. That’s
why I have Vicodin. And he came out through the window, as my OB put it.) <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">The
kids are coming back today at 10. At 9, I lie down for a bit and nab maybe 45
minutes of sleep. But when I’m up, I’m all the way up. Not groggy. It feels so
different.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Once
the kids are home it’s back to the mom business. We talk about all the work I’ve
done in their rooms and how we are going to keep it nice from now on. I know,
I’m a dreamer. Charlie likes his new bookshelves. The girls and I go grocery
shopping together. The pain in my lower body makes me wince. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="color: #353535;">(Now that the kids are home, my
ability to write is dramatically affected…)<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
6: Sunday<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Another
sleepless night. I was determined to get off the Trazodone so I didn’t take it
again last night. But I wake up cheerful – why is it I can sleep from 6 to 9
a.m? There’s my early bird hubby again! Lovely to see him in the morning! He
once again expresses his support. As for the pain, I can bend at the hips today, but there is
still a dull ache down there.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">We
are having a heat wave and the house’s temperature seems to fluctuate between
too hot and too cold; can’t get the AC just right. I notice again how easily I
sweat. This is supposed to be a good thing: sweating out those toxins! Half a
yam for breakfast. Actually yummy.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
7: Monday<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Sleepless,
and yet I wake up energetic and bright. So strange! Pain is going away. Very
busy day with kids; Charlie started as CIT at day camp, took Emma to
orthodontist, then shopping to get ready for Camp Fox.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
8: Tuesday<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
saw my shrink today. He says take the freakin’ Trazodone and get some sleep.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
9: Wednesday</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Remembered
to weigh in this morning. Down 2 pounds to 174.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Last
night I took extra meds – 150 mg. vs. my usual 100 – and woke up horribly
groggy, craving coffee. Also not a very restful night. Sleep is a real issue;
the eating part is not. I feel really good. Two more batches of kale chips. All mine.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Day
10: Thursday, July 4th<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Tried
50 mg. last night. Still didn’t sleep. Felt logy upon waking. Everything else is
going well, though. Overall I feel an enormous improvement in fatigue, focus,
and mood. I feel better than I have in a long time. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">It’s
the Fourth of July, so Dan and I go to the hometown fireworks event. I’ve never
wanted to go before because I kind of hate crowds, but there were food trucks
and I knew Dan would like that. I ate before we went. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
should elaborate on that statement, I think. I am <i>not </i>depriving myself on this cleanse. In fact, I feel like I’m
eating all the time. There are no limits as to when or how much. It’s <i>what</i> I’m eating that is making the
difference.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">A
couple of years ago I became obsessed with finding real honest-to-god
soft-serve ice cream in this town. Not frozen yogurt. That’s how I found out about the King
Kone truck and for a while I stalked them on Twitter, trying to figure out how
I could get to where they were. They were always on the West Side or in Santa
Monica, way too far away. So imagine the emotions I felt when I saw the King
Kone truck at the fireworks – in the middle of my no-sugar, no-dairy cleanse. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><i><span style="color: #353535;">(heart sinking)<o:p></o:p></span></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">I
asked Dan to get a swirl cone and cheated a little to have a taste. Couldn’t
resist. If I ever find their truck again, I’m definitely gonna get me some.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="color: #353535;">Next up: <a href="http://leannejohnsonlevine.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-cleansing-part-three-thrilling.html" target="_blank">MEAT!</a></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-35796306618257425572013-07-13T17:38:00.001-07:002014-02-18T18:24:54.976-08:00The Cleansing, part one (not a horror story... yet)<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Bleah.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s
how I felt most of the time. Occasionally <i>ugh
- meh</i> on good days - but mostly <i>bleah.</i>
Tired, even though I was in my bed at night for eight hours, sometimes more, and always
bleary in the morning. Waking at 2 a.m. to pee and have a snack was a regular
thing for me. Only the promise of a strong cup of coffee got me out of bed.
Most afternoons, the kids were used to me saying “I’m going to go put my feet
up for a while.” They knew that meant a nap. Then I’d wake up, and have more
coffee, or an iced tea, or a diet soda, hoping the caffeine would keep me
going.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After
meals, my stomach would ache, or I’d be super gassy and bloated, or I’d become
exhausted – sometimes all three. Food cravings were a vicious circle: I’d eat something,
feel like crap, then eat something else to try and soothe myself. Usually
sweets. I’ve always said that I thought Chips Ahoy cookies were baked with heroin, because I always wanted more, more, <i>gimme the bag already.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then
there are the numbers. My cholesterol had been an issue for about fifteen years, and I also had about 20 extra pounds to deal with. I was cranky, fat and
sick. One day, not too long after my 51st birthday, I woke up and
said to myself, <i>I don’t want to feel like this for the
rest of my life. </i>It was that simple.<i> </i>So I made an appointment for a physical.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Dr.
Yoshi Rahm is what you call an “integrative physician”. He’s the best of both
worlds: board certified in traditional “western” medicine, but also a holistic
practitioner. He looks at the whole picture. Where a regular MD might look at
your cholesterol numbers and scribble out a scrip for Lipitor, Dr. Yoshi looks
at everything – especially diet and physical activity level – and will have you
try Red Yeast Rice, Omega-3s and Chia Seeds before talking about statins. (Plus, his name is Yoshi. For real.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">When
my blood tests are back, we sit down and look at the results.
This time total cholesterol comes in at 223. Worse, my LDL (bad cholesterol) is 151; it should be around 100. Other numbers show an increased risk of coronary disease, "adverse cardiovascular events," metabolic syndrome, and pre-diabetes. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He
asks me how I feel. I tell him about feeling crappy all the time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“So
the question is,” he says, “what do you want to do about it?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I’m
two inches from the end of my rope. "I
need you to kick my ass," I say. "I’m
not good at moderation.<i> </i>I
need a plan, I need structure. I can’t just do it on my own – I’ve tried."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Okay.”
He gets up and grabs a brochure. “I really think you would benefit a lot from a
cleanse.” The brochure is for a 21-day program, which he would supervise, and
which comes with online support. He goes over the details. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No
dairy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No grains or starches.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">No
sugar or alcohol.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">NO
CAFFEINE.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Nothing
but fruits and veggies and brown rice and lentils for the first 7 days. Then
add lean protein. Take supplements to aid the detoxification, and protein powder to
add to fruit smoothies. A plan. Structure. Twenty-one days.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Now,
let me digress here for a moment. You may have picked up on the fact that I see
a holistic doctor and thought, hmm, okay. Well, she lives in California after
all. Let’s just look at the facts, and you tell me if Leanne will decide to go
on a totally awesome holistic detoxifying cleanse.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Are YOU a New-Age California Hippie? Take this test to find out! Do you:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Practice yoga? <i>Check.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Practice
meditation (bonus points if it was on a red rock in Sedona)? <i>Check (several bonus points).</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Study Eastern Philosophy? <i>Check.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Wear
Birkenstocks (and call them "Birkies")? <i>Check.</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Own any clothing
made from hemp? <i>Ooh, no… does a purse
count?</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Ever visit
psychics (bonus points if it was in Sedona)? <i>Check (two bonus points).</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Drive a Prius
(bonus for hippie stickers)? <i>Check (plus
3 bonus points).</i></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: inherit;">Buy organic food and fair-trade coffee, use cloth shopping bags, contribute to an environmental charity, own a pair of Toms shoes, etc. <i>Okay, okay, we get the point already. </i></span></li>
</ul>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i>(note:
if you now hate me because I am apparently a total stereotype, you can head on back to
Facebook. Thanks for hanging in there this long.)</i><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">So,
of course, because this is who I am, I tell Dr. Yoshi I’m in. We arrange for
me to start the day after Dan & I return from our long weekend in San Francisco, a
trip that turns out to be a real bacchanal, punctuated by In & Out as my
last pre-cleanse meal. At home we haul the 15 bottles of wine we bought in
Sonoma into the house, and I am a little sad, because I will miss them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Coming soon: will she
survive Week One? Or are Chips Ahoys the most powerful force in the Universe? Read Part Two <a href="http://leannejohnsonlevine.blogspot.com/2013/07/the-cleansing-part-two-kale-chips.html" target="_blank">here!</a>)</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt;">
<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">(p.s. I don't own any Toms. I need more arch support.)</span></i></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-32060204174708148352013-03-27T21:29:00.000-07:002013-03-27T23:54:10.136-07:00How to make a lemon drop, if you are me.<br />
1) Take out vodka, triple sec (because you are out of Cointreau), and sweet & sour mix.<br />
<br />
2) Oh wait, you don't have sweet & sour mix. Look up recipe for homemade sweet & sour mix online. You need a cup of lemon juice.<br />
<br />
3) Go outside to lemon tree, where all of the ripe ones are at the very top. Climb lemon tree, get scratched all over your arms, get only three lemons.<br />
<br />
4) Go to garage where the citrus-picking-thing is stuck behind lawn equipment. Knock gas trimmer over on your foot. Yell.<br />
<br />
5) Take citrus-picking-thing out to lemon tree, get some more lemons, bring them inside and wash them.<br />
<br />
6) Squeeze lemons until your arm is sore because you are too lazy to get the electric juicer out. When lemon juice gets into the scratches on your arms, curse quietly, because the kids are watching Adventure Time in the next room.<br />
<br />
7) Boil 1 1/2 cups of water. Add 1 1/2 cups of sugar, dissolve. Stir in 1 cup lemon juice and 1 cup lime juice (which, luckily, you have in a bottle. No lime trees here).<br />
<br />
8) Realize that you have to wait for your homemade sweet & sour mix to cool before you can enjoy your delicious adult beverage. Allow steam to escape ears. Pour some mix into a cup and stick it into the freezer.<br />
<br />
9) Meanwhile, spend two or three minutes contemplating your collection of martini glasses. They are dusty. Wonder why. Choose one and wipe it out.<br />
<br />
10) Juice one more lemon for the recipe. Dip your finger into the juice and lightly moisten the rim of the martini glass. Take out the baker's sugar, pour some onto a plate, and dip the rim into the sugar. Now we're cooking.<br />
<br />
11) Get cocktail shaker from cabinet. Try to remove the top. Realize it is stuck. Breathe deeply; twist and twist and twist. Become increasingly vexed and begin pounding it against the kitchen island, where a well-placed towel dulls the noise. Open and add ice.<br />
<br />
12) Add 3 oz. vodka, 2 oz. slightly warm sweet & sour mix, 1 oz. triple sec, and the juice of one lemon. Shake vigorously; pour into rimmed glass. Garnish with lemon twist.<br />
<br />
13) Take a photo and post it to Facebook so your friends think you are super cool and bartendery.<br />
<br />
14) Take one sip. Aaah, electric vodka shock. Accept the fact that generic triple sec is a poor substitute for Cointreau. Add Cointreau to the shopping list. Also bottled sweet & sour mix.<br />
<br />
15) Sit in the comfy chair with your drink. Look at clock. It is time to put the kids in bed.<br />
<br />
16) Fifteen minutes later, return to your lukewarm martini and drink it in two gulps.<br />
<br />
17) Go to the freezer where the rest of the cocktail is waiting for you. Re-rim glass, skip the twist, empty the shaker into glass, make sure the kids are out, return to comfy chair.<br />
<br />
18) Turn on the DVR and start up those reruns of Friends you've been racking up on Nick at Nite. Raise your glass to the gang at Central Perk. Relax.<br />
<br />
19) Hubby comes home from a late dinner with Stepson and makes a snarky comment about the vodka on the kitchen counter.<br />
<br />
20) Ignore urge to throw martini at hubby. Make another batch. After all, your sweet & sour mix is cool by now.<br />
<br />
Repeat as necessary.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_DFT_ROn45pDgUGwmBlmODGG8mrGz0nUSV19-5ZU60yoE4cxLP5oGDWfljIQahSKx1MrLQaQJERdnIgjik6-nscAZLIi7OESI0P02K2pK1zA9shA0fL31bgjz0I1fmjU0LtFEFHE5eMW/s1600/IMG_0583.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_DFT_ROn45pDgUGwmBlmODGG8mrGz0nUSV19-5ZU60yoE4cxLP5oGDWfljIQahSKx1MrLQaQJERdnIgjik6-nscAZLIi7OESI0P02K2pK1zA9shA0fL31bgjz0I1fmjU0LtFEFHE5eMW/s320/IMG_0583.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Note: homemade sweet & sour mix is in the pot on the stove.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-53373055024372292562013-01-30T09:47:00.000-08:002013-01-30T09:59:54.999-08:00New Year's Eve, age 50<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The hubby only made it to 11:15
this year. I pour myself a glass of Korbel with a splash of Midori; it’s called
a Green Goblin. Sometimes I fix a drink just because it has a silly name. I sit
down with my kids to watch New Year’s Rockin’ Eve and the Korean pop star, Psy,
comes on to do his <i>gosh-I-hope-so</i>
one-hit-wonder song “Gangnam Style”. My daughters, 12 and 10, dance frenetically and I laugh so hard I can barely hold my phone still as I tape
them (oh yeah, that’s going on their wedding video someday). I wonder, will
anyone even remember this guy next New Year’s Eve?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As midnight approaches, the kids
and I watch Train sing “Imagine”, which always makes me choke up, and I resist
the urge to tell them about John Lennon for the umpty-seventh time. The ball
drops in Times Square – tape delayed, of course, since we live on the west
coast – and I hug my beautiful, blessed children to ring in 2013. Then I tiptoe
into the bedroom to kiss Dan.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Happy New Year,” I whisper.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Mmm phmmmm hmm,” is his reply. Or
something like that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When Justin Bieber comes on for
what seems like the fourth time that night, I shoo the kids off to bed and sit
down with my Green Goblin, switching to another channel. Emma comes out to kiss
me goodnight one more time and knocks over my drink. Brilliant, I think as I
spritz the wall with 409, only 30 minutes into the new year and I am cleaning
up a sticky mess already. Doesn’t bode well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> With
everyone asleep, I sit on the couch mindlessly adding apps to my iPhone. At
this point I am watching Kathy and Anderson on CNN and wondering if I need to
be more drunk to really enjoy them. Maybe I should play the “giggling Anderson”
drinking game. That would sure do the trick. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> Heaven
help me, I love New Year’s Eve. I’m a hopeless optimist. At one in the morning
on January 1<sup>st</sup>, I decide to start writing my resolutions down. Funny
thing: because of my iPhone, I have now started assuming that if I double space
in Word, a period will appear at the end of the sentence. Or maybe it’s the
champagne.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Anyway, here’s what I write down. And I’m putting it on my
blog, for accountability.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .5in; tab-stops: 49.5pt; text-indent: -.25in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Stop
using the f-word so much. (And not by substituting some other swear word in its
place.) It’s just ugly and unladylike. </span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">My
wake-up call happened when I was working my seasonal job at World Market in
Glendale. The store is located at the corner of one of the worst-designed
shopping plazas ever, in terms of parking. We regularly hear honking at the
three-way stop right outside our doors. One day as I rang up a customer, there
was a loud series of honks followed by a woman’s voice yelling <i>“You fucking
asshole!”</i> After a beat or two, I raised my eyebrows and looked at my customer.
“Well, that was lovely,” I commented. But it really stuck. Because not only I
was embarrassed for her, I knew with certainty that it could have been me. And
I don’t want to be that person.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Learn
some Spanish. Take a class, get Rosetta Stone, something. I live in Southern California, for pete's sake, it just makes sense.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Take
the self-defense class at the Y next month.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
mundane: clean the garage. Take old clothes to Goodwill. Go to all of Charlie’s
home games to see him play tuba in the marching band. Take the dogs to the dog
park more.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">The
profound: meditate, as much as possible. This may honestly be the hardest one
to keep, because that kind of focus is really hard, and it always seems like
those 15 minutes are impossible to give up. But it’s so helpful to a scattered
brain like mine, and I know it.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Follow
my doctor’s advice for once, and do the things he says I need to do. Let’s face
it: the 50-year-old body is a lot different from the 30-year-old, even the
40-year-old body. I have lousy cholesterol and not the healthiest diet. Eckhart
Tolle says in </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">The Power of Now</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">, “if
you knew a food made you sick, would you keep eating it? Of course not, because
that would be madness.” Well, it's t</span><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">ime
to stop the madness. I want to feel good. Not just in 2013, but
all the time.</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;">Oh
yeah: finish draft #2 of my book and get a book proposal out in the world, even
if I have to pay somebody to kick my butt. (Cough, cough, </span><i style="text-indent: -0.25in;">writing group,</i><span style="text-indent: -0.25in;"> cough)</span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">Related:
write more blog stuff. Okay, just write more in general.</span></li>
<li><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; text-indent: -0.25in;">But
most of all, I resolve to slow down, which may seem counter-productive. But I
know that if I slow down, I’ll be more likely to remember these things and keep
them in my life.</span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That’s it. Goodnight, Green Goblin. Time to get started!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQgdQzTBmTCTAuO1qh8TeWol1C4seq0Z8BtO-RUs3OUfKxJuRDIkY_QvQODIsR3FNg5bE95yVFMTEY9fd3RFTsNtIQec77uURSVhzxTc_oGHcgdbD3v_g5qq7tVa6pgHZuJgt-aOAz-iP1/s1600/New+Year's+Cake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQgdQzTBmTCTAuO1qh8TeWol1C4seq0Z8BtO-RUs3OUfKxJuRDIkY_QvQODIsR3FNg5bE95yVFMTEY9fd3RFTsNtIQec77uURSVhzxTc_oGHcgdbD3v_g5qq7tVa6pgHZuJgt-aOAz-iP1/s320/New+Year's+Cake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><i>The girls decorated a cake for us this year.</i></span></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">P.S. As you can see by the date on this post, I am off to a slow start on that "write more" resolution. I haven't signed up for the self-defense class, either. But the f-bombing has slowed way down. Come on, I've got eleven more months... right?</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-33204417222690680332012-10-26T12:12:00.002-07:002012-10-26T12:12:29.437-07:00Priceless (or, Night Of A Thousand "Awesomes")<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoA30mqB3o8If6OLiTirTfx6V6uSm38bbIG_e5LDAsBWFvou_7OzYUslAyVmuCcXaEwR0Zb4QT992Ngo3IKwShDxX1MYytNTKuszENtK1BVBXvqqCqpM__nv0JbBmwTnUi6Qbo37vNI6G/s1600/The+girls.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="308" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKoA30mqB3o8If6OLiTirTfx6V6uSm38bbIG_e5LDAsBWFvou_7OzYUslAyVmuCcXaEwR0Zb4QT992Ngo3IKwShDxX1MYytNTKuszENtK1BVBXvqqCqpM__nv0JbBmwTnUi6Qbo37vNI6G/s320/The+girls.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The girls before the show</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<b>Cyrus "Glitch" Spencer came running out of the Nokia Theater</b> about an hour after the show ended, dressed sharp and sporting ear gauges encircled with big rhinestones. Or maybe diamonds, I don't know. He's popular enough, maybe he could afford that. Fans were lined up behind barricades to see the stars of the <i>So You Think You Can Dance</i> tour after the show at the Nokia Theater in Los Angeles, including my daughters, Emma (age 12) and Claire (age 10). And me, of course. The girls wore black t-shirts they had decorated in puffy neon fabric paint. Emma's said "Cyrus We ♥ You", the heart a bright burst of stripes; she also sported a colorful pair of lens-free nerd glasses. Claire's read "Cyrus Rocks!" in her own unique scrawl. They squealed as Cyrus ran down the long line of fans, hooting and slapping everyone's outstretched hands, and then settled at the end of the line to start signing programs and posing for photos.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Will Thomas, the tall and slightly goofy dancer that the girls also love, was the first to make it to our part of the line. He was lively and energetic with his fans, and my girls held their program out for him to sign. I should add this was their first encounter with celebrities so they were wide-eyed and a little shy. But Will was so exuberant they quickly got over it. I was relieved to see that the dancers carried their own Sharpie markers, since all we had in my mom-purse were Eraser-Mates. Not really ideal for glossy paper.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Will and Cyrus were yelling back and forth to each other down the line. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Will!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yeah man!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I signed a CHEEK!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No way!" </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yeah, she wanted me to sign her cheek!" He gestured at his own face and they howled with laughter. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_0BxP4aYSEQVZXKHIS5vSVXAstkwi3kib05OEOVaVE4FgqjMzImzePEVZE2lXUTbjoiuj9DwlezD3XvnFoefwInKQ_E7IIhQwhvJE9b9jZuoOAfcKU5Als-Sg1gF3R1GVfHpJydl35Sp/s1600/Will.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiO_0BxP4aYSEQVZXKHIS5vSVXAstkwi3kib05OEOVaVE4FgqjMzImzePEVZE2lXUTbjoiuj9DwlezD3XvnFoefwInKQ_E7IIhQwhvJE9b9jZuoOAfcKU5Als-Sg1gF3R1GVfHpJydl35Sp/s320/Will.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Will was so sweet! Notice Emma holding her picture for Cyrus.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
<div>
After Will moved down the line, we watched Cyrus interact with his fans and inch his way closer to us. He was obviously loving every minute of it, talking, posing for photos and accepting hugs. The girls were starstruck.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For those of you who are not familiar with <i>SYTYCD</i>, well obviously: it's all about dance. Young dancers from all over the country audition to perform, American-Idol-style, on the award-winning show. The reasons why it's so much better (in my opinion) than any other talent competition show are many: the quality of the choreographers and routines, the talent and passion of the dancers, and the variety of dance styles performed. When Cyrus auditioned, we had never seen his style of dance, called animating. The animator in motion looks a bit like a cross between a robot and a stop-motion movie, but more fluid and riveting to watch. Cyrus was mesmerizing, and his huge personality quickly made him my daughters' favorite.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cyrus was also fascinating because, according to the show, he had no formal dance training. I have to confess that I found that hard to believe. How could a street dancer pick up all those styles as well as he did? But if you buy the theory that some people just have dance in their bones, then Cyrus more than qualifies. This video shows his first audition in Atlanta.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/33pInnukXlQ" width="560"></iframe></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And then he was in front of us. The girls handed him their program, and the 8x10 glossy we had also purchased, and I said "Hey girls... show him your t-shirts."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They stepped back a little so he could see them and his eyes lit up. "Oh my gosh! Wow!" he said with a huge smile. "WILL!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yeah man!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Will! I got t-shirts! I got T-SHIRTS, Will!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"No way!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cyrus turned back to my girls. "Those are so awesome you guys!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"They made them themselves," I added, overstating the obvious.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He put his arms around them and I got the picture. Then Emma looked at her idol and handed him the drawing.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I made this for you," she said. It was a cartoon she had drawn of Cyrus, with the caption "the animator gets animated!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He gasped and slowly grinned at her. "This is for me? I can keep it?" She nodded. "WILL!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Yeah man!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This time he was really excited and danced around a little while he yelled down the line, "I got a PICTURE, man! I got a PICTURE down here!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"That is AWESOME!"</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Cyrus looked into my daughter's eyes and said, "Thank you. Thank you SO much. I love it."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
She smiled back. I think she might have said <i>you're welcome</i>, but I was a little emotional so I don't remember. Instinctively I went in for a hug, which he gladly gave me, and I said something inane like <i>wow they're going to be tired at school tomorrow but it was worth it, thank you.</i> And Cyrus moved along to his next group of fans.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ5fjx6lozKgOfB1tDvVsiTQOHn4o14ojDB2TmPK1DZgQ6uRghljc0S8jADj-UdHW3iN6NeIDKGs3aYZbjej4FcmzyizvUh6nH73scXLe5GF73UOCqx5zW6l4A0unHfzIOZkKf8ogW0db/s1600/Cyrus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTZ5fjx6lozKgOfB1tDvVsiTQOHn4o14ojDB2TmPK1DZgQ6uRghljc0S8jADj-UdHW3iN6NeIDKGs3aYZbjej4FcmzyizvUh6nH73scXLe5GF73UOCqx5zW6l4A0unHfzIOZkKf8ogW0db/s400/Cyrus.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Look at those smiles! Priceless!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The girls looked up at me, their expressions full of delight. "Wow!" I said to them. "THAT was awesome, huh?" They nodded. They were genuinely speechless. After a moment we headed down to see some of the other dancers: Amelia Lowe, who had (with Will) danced one of Claire's favorite routines to "Lovecats" by the Cure (did I mention that the show is also excellent because of the music? I couldn't get my daughters to listen to the Cure for <i>anything</i>; they would think it was lame if it came from me); Cole Horibe, the intense martial-arts style dancer with the great abs (yeah, I said it); and finally, Eliana Girard, the female winner from this season, who was the girls' other favorite. They were all so sweet and generous. Eliana saw Claire's shirt and grinned, "Cyrus DOES rock!" She asked them their names and said they were adorable. "I love your glasses! Those are awesome!" she told Emma.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZDd-IveyVDh4FHJk6EL7oXgP-tOHF57BLtKV2IntIArLgG0BDvl3nHkY6_PCiiVTy3tnKjprgkvw4N_Mu47GhX85J3HlqYMzudqNIzD4F2RPJU0Eg_b1krXragkUF1X-Bb_4Vujw8x3o/s1600/Amelia.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZDd-IveyVDh4FHJk6EL7oXgP-tOHF57BLtKV2IntIArLgG0BDvl3nHkY6_PCiiVTy3tnKjprgkvw4N_Mu47GhX85J3HlqYMzudqNIzD4F2RPJU0Eg_b1krXragkUF1X-Bb_4Vujw8x3o/s320/Amelia.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Amelia was so beautiful!</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw5MncR_2WJ8iidSPfcO3Vgx47g-p4YWpTyAnGF8MQSC0nIGEqcMoadGGRyD3HqbPZa042_yhjJeDilfY26ipuQqmR_m-dyhvGS4gt7DJZHOYQPqZaaommnoewSQKbju2bmdv53A9N8hYJ/s1600/Cole.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw5MncR_2WJ8iidSPfcO3Vgx47g-p4YWpTyAnGF8MQSC0nIGEqcMoadGGRyD3HqbPZa042_yhjJeDilfY26ipuQqmR_m-dyhvGS4gt7DJZHOYQPqZaaommnoewSQKbju2bmdv53A9N8hYJ/s320/Cole.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cole was one of my favorites. I love those Hawaiian guys. :-)</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyH6GhPgQ3DaffCkIJJFOoEP7tL4RGfeVR7-MWtnptmg_CsovJUi9S8Ar4j3VpGoAfrF_5AIDXxfjGtZBx3LzZk9RYgeBMosikieNcRT2hHBTOXtXuEatI4jx3yvFn5FbvwD5-1IFh4Ep/s1600/Eliana.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfyH6GhPgQ3DaffCkIJJFOoEP7tL4RGfeVR7-MWtnptmg_CsovJUi9S8Ar4j3VpGoAfrF_5AIDXxfjGtZBx3LzZk9RYgeBMosikieNcRT2hHBTOXtXuEatI4jx3yvFn5FbvwD5-1IFh4Ep/s320/Eliana.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Eliana rushed out right at the end of the meet-and-greet. She apologized to everyone for making them wait. The photo I got of her with the girls was not very flattering, and she's so lovely I just picked this one instead.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Before we left, the girls went back to say goodbye to Cyrus. He was still holding Emma's picture. I told him that she was really excited that he still had it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Awwww," he said, "this is so great. I want to put it on my blog*. We have a special place on the bus for stuff like this." He looked back at Emma. "I love it. Thank you so much!" And she got a huge hug. Which I captured in a terrible blurry photo on my phone... but we know what it is.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"I can't believe it," Emma murmured as we started the walk back to the car. "That was awesome."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Claire agreed. "That was the coolest thing that's ever happened to me!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It was 11:20, and the girls had school the next day. Maybe another mom - most other moms - would have gone straight home after the show. Ten o'clock is already way past bedtime, much less midnight, which is when we finally got home. Claire slept in the car, but Emma shuffled through the photos on her phone and talked excitedly about everything that had happened.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Tickets: $... who cares.</div>
<div>
Souvenirs: $... who cares.</div>
<div>
Refreshments: $... who cares.</div>
<div>
Memories: oh yeah. 100% Priceless.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And one more thing: next year, I'm springing for better seats.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*I haven't found his blog yet. I am following him on Twitter, though, so if anything shows up about Emma's picture I will update immediately. I'm not holding my breath... but it sure would be awesome.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-60548494274835352342012-04-01T10:41:00.003-07:002012-04-01T10:42:54.574-07:00Cigna, United Healthcare To Provide Coverage To All Americans<div style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">
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<span style="font-size: small;">Insurance monoliths Cigna and
United Healthcare announced today that they plan to provide affordable and
thorough coverage to all Americans who are in need. According to Cigna CEO David M. Cordani, “We just ran the
numbers and decided it made sense. In 2010 I received
$12.5 million in compensation, plus $8.4 million in stocks and stock options,
just for running an insurance corporation. Do you know how many people we could cover with that money?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Cordani added, “When the health
of Americans turned into a Supreme Court dog-and-pony show, that’s when we
decided to step up. It shouldn’t come to that.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Stephen Hemsley, United
Healthcare’s CEO, added “between the two of us, we paid lobbyists $3.8 million
dollars during the 2010 election cycle. We thought that actually providing
healthcare with that money would be so much better. Plus, now we won’t have to
pay those lobbyists anymore.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Early reports indicate that a
number of lobbyists will be placed in the five states with the lowest percentage
of covered Americans – Oklahoma, Florida, Alaska, Mississippi and Texas – and
trained to provide information and assistance to the neediest in the
population. We could not confirm this with any of the lobbyists, who refused to
comment for this article.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Cigna’s profit in the 2<sup>nd</sup>
quarter of 2011 was $408 million. “I’m very proud of our generous stockholders
for backing us on this endeavor. It truly shows that we have the best interests
of our fellow Americans in mind,” said Cordani. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">United Healthcare showed a 13%
increase in profits for the same period.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Said Hemsley, “Let’s face it.
More than <a href="http://www.gallup.com/poll/152162/americans-uninsured-2011.aspx" target="_blank">17% of people </a>in our country are not insured, and too many are
suffering needlessly because the corporations have only focused on their bottom
line. It’s time for insurance companies to get back to what their mission
really is: providing healthcare.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6pt;">
<span style="font-size: small;">“It’s just the right thing to
do.”</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ0P-OaiwkvTY7ZgkUxtjyQaq47QFbCDjCsMwGwV8ndsTdiYg5HHp3FtAhe6JE6w6CMZ-emneAqhFnST21IKtJxn_NJ63aXfVYl2owx5oVqmMURO7GaNXHTbf9Gpt8udPOULk4HsJGKUQ/s1600/Insur_Operation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="335" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGJ0P-OaiwkvTY7ZgkUxtjyQaq47QFbCDjCsMwGwV8ndsTdiYg5HHp3FtAhe6JE6w6CMZ-emneAqhFnST21IKtJxn_NJ63aXfVYl2owx5oVqmMURO7GaNXHTbf9Gpt8udPOULk4HsJGKUQ/s400/Insur_Operation.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-large;"><span style="color: purple;">Ha ha! Gotcha! April Fool!!!</span> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i style="color: purple;"><span style="font-size: small;">(a girl can dream, right?) </span></i></span></div>
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</span></div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-3522329252571270212012-03-12T17:49:00.000-07:002012-03-12T17:52:42.887-07:00Because I was lucky to have her at all<style>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">My best friend Karen Dunaitis has been gone for five years and one day. She had breast cancer, and she died. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Karen was a lot of things to me, but I don't think she ever knew what an inspiration she was. She always nudged me to try new things, to think creatively, and most of all to seize every minute of joy and fun that life gives you. Sometimes she was the devil on my shoulder, other times the angel who wrapped me in her arms and let me cry. I loved her like a sister, and I don't think I'll ever know anyone quite as luminous and free-spirited again. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Because I was lucky enough to have her at all, I've decided to go way out on a limb here, and share something from the little book I'm working on. This is one of my favorite memories. For those who don't know the backstory, we met when Disney opened their animation studio in Orlando in 1989. Her husband Aaron and my future husband Alex (now my ex) both worked there.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">________________________________________ </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">I was still
waiting tables at the fancy-pants Hyatt resort near Disney World and finishing
up my art degree in the early years at the studio, and then my first job was
late shift paste-up at a printing company, so I often had time during the day
to drive out to Kissimmee and hang out with Karen. We had a few essential
background things in common which cemented the foundation of friendship. One:
we were both Midwestern girls who found ourselves living in Central Florida.
Karen had bolted for the beach as soon as she got out of high school in Ann Arbor.
Two: we were both art majors. She had studied art at Ringling, where she met
Aaron, and was a talented stained-glass artist. Three: we liked the same music.
Four: we had both spent years waiting tables, or in Karen’s case, cocktailing.
Five, and probably related to Four: we liked to party. And of course, there was the
whole animation thing, which our men had in common.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> I
felt ridiculously comfortable around her. Waiting tables, you have to put on
this act for your whole shift, especially in an upscale Italian restaurant in a
hotel full of stuffy (and often foreign) tourists. The acting is almost more
exhausting than the schlepping of tableside Caesar salads. Karen was home all day </span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">with her two little
ones </span><span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">and welcomed my company. We would drink Diet Cokes
and play rockabilly or Tom Petty and just slide into each other’s company like
old flip-flops.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> The
house was small, but the yard made up for it. Sunny and spacious, thick with
coarse St. Augustine grass and no landscaping to speak of, but it didn’t matter
because your focus always went to the dock down by the creek. There wasn’t a
boat there, just the canoe dragged up on the grass next to it. But the dock was the thing that drew you in, and you could see why they didn’t care that the house was little
more than a firmly planted double-wide. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> All
along the creek, the trees grew up and over like so many old aunts and uncles
with outstretched arms, welcoming the water and the people traveling on it.
Karen and I would sit down there on old Adirondack chairs listening to it run,
watching Austin and Dustin splash in a wading pool or ride their Little Tikes
cars through the grass. They had white-blond hair and their brown eyes were
huge and round like anime characters.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">Karen was a natural mom. I don’t just mean she made it look easy, I
mean she was an earth mama before I knew what that meant. If the kids’ feet
weren’t filthy at bath time, it hadn’t been a good day. When they fell she
didn’t run to them in a panic. Her voice stayed calm and consequently so did
they, almost all the time. I seldom heard her talk baby-talk, but she made them
laugh and called them silly names, and was quick with kisses and I love yous.
She taught the kids who their friends were and so they were always comfortable
around me, and their hugs were my adrenaline. Dustin was shy, but Austin was a
clever thing from the start, with a truly impish glint in her eyes. I adored
her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> One
time I was there, Austin couldn’t have been quite three, and there was an issue
of Rolling Stone magazine on the dining room table. It was a “year in review”
issue, and had a mashup of photos of the year’s newsmakers on the cover.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> Austin
eyed me closely; I wore my hair very short then. She pointed at a photo on the
cover and said, “That looks like you.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> It
was Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins. Back when he had hair, of course.
Karen raised her eyebrows and busted out laughing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> “Bu-but
that’s a boy, Austin,” I said, pouting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> She
gave me that winky grin and ran off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;"> “A
very pretty boy, though,” said Karen.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">________________________________________ </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0Oq3Lm3zoFqEBn2UBYhnB-wDJNWZW4KEhY_0oD-N4fKAoARm9ZkhQrIEwYYWPcq32qc31PbO-yG0RNp0lT8_SpWiwpctPQyq2fOFHcYnon2p724qPYnzwJWRd_tncbv2ymRZfeufkGlI/s1600/Beautiful_Karen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0Oq3Lm3zoFqEBn2UBYhnB-wDJNWZW4KEhY_0oD-N4fKAoARm9ZkhQrIEwYYWPcq32qc31PbO-yG0RNp0lT8_SpWiwpctPQyq2fOFHcYnon2p724qPYnzwJWRd_tncbv2ymRZfeufkGlI/s400/Beautiful_Karen.jpg" width="261" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Palatino; font-size: 11pt; line-height: 200%;">I love you and miss you, Karen. You inspire me still. Thanks for everything you gave me, and all of us. You were one swell broad. </span></div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-78574997594327395832012-01-09T11:39:00.000-08:002013-12-11T16:08:00.344-08:00Ribbon Candy<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I’m finally putting Christmas
away, and it’s organization OCD to the max. Since it was our first holiday
season in the new, larger house, I decided we needed more décor items, and now
I have to store them somewhere. Thus the compulsive examination of every item,
old and new, and the clean, color-coded new plastic boxes to put them in.</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Already I have thrown out old
stockings, wasted lights, cardboard containers and some glass ornaments from my
“peach-and-lace only” tree that I had when I was 25. Seriously, peach glass
ornaments that have followed me around for 24 years, and I stopped liking them
about 23 years ago. Curse that old Midwestern thriftiness. “Those are perfectly
good ornaments, you may want to use them someday.” Sheesh.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">The Hallmark ornaments are
tucked away neatly in their individual boxes. I’ve been collecting them since
the early 90s, and now have enough to decorate a tall, narrow fake tree (which
has followed me around for about 14 years now). Each ornament has a special
note saying why I chose it, or which child it was for, or later which child
helped me choose it, which of course I had to read. Again. Not an efficient use of
time. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">This year, I was determined
to come up with a super-Christmassy activity to do with the kids, since they outgrew
the mall Santa long ago. So I took
them to a little candy store in Ontario, California, where they make candy canes
by hand and do demos you can watch. It was a 40-minute drive through Pasadena
traffic at rush hour, but it seemed like a fun thing to do –
“remember that time we watched them make candy canes?” – but the truth is, I
was doing it for <i>me.</i> I had an ulterior motive.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Ribbon candy.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">When I was growing up in
Ohio, we would drive to my dad’s brother’s house in Cleveland for a family holiday gathering. Uncle Ron and Aunt Dot would put folding tables with paper
tablecloths down in the finished basement, as the house filled with the smells of the
coming feast: turkey and gravy, potatoes and pies. We kids watched Christmas shows in the living room and tried to keep our hands off their big Hammond console organ. This was no wimpy 61-key organ. It was practically an orchestra, with rows of keys and buttons for rhythms and drums and horns. No way a kid
could resist. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Sometimes my brother Bob and
I, along with cousins Lee and Rob and Cheri, were allowed to trek through the
snow to the corner store, where we would (honestly, this is how old I am) look
at Archie comics and penny candy. But I never bought any candy because Ron & Dot always had something I treasured: fancy glass dishes full of ribbon
candy, peppermint, cinnamon, cherry and clove. Clove was my favorite. Delicate
swirls of shiny striped deliciousness that, if you let it melt in your mouth,
would turn into candyfloss strings of pulled sugar, like no other candy
in the world.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">When I was about to enter 6<sup>th</sup>
grade, Dad moved us to Orlando, and the Cleveland Christmases ended. Although we moved back to Cincinnati two years later, I don’t remember if
we ever went to Cleveland for Christmas again. It just wasn't the same.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">My dad doesn’t even remember the ribbon candy at his
brother’s house. When I tell people about my passion for the stuff, they
usually look at me like I’d expressed a love for laxatives or anchovies. “I
don’t know,” said my friend Kevin. “It just makes me think of old ladies.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">But my memories of ribbon
candy have stayed with me. It came to represent everything good and glowing
about the holiday season. A couple of years ago, I found
some boxed ribbon candy. I took some home, but it was too thick, and stale, not like the
ribbon candy I remembered. Eventually I came to believe that nobody was even
making it anymore.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">And then, while googling “fun things to do at
Christmas”, I found <a href="http://www.loganscandies.com/index.php" target="_blank">Logan’s Candies</a>, an old-fashioned mom-and-pop candy store
where the goodies were truly handmade. I went to their website and saw the
schedule for candy cane demonstrations. Hmmm, that sounds like fun. And then I
looked up at the site’s menu and couldn’t believe it: <i>they made ribbon candy!
By hand! </i>The photo showed the shiny waves of striped deliciousness from
the glass candy dish in my memory. And the flavors! Watermelon, Sugar Plum,
Cotton Candy, Root Beer, Green Apple, Butterscotch, so many more! Peppermint,
Cinnamon… and last there on the list:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Clove!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">I had to go. <i>Had to</i></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;">. Our first year in the new old house, my kids older and
needing some new traditions with our blended family and lack of grandparents
and Uncle Rons to forge their Christmas memories. Had to go.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">We arrived at our destination in time for the last
demo at 8:30. A crowd jammed into the tiny store to watch Jerry Rowley, the
owner, massage and manipulate a huge blob of warm, white candy. He cracked
jokes while his hands moved deftly to add the color and flavor and stretch it
into long ropes. “As you can see, I cut the candy,” he said, “which makes me the candy <i>cutter</i>.”
He passed the red and white sticks to his daughter, saying “she rolls the candy, which makes
her the candy..." and he paused before saying, <i>"...roller!”</i> The candy was then
passed to his wife, Susi, who formed it into the traditional candy cane shape.
“And my wife, as you can see, bends the candy into <i>hooks,</i> which makes her the candy…" a mischievous pause, then, "... <i>bender!” </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"><i>Ba-dum-bump.</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">As the demo went on, I sidled up to a young lady
working the register. I did not see any of my precious booty anywhere and
feared the worst. “So, um… do you have any ribbon candy left?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Oh yes. We keep it in the back.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">Hooray! “Do you have any clove?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“No, I’m sorry, just peppermint and cinnamon. I think
she only does the clove in the fall. Do you want to get some anyway?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">She boxed up two long pieces of each flavor and I got
a handmade candy cane for everyone in the family. The kids were ready to go,
having snagged some free samples. But before leaving the warmth of the store, I
opened the box to look, and there it was. Handmade, fragile, glossy: just like
I remembered. And I got tears in my eyes. I really did. Claire, my youngest, asked if
I was okay.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">“Yes honey, I’m fine. Let’s go home.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11pt;">The ribbon candy lasted through the holidays. I would
look at it in its little dish, then break off a swirl, so delicate it would
shatter at the ends, and let it dissolve slowly on my tongue, as I drifted back
to a living room in Cleveland where I begged Aunt Dot to let me play the organ.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvkHjJN3nNvBXza8FcQR_zDnStCZRV30uGZc3aW-qeUftFY8pXNQhSmLUfDKn5umNUABx1NgyTBoYjv2PCg_UiYTYKYHCkEAiLzoubiTAMBLnk-2XTEkOs8UPedUuqy9tzlp8esMq3vGK/s1600/IMG_4501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvkHjJN3nNvBXza8FcQR_zDnStCZRV30uGZc3aW-qeUftFY8pXNQhSmLUfDKn5umNUABx1NgyTBoYjv2PCg_UiYTYKYHCkEAiLzoubiTAMBLnk-2XTEkOs8UPedUuqy9tzlp8esMq3vGK/s320/IMG_4501.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<i>Post script, December 2013: last year (2012) I ordered a whole pound of ribbon candy - including my beloved clove flavor - over the phone, and had it shipped to my house. This year, Dan & I made the drive and I loaded up once again. They were sold out of clove, unfortunately. But I'm starting to get a real thing for cinnamon.</i></div>
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Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-13963564527643456502011-10-21T16:22:00.000-07:002011-10-21T16:22:16.263-07:00Flannery, Michael and Me<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>After 31 years, R.E.M. announced last month that they
were calling it quits. As a small tribute to them, here’s the story of my own
piece of their history.</i></span></div>
<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i> </i></span>
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ2p0N0wuuyKhWQrMEoa9A8rEVVEoe-WG3ErVpPzAn5iWPxv_U1erDoPM7QRxHgu4ZWeIz6aXfBJhRorg7SwMJCY-K4dN548bCm9ZpCXiwDheS99-gVYfiAKRmdPJRQ5gmMudyfZeJ6o2M/s1600/902REM1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ2p0N0wuuyKhWQrMEoa9A8rEVVEoe-WG3ErVpPzAn5iWPxv_U1erDoPM7QRxHgu4ZWeIz6aXfBJhRorg7SwMJCY-K4dN548bCm9ZpCXiwDheS99-gVYfiAKRmdPJRQ5gmMudyfZeJ6o2M/s1600/902REM1.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">R.E.M. circa 1983: Peter Buck, Michael Stipe, Bill Berry, Mike Mills</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">In April 1983, I was a junior at Ohio University in
Athens, Ohio. We had an independent radio station that was only available
through cable connections in the dorms, so it was called ACRN for All Campus
Radio Network. This confused a lot of people, since the call letters didn’t
start with a W like every other radio station east of the Mississippi.
Nevertheless, ACRN was College Radio just as College Radio was becoming a
category, and I was the co-music director that year. Among my duties was
contacting record companies about upcoming artists.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">One of my contacts was a real hip girl, Karen Glauber, the college rep for I.R.S. Records. In 1983, the label had a lot of cred because they handled super-cool early
MTV artists like Wall of Voodoo, the English Beat and the Go-Gos. They had recently</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> signed this obscure group of guys from Athens, Georgia, called R.E.M. </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">The band had just released their
first LP, <i>Murmur, </i>and they were touring to promote it, opening for the English Beat.
Karen was very hyped on them.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“There’s this new band,” she told me on the phone, “and
they’re going to be huge. They’re playing at Bogart’s.” (The coolest
club at the University of Cincinnati.) “Do you want to do an interview?”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I had never heard of them but I said yes anyway. Are
you kidding? A chance to see the English Beat live? I dug up a copy of R.E.M.'s EP, <i>Chronic
Town</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">, and had a
listen. Their sound was like nothing I’d ever heard, jangly and full of echo,
the lead vocals hypnotic but completely unintelligible. My boyfriend Mark, a
budding guitarist, agreed to tag along and we made the three hour drive to
my hometown of Cincinnati.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Karen was waiting for me outside the club. A petite brunette from Oberlin College (“where all the free thinkers go,”
my mother had told me), she possessed great enthusiasm and a laserlike focus on her future career in the
record industry. We went backstage to meet the band, passing Ranking Roger, one
of the Beat’s frontmen, in the hallway. <i>Ranking Roger!</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> I just about fell over.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">So the guys were sitting around and I was introduced to
Michael Stipe, who would be doing the interview. I had a crummy cassette
recorder and we moved to a stairway to talk, as the English Beat were doing their sound
check behind us. Really loud.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I was totally winging it. I asked some stock questions, <i>how
did you meet, what’s it like touring with the Beat, </i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">and so on. We had a laugh about
both of us being in college towns called Athens. And as we talked, I became
more and more fascinated with Stipe: his drawly voice, his droopy sky-blue
eyes, his pillowy lips. His face was marred with pock-marks, but the
golden curls that framed his face made up for that. To me, he looked like a
sullen angel. I was smitten.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">More stock questions. I imagined that he had already been
interviewed by every goofball college radio music director in the east, and
answered every boring question a hundred times, but I kept going.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">“So, what are some of your musical influences?” I asked. <i>Genius.</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">In his deep monotone he replied, “Ummm, I dunno.
Furniture?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Right. <i>Furniture.</i> Not going well here. I wanted to ask <i>what
kind of furniture?</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">
because I was so enchanted and yet utterly flummoxed, but mercifully he
continued. He listed a couple of musicians (I don’t remember) and then he
threw in the name “Flannery O’Connor.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><i>This is out of control. I've gotta bail.</i><i> I don’t
know who Flannery O’Connor is. </i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">A country musician? A relative of Sinead O’Connor? I
nodded and thanked him and wrapped up the interview.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Of course I had read Flannery O’Connor’s short story “A
Good Man Is Hard To Find” in high school, but that was so long ago, who could
remember that? We went backstage <i>(oh my god, that’s Dave Wakeling!)</i></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> where Peter Buck talked about
guitars with my boyfriend and we chatted until it was time to start the show.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Mark and I stood up front and I watched, mesmerized, as
my new crush sang his garbled lyrics and the band played raucous and determined
behind him. It was, for lack of an adequate superlative, an incredible show. And
then I got to see the English Beat. But to be honest, I don’t remember a thing
about their show. R.E.M. had won me over.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Later, on the phone with Karen, I raved about the band
and told her that, unfortunately, my interview was going to be a challenge to
edit because of the thudding sound check in the background. “But wow, that
Michael Stipe… he’s <i>gorgeous,</i>” I said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhon1QHHdSazGLXzgZvsfFJBjV4xnBNLOiL0jGlIMINRJUPiZvBhNWZDZarSiixoiqbhRuRcR6lwcsKOu9836xt2l0Of93jr2wZGroQ9keVqGBIz8rToFulvkD4f5IO0sZJ-nFpcE5iwQuP/s1600/michael_stipe1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhon1QHHdSazGLXzgZvsfFJBjV4xnBNLOiL0jGlIMINRJUPiZvBhNWZDZarSiixoiqbhRuRcR6lwcsKOu9836xt2l0Of93jr2wZGroQ9keVqGBIz8rToFulvkD4f5IO0sZJ-nFpcE5iwQuP/s200/michael_stipe1.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i>My lovely Stipe</i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">And that’s when she told me gently that I, as a female,
didn’t stand a chance with him.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">The following year </span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">R.E.M.</span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> headlined their own tour, as <i>Murmur</i> had taken off in college radio land. I had managed to put together a
decent story to broadcast on ACRN, so I allowed myself a granule of credit for
their success. Thanks to Karen, I went backstage again and hung out, no
interviews, no pressure. I was a huge fan by then and felt more comfortable,
not to mention lucky, being there. Mike Mills, the bass player, was especially friendly. When they went onstage I knew all the words.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Since the interview, I had read
everything I could get my hands on by the esteemed Southern writer Flannery O’Connor. But sadly, I never got
another chance to talk literature with Michael Stipe.</span></div>
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<br /></div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-74492324822504520492011-09-11T09:30:00.000-07:002011-09-11T09:30:09.622-07:00Ten Years AfterOn that sunny morning, life was lovely. My husband drove our beautiful 4-year-old son to his preschool on the way to work, and I stayed home with our baby girl. She had celebrated her first birthday just 5 days before. I took a load of laundry out of the dryer and brought it to the living room, where Emma played with her toys and I folded baby clothes as the Today Show hummed along in the background.<br />
<br />
We were so happy then, at 8:45 a.m. on September 11, 2001 in Orlando, Florida; we were so blessed, so in love, the future looked so bright.<br />
<br />
I don't want to think about what happened after 8:46 that morning. I don't want to remember seeing it happen on live television. I don't want to remember going to pick Charlie up at the JCC Preschool, because they were evacuating the entire JCC, because, well, you know: <i>Jewish</i> Community Center. Or how they thought Disney World could be a target next, and they closed everything, and so Alex came home from work.<br />
<br />I don't want to remember, because when I do, I get that feeling in my gut again, a feeling I had never experienced until that day, a feeling I just can't put a name to. It was horror, uncertainty, fear, anger, dread and disbelief all wrapped in the most crushing sadness, like acid in my belly, denying me my breath. Most of the day I don't remember, moving through the chores and routines, holding onto my children, both mercifully too young to understand what had happened. That night, though, after they were asleep, I went out driving alone, just me and the unbearable feeling in my gut. I ended up at my parents' church with other people who, like me, didn't know what else to do. And it didn't matter that I wasn't religious. It was all I could do.<br />
<br />
Now it is ten years later. All over the media there are remembrances, tributes and tales. Americans will fly flags and say "never forget" – as if that were even possible – and this is how I feel:<br />
<br />
I want none of it.<br />
<br />
Because I'm not <i>just</i> an American. I am a member of the human race. And that day, a great hole was torn through the cosmic fabric that holds us together, the result of a willful act of hatred by one group of humans against another. A gash rimmed with blood, full of the screams of the dead and the wounded and their families and, truly, every one of us. All of humanity was changed – not just Americans – deeply and forever, when hatred drove those planes into the towers.<br />
<br />
When I look back over the last ten years, I know that we, as humans, have failed miserably at mending that hole. If anything, it has grown larger, more ragged and bloody. The hatred has oozed into our media, our politics, our religion. We have gone backwards.<br />
<br />
So on this anniversary -- a word I hesitate to use, because it should celebrate happy events, not this -- on this day, I don't want to watch the remembrances, the tributes, the tales. I do not want to replay the images in my mind. Because everything changed forever that day. We lost our innocence. It sent my husband, a former New Yorker, into a depression that lasted years. The acid ate away at me, at my self-confidence and faith in the future. Ultimately, our marriage did not survive. That is hard enough to accept, much less reliving the catalyst for it all.<br />
<br />
Ten years later, I will sit on my back porch and close my eyes and try not to remember, because that acid in my gut is still a feeling I don't know what to do with. But I know I'll fail, and I know I'll cry, because what I will remember is how things were at 8:45 that day, when I sat on the couch folding onesies, and my baby girl stacked her toy blocks and squealed with pure, simple happiness. And I'll pray, such as I do, that someday the hole can be mended and the healing will actually start.<br />
<br />Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-18891257297144679992011-09-03T10:00:00.000-07:002011-09-03T10:12:48.268-07:00No Less than the Trees and Stars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWT31cW05pWO7kXZyi4Qm6zGeXkskBF7a_c5srujoE71o3QA9RNUuLqPQujP9453TOutjjlRvT8736-I0qbKRrlKhpqg-RWyB0DG5yB8MvTk4sehnQp4y033o-j5Uk4s0rcH3S_YiniVkR/s1600/IMG_4043.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWT31cW05pWO7kXZyi4Qm6zGeXkskBF7a_c5srujoE71o3QA9RNUuLqPQujP9453TOutjjlRvT8736-I0qbKRrlKhpqg-RWyB0DG5yB8MvTk4sehnQp4y033o-j5Uk4s0rcH3S_YiniVkR/s320/IMG_4043.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I've had this copy of the Desiderata for about thirty years. That's my best guess. I think I got it in high school, or early on in my college career at Ohio University. It's just a photocopy, and it's littered with thumbtack holes and coffee stains; recently I put it in a frame to keep it protected. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The word "Desiderata" is the plural of the Latin word "desideratum", which means "desired thing". It's a common myth that it was written in the 1600s. I believed that for years. After all, my copy says "Old Saint Paul's Church, Baltimore A.D. 1692". In truth, the poem was written in the 1920s by an American poet named Max Ehrmann (who, like many of my favorite people, was from Indiana). Here's a summary of its confusing history (courtesy of fleurdelis.com):</span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Around 1959, the Rev. Frederick Kates, the rector of St. Paul's Church in Baltimore, Maryland, used the poem in a collection of devotional materials he compiled for his congregation. </i><i>At the top of the handout was the notation, "Old St. Paul's Church, Baltimore A.C. 1692." The church was founded in 1692. </i></span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>As the material was handed from one friend to another, the authorship became clouded. Copies with the "Old St. Paul's Church" notation were printed and distributed liberally in the years that followed. It is perhaps understandable that a later publisher would interpret this notation as meaning that the poem itself was found in Old St. Paul's Church, dated 1692. This notation no doubt added to the charm and historic appeal of the poem, despite the fact that the actual language in the poem suggests a more modern origin.</i></span><br />
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</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>When Adlai Stevenson died in 1965, a guest in his home found a copy of </i><i>Desiderata near his bedside and discovered that Stevenson had planned to use it in his Christmas cards. The publicity that followed gave widespread fame to the poem as well as the mistaken relationship to St. Paul's Church. </i></span></blockquote></blockquote><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The flower children in San Francisco revived it as part of the peace and love movement. Those of my generation may remember the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2yNJaKF9sXA">spoken word recording</a> by Les Crane, which reached #8 on the Billboard charts in 1971. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">For me, the sentiment behind the poem articulates the way I wish to live my life. It features concepts that align with all major religious doctrines. So I felt like sharing with you, dear readers. Feel free to leave your thoughts in the comment section... which lines resonate with you?</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Go placidly amid the noise and haste,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">and remember what peace there may be in silence.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">As far as possible without surrender</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">be on good terms with all persons.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Speak your truth quietly and clearly;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">and listen to others,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">even the dull and the ignorant;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">they too have their story.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Avoid loud and aggressive persons,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">they are vexations to the spirit.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">If you compare yourself with others,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">you may become vain or bitter;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Keep interested in your own career, however humble;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Exercise caution in your business affairs;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">for the world is full of trickery.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">many persons strive for high ideals;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">and everywhere life is full of heroism.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Be yourself.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Especially, do not feign affection.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Neither be cynical about love;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">it is as perennial as the grass.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Take kindly the counsel of the years,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">gracefully surrendering the things of youth.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Beyond a wholesome discipline,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">be gentle with yourself.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">You are a child of the universe,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">no less than the trees and the stars;</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">you have a right to be here.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">And whether or not it is clear to you,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Therefore be at peace with God,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">whatever you conceive Him to be,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">and whatever your labors and aspirations,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">it is still a beautiful world.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Be careful.</span></i></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Strive to be happy.</span></i></div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-35527703592163982922011-03-28T09:28:00.000-07:002011-03-28T09:28:14.601-07:00Cheryl's Cake<i>(or, The Further Misadventures of a Martha Stewart Wannabe)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
My friend Cheryl, from my writing group, asked me to make her a cake for her birthday. Baking is a sort of zen practice for me, and Cheryl, who is a super-zen qigong kinda gal, appreciates this fact. So I started looking up some recipes and found a German Chocolate cake that used white chocolate. Hmm, Cheryl likes coconut, let’s do that one. I decided to make the frosting from scratch as well, I like a challenge. I shopped Friday morning and planned to bake the next day. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So at 4:30 on Saturday I’ve got the kitchen cleaned up and ready to go. The kids are occupied, Dan’s in the bedroom reading, and I start taking out my ingredients. Toast the pecans. Separate the yolks from the whites. Vanilla, sugar, baking powder.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Baking powder. Where is the baking powder?</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Come on, everybody has baking powder, it’s a pantry staple. I just had baking powder, I just saw it. I take everything out of the cupboards, I tear apart the spice cabinet. No baking powder. Oh, and now that I’m looking: no coconut, either. Didn’t I have all that coconut left over from Christmas? Can’t really make German Chocolate cake without coconut! Grumbling, I grab my purse and head to Von’s. Extra butter and eggs, just in case, too. Oh and while you’re out, honey, why don’t you pick up some salad stuff and some chicken, I’ll grill us some dinner, says Dan. <i>Fine.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So now it’s 5:15 and Dan is going to want the kitchen at 6. No problem, I say. I’ll have it in the oven by then. But I’m a little agitated so I think, okay, this is for zen Cheryl, what would she do? Light some candles, take some cleansing breaths. So I light a few tealights and invite in the good cooking energy. Maybe a little glass of wine. Ahh, that’s better.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Everything’s measured out and ready to go. Time to get the pans ready. I bought two new 9-inch cake pans especially for this cake, because it’s supposed to be a triple-layer, and I just have the one Wilton cake pan. Okay, here are the new ones. Here’s the Wilton pan… <i>oh shit.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> No way. The Wilton pan is… </span><i>8 inches.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t have two 9-inch layers and one that’s 8! Crap. Another trip to Von’s, where I got the other two. I can’t stand it.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Dan? Honey?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I can’t believe he says he’ll go. He’s not real excited about it, but I think he can tell I’m frazzled, so I give him the cardboard insert from the one of the new pans and say, <i>just get me one of these. They’re next to the syrup.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I start the batter while he’s out. My trusty KitchenAid mixer (“Emeril green”) takes care of whipping the butter and sugar and I glance over at my candles. The tealights on the windowsill are a little close to the fringed red plaid curtain, so I pick them up to move them to the other side of the sill, pushing the curtain away, and by the time I have set the tealights back down a huge flame is shooting up from the red plaid fringe and halfway up the (apparently highly flammable) curtain. <i>It was that fast.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Holy shit!</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I rip the curtain down and throw it in the sink, dousing it with the sprayer. Smoke has already started to rise up to the ceiling, so I grab a cookie sheet to fan it away from the smoke detector. Luckily, I had never replaced the battery since the last time when I set a potholder on fire.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Jesus, I need more wine. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Okay, okay, back to the batter. Oh, here’s Dan. He doesn’t smell any smoke or notice that the curtain is gone. Good. Grease and flour the pans. Crisco. Of course I don’t have fucking Crisco, are you kidding me? Margarine. Margarine and flour the cake pans. Dear God please let that work. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Did you know that if you try to melt white chocolate chips on 100% power they don’t melt, they cook into a hard crusty glob? I didn’t. Let’s try that again on 50% power, <i>like it says on the instructions. Dummy.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Somehow I get the batter done, folding in four-egg-whites-beaten-until-stiff-peaks-form, and divide it among my three perfectly matched 9-inch pans: into the oven they go. Dan the grill master gets everyone fed, and I do not check my cakes until the timer goes off. Immediately I can see that they were in 5 minutes too long: the edges are too dark. The margarine probably didn’t help there, either. All that work and I overcook them. Oh well, nothing I can do now <i>(deep cleansing breaths);</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> let’s get to work on that icing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I haven’t made a stovetop caramel-type frosting for years. As I get my ingredients (which, mercifully, I <i>do</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> have) ready, I think to myself </span><i>don’t fuck this up, you’ve only got one can of evaporated milk</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> and I think another trip to Von’s would push me right over the edge into Joan Crawford territory. </span><i>No more burnt frosting! Ever!</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At 8:45, I start stirring the evaporated milk, brown sugar, egg yolks, butter and vanilla over low heat, constantly like it says on the recipe. Mmm, smells yummy. At 9:00 I am still stirring and looking at this lovely caramelly liquid and wondering if it’s ever going to get thick. The recipe says <i>stir constantly until thick. </i>What’s thick mean, anyway? Like pudding? I mean, thick, come on, that’s pretty vague. I know from experience that too long on the heat will mean a burnt flavor, and not enough will mean a runny congealed mess. After 20 minutes of stirring I think it’s thick and add the pecans. Almost immediately I know I got it right and confidently add the coconut. <i>Whew.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The next morning, day of the writing group, I tenderly spatula the perfect frosting onto the slightly overdone layers while Dan and I have an argument about some stupid thing, dishes in the sink or potholders too close to the flame on the gas burner, whatever. Ugh, now my cake has that bad energy in it, too, as if Von’s frequent flier miles, burnt edges and an incinerated window curtain weren’t enough. I wish I had made a double batch of the frosting to sweeten up the karma. Also because I know it’s pretty good and I have no idea what the cake itself will taste like. I pack up my creation and head to Cheryl’s, 40 minutes away on the west side.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I know you’re probably expecting me to tell you there was a car crash and my cake went splat against the windshield, or I dropped it in the driveway, or there was a sudden downpour and it was <i>melting in the dark, all the sweet coconut icing flowing down; I don’t think that I can take it, ‘cause it took so long to bake it...</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> no, I made it inside and at lunch I poked it with fluorescent candles (yay! I remembered the candles!) and we sang happy birthday to Cheryl. And it was pretty good. A teeny bit dry, if you ask me, and not nearly enough caramel deliciousness on top. But everyone seemed to like it just fine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So it seems Martha’s place at the top is in no way threatened by my latest foray into baking, and I think I may take up qigong as my zen practice for a little while. On the bright side, now I get to go shopping for a new curtain. Flame resistant of course.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLkTllz477FyshuK_kGV98ff6qNgXxkON8vN-pcnFhk_41iL1wCUOY82VVYsDkYjnBZBOgZHTLdZ-HFoNEZVLhLYiIyHHR7xT-3nSlvUfTFJ31peqIoUjbGwgNhH6Z9yTp4Ao8JZO5viW/s1600/IMG_3875.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDLkTllz477FyshuK_kGV98ff6qNgXxkON8vN-pcnFhk_41iL1wCUOY82VVYsDkYjnBZBOgZHTLdZ-HFoNEZVLhLYiIyHHR7xT-3nSlvUfTFJ31peqIoUjbGwgNhH6Z9yTp4Ao8JZO5viW/s320/IMG_3875.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yummm. Breakfast.</td></tr>
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</div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-90382901080930235102011-01-03T16:33:00.000-08:002011-01-03T16:33:35.841-08:00R.E.M. (Reality in Every Mirror)<div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sometimes these things just pop into my head and I've gotta get 'em out right away. I don't think it requires a whole lot of explanation. p.s. Hope you like the new blog layout for the new year!</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(Sung to the tune of "Losing My Religion")</i></span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Oh, life is shorter</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">it's shorter than I</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">would like to think of</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">the lengths that I will go to</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">the wrinkles 'round my eyes</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">oh no, I've frowned too much</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I need botox</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">That's me in the mirror</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">that's me looking so tired</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">losing all my eyebrows</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">trying to pencil them in</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and I don't know why they all fell out</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">oh no they won't grow back</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I look like hell</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think it's because of thyroid</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think it's pre-menopause</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I think I thought I'd never age</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every wrinkle</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">every crease on my face I'm</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">slathering with lotions</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">trying to keep them from view</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">like those airbrushed and perfect girls</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">in all those Olay ads</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I bought it up</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Consider this... consider this:</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">approaching half-century</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Consider this pic:</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I look just like my mother, frail</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">how could my neck look like that</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">crepe all around</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">and now I look like hell</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I thought that I'd never grow old</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I thought that I'd beat the odds</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'd look like twenty-six for life</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">But that was just a dream</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">that was just a dream</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">just a dream...</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Js4jDhO-v-zn90OsSllCSKAjSZfdIAIZCOiZGq1p1gOnIXhzL_8xtTm4jReyS-5UzdPKN6Wz1nM5Ox-IpyXDCdw3fmle5vBK9HbN67DdNx7on7Uvvfr0WwAVf9WDYIWTUwBJKb84r321/s1600/michael-stipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Js4jDhO-v-zn90OsSllCSKAjSZfdIAIZCOiZGq1p1gOnIXhzL_8xtTm4jReyS-5UzdPKN6Wz1nM5Ox-IpyXDCdw3fmle5vBK9HbN67DdNx7on7Uvvfr0WwAVf9WDYIWTUwBJKb84r321/s320/michael-stipe.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Oh well... at least I've still got my hair.</i></td></tr>
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</span></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"></div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"> </div><div style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-3520271133291805242010-12-21T23:29:00.000-08:002011-01-03T16:02:20.317-08:00Dog Show, Part 2: Not What I Expected<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="color: #783f04; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Gqa7qA4L9BbgZME3nYZlh-peDUb_XjfKZTrRKD2d6oB4_PJSYwQRqnCQj6CcQitaXo0lVm14zeI5cxz9MJdRLUSnBpYSy9s5dhaN3VuO5T6JwwYpZXA4jUckr23VtYTAeZtKgIyJGGlP/s1600/IMG_3405.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5Gqa7qA4L9BbgZME3nYZlh-peDUb_XjfKZTrRKD2d6oB4_PJSYwQRqnCQj6CcQitaXo0lVm14zeI5cxz9MJdRLUSnBpYSy9s5dhaN3VuO5T6JwwYpZXA4jUckr23VtYTAeZtKgIyJGGlP/s320/IMG_3405.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="color: #134f5c;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>This is the back end of an English Sheepdog on the way to the ring.</i></td></tr>
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</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;"> Being at a dog show is not all that different from watching one on TV or watching “Best of Show”. Except that it’s real. Seriously: there are the giant puffy English Sheepdogs parading to the show ring. There are the severe women in suits and flats holding dog treats in their mouths. There are Border Collies running agility right in front of you. I don’t know, maybe I didn’t really believe dogs could do all that weaving and jumping, like it was CGI or something. In person it’s unbelievable, but you know it’s not a digital effect.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> There were vendor booths set up around the perimeter of the place, hawking goods that only crazy dog people would buy. When I saw an exercise ball for dogs I knew I was in another world. “It can be used by our four-legged friends for core strengthening, increased range of motion and flexibility, neuromuscular facilitation, sensory and perceptual stimulation, joint alignment, and balance control.” I shit you not.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Doggy treadmills, for those days you just can’t drag yourself outside. Handcrafted sterling silver jewelry: what self-respecting breeder could resist a giant brooch showing two Great Danes in profile? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “We’ve been specializing in Danes for over forty years,” the jewelry guy told me. Awesome.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Huge tapestries of YOUR BREED HERE only 250 dollars. Or maybe a purse with YOUR BREED on it. Grooming tools: coat rakes, clippers, $200 shears. Sanitary pads for your “bitch in heat”: look it up, it’s a serious term. Dog people throw the word “bitch” around no problem, like nobody uses the word to describe anything other than a female dog ready for breeding.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Dan and I said goodbye to our Cardigan breeder friend and wandered over to the booth for the Cardigan Welsh Corgis. Every breed had a booth, and on Sunday morning there were dogs at every one. The Best in Group judging was taking place a little later and the crowds were thickening.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> At the Cardi booth, the three ladies volunteering there had four beautiful dogs (okay, maybe some were bitches, but I wasn’t going there) and lots of admirers. Cardis are the kind of dogs that make people go “Awwwww, look how cute!” So I was busy being one of those people while Dan started chatting with one of the ladies. He told her about Nathan, and me, and how much I love the breed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Here’s my Nathan,” I said, pulling some photos out of my bag.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> She clucked over him (“such a beautiful brindle boy!”) and said she was sorry, they are never with us long enough.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “I’m Sherilyn,” she said. “I’m the head of the Cardigan Rescue here in California. You know, we have a beautiful 2-year-old boy who needs a home…”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> She pointed to a photo of a tri-colored dog with a wistful face and great big ears. The caption underneath said “Bowie 2 years Good w/other dogs”.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Dan heard the word “rescue” and his face lit up. Sherilyn had her prey in her sights. The fish was on the hook. Time to reel him in.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “We found him up in Atascadero, running around with an old black lab. No tags, no microchip. And he’s still got his dewclaws. Most breeders remove those early on, so we didn’t think he was from anybody we know. Nobody claimed him.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Dan nodded excitedly and I scowled at him. Too late. Hook in mouth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “He’s a wonderful dog,” she continued. “So sweet. He’s with a foster family up in Lompoc now.”</span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PC6F1D9Ibf9i39MdTkdqZqyN-1flnSKLF1R4uzrmTqGHoZ1xekbyah3UEZdioRWlM4QV_aYhPCqyUhN3wHbSSy0id3XN5Ho8tzkNIX0d_YXoQxYwTJw2X_UeierdvRNQydx_zMC9-Q7e/s1600/IMG_3416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6PC6F1D9Ibf9i39MdTkdqZqyN-1flnSKLF1R4uzrmTqGHoZ1xekbyah3UEZdioRWlM4QV_aYhPCqyUhN3wHbSSy0id3XN5Ho8tzkNIX0d_YXoQxYwTJw2X_UeierdvRNQydx_zMC9-Q7e/s320/IMG_3416.JPG" width="320" /></a></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> By now Dan was holding the picture. “Is he good with kids?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I started to hiss at him under my breath. “Don’t do this. Don’t.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Oh, he loves kids. And he’s great with other dogs. He really needs to be with a family with kids.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “We’ve got three! And a little dog who’s been very lonely since Nathan died.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Sherilyn reached for a clipboard with a xeroxed form on it. It was the application to adopt. She handed it to Dan.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “Hold on there, cowboy.” I placed myself between the two of them. (“Excuse me just a moment, will you please?” I murmured politely over my shoulder to Sherilyn.)</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “What?” Mr. Wide-Eyed-Innocent-It’s Just-A-Piece-Of-Paper asked.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “IT”S TOO SOON!” I said. “It’s only been a month. It’s too soon.” And besides, I have my heart set on a puppy, I didn’t say. Puppy puppy puppy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Sherilyn piped up behind me, driving the sale home. “I’m telling you, Bowie is a special boy. Probably the sweetest dog I’ve ever rescued. A real lover.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> I squinched my face at Dan and whispered, “Don’t do this. Do not. I hate you for doing this.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> But I was outnumbered.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He’s already housebroken, they said.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He’s neutered, chipped and has all his shots.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He’s socialized to kids and other dogs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Yes, he’s a beauty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Yes, he’s definitely a purebred Cardigan.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Yes, he’s a fantastic dog, but Melissa (the foster mom) already has three Corgis and a female she wants to breed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Also, the adoption fee is about one-third the cost of a new puppy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> No training. No pee and poop in the house. No frayed nerves over hyper Claire being too crazy with a little pup. No AKC fees.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Plus – and this is big –</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He’s a rescue.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Dan is all about rescue dogs, and I’m all about Cardigans.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> We both get what we want.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> The next weekend we brought him home. He was perfect, even his name. We’d been talking about a rock star name for the next dog: Joe Strummer, maybe, or Chrissie Hynde if it was a girl. Charlie lit up when we told him it was Bowie. He loves Ziggy Stardust.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> In about 15 minutes he owned the place and won Clementine over. The kids didn’t faze him at all. He has a look in his eyes that’s part wisdom and part mischief, and when they got to be too much he just walked away. Smart. Except when it came to using the dog door; that mystified him. <i>How does that other dog walk through that wall? I don’t get it. </i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> That night, I put his bed on the floor next to ours. “Here ya go, Bo,” I said, patting the cushy part. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He looked at me, tilted his head, and then somehow with his stubby Corgi legs he leapt up onto our bed and curled up next to Dan.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> “No, no,” I said. A dog in the bed? Never. No way. That’s why we had a tall bed anyway. Plus Dan hated it when the cat (rest her soul) had slept up there. (“There’s <i>cat hair</i></span><span style="font-size: small;"> on my <i>pillow!”</i></span><span style="font-size: small;">) I picked Bowie up and set him on the floor.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> Pulling a sleeping bag over to the side of the bed, I said, “Here you go. I’ll sleep with you down here tonight.” I patted the pillows. "Come on, Bo!"</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> He looked at me, tilted his head, and then used my reclining body as a step to jump back up on the bed. This time, he turned around and peered at me down on the floor, his tongue hanging out, smiling. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #134f5c; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"> And now we need a bigger bed. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="color: #783f04; font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGCKnzATPuHa5GyZ-MkvI4p5n0y4r4g-ANRbAinCbDcsMen2LNnlUR9G-CIqZOGSoeyoh1JD-LnPKQw7H7HYntl7WVGkPm5Sr5AFqWdr6Dqu0MDXxrQl3tTKc3QlnOJM0G_9hWsjA-jqq/s1600/IMG_3462.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXGCKnzATPuHa5GyZ-MkvI4p5n0y4r4g-ANRbAinCbDcsMen2LNnlUR9G-CIqZOGSoeyoh1JD-LnPKQw7H7HYntl7WVGkPm5Sr5AFqWdr6Dqu0MDXxrQl3tTKc3QlnOJM0G_9hWsjA-jqq/s320/IMG_3462.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Bowie cuddles with the Dogwalker-In-Chief.</i></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugi3480NY4fAeLBpROwEkUcEJRF6HXm6x4MiD1z4dR9owP8dF5kSF8nl6j6feRsBkVUqiJPgCiJ1mMrdK8WGwvtUc2AF6LgTrGdTdJsgZ5rFfUXuqSjyf3c04qFh6PIlAQ_YiOir1zd2o/s1600/IMG_3448.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjugi3480NY4fAeLBpROwEkUcEJRF6HXm6x4MiD1z4dR9owP8dF5kSF8nl6j6feRsBkVUqiJPgCiJ1mMrdK8WGwvtUc2AF6LgTrGdTdJsgZ5rFfUXuqSjyf3c04qFh6PIlAQ_YiOir1zd2o/s320/IMG_3448.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr style="color: #0c343d; font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Merry Christmas, Lady! Where's my cookie?"</i></td></tr>
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</span></div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-84026911467667025182010-12-11T13:03:00.000-08:002010-12-11T13:03:55.446-08:00Dog Show!<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhj99h9BKg1eAZ3niSqPEYVj-DBw2reIZaAFRbMDQjDSEYtLAHf-hjUh5LFvpUVxi1OEKIfm_ENgGPeQQ1nilqJzcc_t9B1Y_bcvWLOtLJmrviff9tE3NsTtw6L3OFiMM2FL7Z3wDwmdPh/s1600/IMG_3381.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhj99h9BKg1eAZ3niSqPEYVj-DBw2reIZaAFRbMDQjDSEYtLAHf-hjUh5LFvpUVxi1OEKIfm_ENgGPeQQ1nilqJzcc_t9B1Y_bcvWLOtLJmrviff9tE3NsTtw6L3OFiMM2FL7Z3wDwmdPh/s200/IMG_3381.JPG" width="150" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Yep, I love dogs.</i></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I love dogs.</span></span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span> </span></span> </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Like a lot of dog lovin’ people, I knew that I was gonna need another second dog after Nathan died. Little dog Clementine became even more neurotic in the days after his (as she undoubtedly saw it) disappearance. She started out at our house with both a cat and a dog for companionship. The cat died in August ’08, and now her dog buddy was gone. So she’s been shaking a lot more, and unfortunately her nervous peeing has increased. She needs a friend.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I especially love Cardigan Welsh Corgis.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Nathan was a purebred. Clem is a rescue mutt; Dan has a thing about rescue dogs. I’m all for it too, but I’m sorry, I’m going to need a Cardi in my life forever. Which is okay. Because I don’t ever want to have fewer than two dogs. Three would be great but we’ll need a bigger house. Oh yeah and I want a couple of cats, too.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>But I digress.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I started looking for Cardi breeders out here in Southern California. Going through the CWCCA (figure it out), I found a few. Most of them did not have websites, so I clicked on the two that did. One of them had a pretty nice site, including a page for an upcoming litter. There I saw that she had posted the pedigree (the record of the dog’s bloodline) of the parents (the technical terms being “sire” and “dam”).</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I couldn’t believe what I saw. The sire’s pedigree went back to Nathan’s bloodline. In fact, one of Nathan’s littermates was in there if you went back far enough.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>Now what are the odds of that? Really?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I contacted the breeder and told her the whole story. We went back and forth a bit, trying to set up a visit. She lives in Ventura, not too far away. But we couldn’t get our dates right. We wanted to come up on Sunday, December 5<sup>th</sup>, because it was a day the kids were with their dad, and I didn’t have my writing group, so Dan and I had the whole day to ourselves. (It happens occasionally.) But the breeder told me that she was showing a friend’s Cardi in the Eukanuba Dog Show in Long Beach that day.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>For those of you unfamiliar with the wacky world of dog shows, the Eukanuba is pretty much the second biggest show in the U.S. after Westminster. Unlike Westminster, which is always at Madison Square Garden, its location changes each year. (Next year it’s in Orlando.)</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>So this huge dog show just happens to be in Southern California on the one day we have free, when we’re looking for a breeder, and it’s the day the Cardigans are being judged. Again, what are the odds?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I would like to attribute all this to an angel doggy in heaven who’s helping me move on. I really don’t know. But it’s a nice thought.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I’ve wanted to go to a dog show ever since I fell for the breed almost 15 years ago. Dan could see how excited I was; so, being a good sport, he got us to Long Beach that Sunday in plenty of time to see the little Cardis in the show ring.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span>I expected to have a great time, and I did. But I was not prepared for what happened that day. Stay tuned… I’ll tell you the rest of the story on Sunday.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 6pt;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9z9InjcULq7I3yW2sSWEgo0LcLaFj4DviAV4sysMEMhk5vWzjx5LkXektFwHfD3cj-Q21InkKCkr4FlXYS_NECfNKl5fCmsYVaOF4rALUsAb0qdNuYR5TDKZJWUdYUwRRB7KktcVTgNW/s1600/Cardigans+on+parade.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm9z9InjcULq7I3yW2sSWEgo0LcLaFj4DviAV4sysMEMhk5vWzjx5LkXektFwHfD3cj-Q21InkKCkr4FlXYS_NECfNKl5fCmsYVaOF4rALUsAb0qdNuYR5TDKZJWUdYUwRRB7KktcVTgNW/s320/Cardigans+on+parade.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"The corgi with a tail" - Cardigans on parade!</i></td></tr>
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</div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-16364283479884361502010-12-06T09:44:00.000-08:002010-12-09T11:33:25.539-08:00Don't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened.<div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I'm really glad I wrote the previous entry when I did. Nathan let me know it was time on November 15th, and I was </span><span style="font-size: small;">kissing his sweet head when he drew his last, peaceful doggy breath. Up until the last day, he was smiling and shadowing me, if slowly and with extra effort. In fact, he was like that until the last few hours.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCvpzDtXXh3eZVOl7hUkrZ8MnmIafGfZIO0c7dLGU9a6abZEZxGiBsGTcF6CFuczL-DNmBKkDQau0Qod350oTV20PayYZLu7Ts_EjtJx2mxhGHjJK5jCVuD27EYR9lCYrrovhBUUSISNI/s1600/Good+old+Nathan.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQCvpzDtXXh3eZVOl7hUkrZ8MnmIafGfZIO0c7dLGU9a6abZEZxGiBsGTcF6CFuczL-DNmBKkDQau0Qod350oTV20PayYZLu7Ts_EjtJx2mxhGHjJK5jCVuD27EYR9lCYrrovhBUUSISNI/s200/Good+old+Nathan.JPG" width="175" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Thanks for the good times, old man.</i></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</tbody></table><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The kids were going to their dad's that night, and I let them know Nathan was probably not going to make it. So they were able to say their goodbyes, and I was able to be the grownup and make the decision to help him before he was suffering too much. Outside the vet's office, I sat with him in the car an extra moment, listening to the sublime irony of R.E.M.'s "It's The End Of The World As We Know It" playing on the radio.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">My wonderful vet, Dr. Speas, stayed after office hours for us and Dan and I were both there. Anyone who's had to make that decision knows how sad and painful it is. My friends, I will not revisit that scene, because I have cried enough and I know you did too, when it was your time.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Since he's been gone, there have been a number of very interesting and serendipitous events. I'll be writing about them soon. Stay tuned and thanks to all my readers for your compassion and support. </span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Much love to you all.</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>(title quote by great American philosopher Dr. Seuss.)</i></span></div>Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-479159189498134303.post-74606620065686660952010-11-05T10:37:00.000-07:002014-03-26T21:02:23.574-07:00In Praise of the Old Dog<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA77DLtiQvunk3OJuvZx_df8S3SYVvTQz0FqO86n_M4wTEjLIuECTg4lSr25nCn-Y4TucxypSq8Qd0qB9-Nbml4M9mvsDrP4BAzNu2fnk1ziyZthha_NxEvhGSoISTcwv-LZ6ok_N7sKJ1/s1600/Nathan+smiling.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA77DLtiQvunk3OJuvZx_df8S3SYVvTQz0FqO86n_M4wTEjLIuECTg4lSr25nCn-Y4TucxypSq8Qd0qB9-Nbml4M9mvsDrP4BAzNu2fnk1ziyZthha_NxEvhGSoISTcwv-LZ6ok_N7sKJ1/s320/Nathan+smiling.JPG" height="320" width="252" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Are you kidding me? Who could resist that face?</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Once upon a time, there was a woman who wanted to have a baby. This proved to be a difficult thing, and when the doctors told her they couldn’t figure it out, she said to her husband: </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">“Well, if we can’t have a baby, can we at least get a dog?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So with the same fervor she had once reserved for studying fertility books, she set about researching dog breeds. They wanted a big dog – her husband wanted a Boxer – but they had a small yard. One day, as she pored over her dog books, the little Corgi caught her eye.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">But not the Pembroke Welsh Corgi, the more popular tan-and-white fluffball with no tail, the Queen’s dog of choice. No, she noticed the lesser-known Cardigan Welsh Corgi: larger than the Pembroke, in more colors, and sporting a splendid brush of a tail. Hm, she thought, this is a dog who thinks he is big, but has little stubby legs. Just right for our yard.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">There happened to be a Cardigan breeder in a nearby town, so the man and the woman went out for a visit. As soon as she saw the sweet smiley-faced big-eared dogs, she was in love. And so, not too much later, they found themselves matched up with a little brindle boy of their very own.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">They named him Nathan Junior, after her favorite movie, <i>Raising Arizona.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Nathan Junior is the name of the baby stolen by Hi and Ed when they could not have one of their own. So the name was ripe with meaning. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">They loved their little Nathan Junior. He was sweet and happy and made them laugh. He came with them to parties, and their friends fawned over him, because he just had something special. People had never seen a dog quite like him: a long stout body, but with short legs and big feet, giant bat-ears crowning his head, and that thick sweep of a tail. Nathan was a show-quality dog, brindle-brown with a white ruff and beautiful symmetrical markings on his face. But they didn’t show him; he was their devoted pet.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The woman was very happy with her new companion. And then – when Nathan was just about to graduate from puppy kindergarten – she found out she was pregnant.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Now fast forward 14 years. Nathan has been by her side through not just one but three babies, all of whom he treated with patience and love. Nathan moved with the family to California, where after a time the woman and her husband divorced, and his unfaltering devotion and happy doggy smile helped her and the kids get through it. He was loved, inexplicably and for all her life, by a black cat named Alabama, until she died last August. He now has a vivacious two-year-old rescue mutt named Clementine as his constant companion.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Nathan is old now. He's hard of hearing and has cataracts. He barks a little too loudly, as if to say, “I’m still here… right?” The beautiful symmetrical markings on his face are spotted with grey hairs. The damp, leathery surface of his nose has spots that are hardened and dry. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Recently he has developed a pronounced head-tilt, which the vet says is a sign of neurological damage: maybe a stroke, a tumor, or just old age. He looks at the woman with his head cocked to almost 90 degrees. Sometimes his tongue lolls out of the side of his mouth. He can’t always get those stubby back legs underneath him without help, so sometimes he pulls himself around with his front legs, cheerfully, like it’s no big deal that he's dragging his butt. He still asks to go outside and can walk, with help, to do his business.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">Now that he’s old, he sleeps a lot, but always in the room she is in. If she leaves the room for more than a few minutes, he struggles to his feet to find her. “Oh Nathan,” she coos, “you’re my little shadow. Come on, let’s go lie down in here,” and she strokes his graying hair and kisses his big ears. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And he sleeps.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">The woman doesn’t know how many more days or weeks or months she will be able to look up from her writing and see him snoozing across the room. She cares for him as if he’s a beloved grandpa in hospice care. She spends extra moments beside him rubbing his tummy and thinks about the years they’ve had. She is not the same woman who cuddled a brindle pup near a whelping pad at the breeder’s home: she has lived through the bliss of her babies’ birth and the heartache of a failed marriage; moved across the country and started her life completely over, watching her fortunes rise and tumble; lost old friends and found new ones; helped her children grow into young vibrant human beings; and even found a new love.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And every day he has been there, the big-eared smiley-faced dog, wanting nothing more than her presence and a good meal and the occasional cookie. The thought of losing him lies dormant now in her mind. She knows it is coming, but she's waiting until the very last moment before she must face it. For now, he is comfortable. For now, she wants only to remember what a good dog he has been. So she writes about him now, because she doesn’t want to write after he’s gone. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">And he is there, snoozing across the room, one stumpy foot twitching as he chases squirrels in dream land, one giant bat ear to the ceiling. There's an old Irish proverb that says “a dog owns nothing, yet is seldom dissatisfied.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">He owns one thing and always will. He owns my heart completely. I will love you forever, Nathan Junior, the best dog ever.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbU6yCprC4YtFEvO3qgmPZXZQ4B5B7gfDbhJ1tGi0VVv1iWrCD8LOTWyLRGKVSufk4rxsjuSpp63dC3Ml7P3P8GxNLV8SJfY7sDYgZsosWJKsxCy-3pM3WGb_ofQvofrIFHQ1gT9x1UxL/s1600/Nathan+Christmas.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPbU6yCprC4YtFEvO3qgmPZXZQ4B5B7gfDbhJ1tGi0VVv1iWrCD8LOTWyLRGKVSufk4rxsjuSpp63dC3Ml7P3P8GxNLV8SJfY7sDYgZsosWJKsxCy-3pM3WGb_ofQvofrIFHQ1gT9x1UxL/s320/Nathan+Christmas.JPG" height="317" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>Cornerstone's Nathan Junior, eight months old, was the star of our Christmas card in 1996. </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>You can see why I was so crazy about him. Look at that smile! Look at those mitts! </i></span></div>
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Leanne Levinehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11895322150182903551noreply@blogger.com6