tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7907416457797973572024-02-19T03:41:30.396-05:00The Button LifeA little of this, a little of thatJohnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13526834562730199282noreply@blogger.comBlogger87125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-27629593134920883062013-07-26T18:00:00.000-04:002013-07-26T18:00:02.977-04:00Don't Ask. Don't Tell.The Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy within the military has somewhat recently ended. But have no fear - there's no worry that we have to let this nomenclature just fade away. I've noticed lately that we can very effectively recycle this term in another arena where it is very much needed anyway. Let me illustrate:<br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Don't Ask:</span></strong><br />
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<strong>- Never ask a gal if she is pregnant: </strong>Never. Ever. Ever. It does not matter if this person has suddenly sprouted a basketball under her shirt. If she hasn't said anything to you - don't ask. Just play stupid. It doesn't matter if your 90 lb recently married coworker suddenly looks like she has some meat on her bones. Or if your several-glasses-of-wine-every-night friend has taken to drinking water because she's on "antibiotics". Or perhaps your beer drinking friend who hates liquor has taken to consuming mysterious clear "mixed drinks" to "reduce her calorie intake". Or stopped eating sushi and sandwiches. Or is "sick" all the time. None of that matters. Play stupid and don't ask. You can gossip about your suspicions to other friends and then pat yourself on the back when you finally get confirmation. But don't ask. Never. Ever. Ask.<br />
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<strong>- Never ask a gal when/if she plans on having children: </strong>I'll admit it, before having kids, I would do this. After having kids. I will never do this again. It's such a personal question. It should be added to the old adage of don't discuss politics and religion at the dinner table. Because, perhaps that person doesn't want to have kids. Or can't have kids. Or has been trying to have kids and it's not going well. It's complicated. <br />
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<strong>- How someone is doing after having a baby:</strong> Really? How do you think that person is doing? Come on. Having a baby is a very unpleasant experience and no one is doing very well - and anyone that tells you otherwise is a liar. Very unpleasant things are happening and will be happening for quite some time. Would you really like to know how I'm doing? I'll tell you, but somehow I don't think you really want to know. Don't ask - just come over, hold the baby and if you're so inclined - bring some wine or food. Because remember, we've been drinking water, eating salads and avoiding many of the good things in life for 9 months.<br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Don't Tell:</span></strong><br />
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<strong>If you're pregnant:</strong> If you're 8 months pregnant and still not comfortable telling a certain group of folks about the impending bebe - work, friends, family - whoever. Don't do it. Lie. Lie. Lie. Even if you are clearly pregnant - just lie. The person being lied to will know and call you a big fat liar.... but do it anyway. It's no one's business unless you're ready to make it their business. I'm amazed at the amount of people who clearly ask if someone they barely know is pregnant. Unless you're 100% ready to start discussing this situation, lie ladies. Just lie.<br />
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<strong>What your plans are for having a baby/another baby: </strong>Remember that unpleasant experience of having a baby that I just talked about? Probably not a good idea to ask someone who's just gone through that if they'd like to do it again. It's like asking someone who just got hit by a car if they'd like to do it again. Common sense.<br />
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<strong>Birth Stories:</strong> Unless we are great friends, I ask for the story or we're having a heart to heart moment where sharing seems appropriate. DO NOT tell anyone else your birth story. It's like watching a horror movie. I hate them. They give me nightmares for weeks. I do not voluntarily watch horror movies and I do not want to hear your birth story. If you tell it anyway, I will nod and smile while loudly singing a song in my head to drown out everything you say.<br />
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See? A very useful recycling of the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy. <br />
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And in keeping with this new spin on Don't Ask. Don't Tell. I'll share with you JTB's 6 month photo from February of this year:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtofiN0L8CH5E37MOhyphenhyphenNBVKv_ULf4kgP_rODCNndj_ime8c01-tmfOvU5lxY_G1R79fQUsclIRXnXFp1KhtMWI1bNHDGKs9psOu9IjTw_YMkGPwT-fwbVx5d10_oE73b1d8VTfUN9q9NMI/s1600/DSC_3126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtofiN0L8CH5E37MOhyphenhyphenNBVKv_ULf4kgP_rODCNndj_ime8c01-tmfOvU5lxY_G1R79fQUsclIRXnXFp1KhtMWI1bNHDGKs9psOu9IjTw_YMkGPwT-fwbVx5d10_oE73b1d8VTfUN9q9NMI/s640/DSC_3126.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Check out the surprise on that kid's face. I hear you buddy. Me too.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Yes. I realize it's now July and that was taken in February. But I decided to stick with Don't Tell. And lied when people asked. I "gave up drinking for Lent" or "tried to eat better and get back in shape after having JTB". I even tried to get TB to let me not tell anyone. Period. Ever. And just send out our holiday card this year with a picture of the expanded family. I think people would have figured it out. Perhaps been confused for a moment, but eventually figured it out. But TB seemed to think that was taking it a bit too far. I suppose he is right on occasion.<br />
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So anyway, I'm ready to tell. HTB will be arriving in October. Just don't ask me what my plans are for having another one. <br />
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And now JTB today. With hair in his eyes. This kid could use a good hairbrush:<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-31734921653826813762012-10-13T20:16:00.000-04:002012-10-13T20:16:27.056-04:00Who Let Us Take Home a Baby?This parenthood thing is hard.<br />
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Just the other day, TB and I were feeling pretty confident about our baby caring skills and giving each other some high fives about what a good job we've been doing. We even decided to go back and look at some pictures of our first few days at home. We ran across our video of JTB's first bath and smiled lovingly at the computer monitor as we pressed play. <br />
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Our smiles quickly turned to shock.<br />
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Poor JTB.<br />
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We stared in disbelief as we watched our videoed selves from just two months earlier, give the most painful bath to a week old baby. Nails. On. Chalkboard. <br />
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The poor kid had no clothes on as we fumbled around finding washcloths, baby soap, towels and getting the water to exactly the right temperature. He was then wet down with an obviously too cold washcloth as we took our sweet time washing every little crevasse of him. His poor screaming self was flailing around, face getting red and with no acknowledgement of that fact from his parents. We even took turns switching out who bathed him and who recorded and took pictures. We smiled at the camera and asked the other if he or she "captured that". What in the world were we even trying to capture? The poor guy was miserable and we were far from getting a cute first bath moment captured on film.<br />
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Our present day selves were yelling at the computer monitor to "hurry up!!!" or "wrap him in towel" or "he's cold you idiot, put some clothes on him!!!". <br />
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As the video ended we looked at each other and silently took back our high fives.<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-68893218164518208722012-09-19T18:42:00.000-04:002012-09-19T18:42:16.717-04:00Potty TalkPublic bathrooms. <br />
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Those two words are simply cringe worthy. Everyone hates the public bathroom, and for good reason. They have to be the grossest place on earth. But honestly they don't have to be that gross. I can't imagine people's home bathrooms get that dirty (aside from the bathroom of a college aged boy....). Certainly the public bathrooms get used a bit more frequently than a home bathroom, but it seems that people lose all sense of manners while using the public facilities. My personal preference is to avoid the public bathroom at all costs. I will "hold it" and as soon as I get home, make a mad dash to the closest bathroom in the house. TB often got used to me sprinting to the hall bathroom when I'd arrive home from a work trip - his kiss hello would come after, I had an emergency to attend to.<br />
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Unfortunately, pregnancy didn't agree with my avoidance of public bathrooms and I spent A LOT of time in them. A LOT. If a public bathroom is the grossest place on earth, then having to vomit in a public toilet has to be one of the grosses things you could ever do. It was a delicate balance of making sure I barfed in the toilet, but not getting any where near the toilet. Awful. Simply awful.<br />
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After much thought, I've determined that public bathrooms get so disgusting for several reasons. All are avoidable if people would just remember some basic manners. I've listed my top "issues" which I ran across in the public bathrooms. Hopefully this will create some awareness - you can be luckier than me and avoid a bathroom where these unfortunate incidents have occurred.<br />
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<strong>1. Improper Aim:</strong> There were several times when I was sure, just sure that I had accidentally walked into the men's room. Ladies, how in the world do you get pee all over the floor and seat? Some people may still "hover", but most facilities have the paper seat liners and if they don't, you can just use some toilet paper. No need to pee on the floor. And if you accidentally pee on the seat - clean it up!!<br />
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<strong>2. No Flushing:</strong> Flushing the toilet should be as automatic as tying your shoes. I just don't get it.<br />
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<strong>3. Put the Seat Down for Heaven's Sake!:</strong> Ah, the unisex bathroom. Airplane bathrooms are the worst, unisex bathrooms and the notorious improper male aim compounded by the turbulence on the plane leads to pee everywhere. Boys are gross and I don't want to share a bathroom with thousands of strange boys much less boys with bad manners who never put the seat down even though you are well aware there is a girl in line for the bathroom right behind you. End of story.<br />
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<strong>4. Abide by your Gender:</strong> Imagine being 9 months pregnant, going out to dinner, having to pee 5 times during dinner and realizing the restaurant only has one ladies room. Ridiculous in it's self. But then on pee number 3, standing outside the door for 10 minutes because someone is already in the bathroom. Then, when the door opens, a dude wearing a t-shirt one size too small comes walking out of the bathroom while still buckling his pants and giggling when he walks past you. What a jerk. There was a perfectly available men's room. I did not want to share a restroom with this man, please refer to point number 3 above. I gave him dirty looks over my entire dessert.<br />
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I'll soon be traveling again and I look forward to not using the public bathrooms. Although I have noticed that the baby changing stations in public bathrooms can be fraught with some similar problems......I anticipate a post regarding changing stations at some point in the future.<br />
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And I leave you with a few of our professional baby photos of JTB at 1 week:<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-90480479768175760042012-08-15T21:00:00.000-04:002012-08-15T21:22:22.081-04:00Our VillageThey say it takes a village.<br />
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But who has a village these days? In the literal sense, the "village" is long gone. We no longer live in small towns where you're surrounded by the elders in your family and community. Where those people are available to give advice, teach or lend a helping hand. TB was told by some of his Indian co-workers that when a woman has a baby in India, she often goes to live with her mother for several months. I suppose the Indian culture has held onto the village concept a bit more than we have here in the western world. With all the responsibilities most of us have these days, the idea of going to live with our mothers for several months is not logistically possible, not to mention that I suspect a great many people wouldn't want to live with their mothers again..... Even taking family aside, most of us are slightly nomadic these days. Moving many times in life for school or work can make it hard to become part of a village.<br />
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TB and I are definitely classified as part of these modern nomads, having lived in several cities and states both before we met and after. We've both become good at making friends and connections in each place we've lived, have stayed in touch with many of these people and can call many of them life long friends. Although our Christmas card list has become quite extensive, it's safe to say that the list is not cohesive. It a mix of several different groups with many similarities and many differences. We don't have one large network of friends and family who all know each other- it's a patchwork, in a sense, of people from all over the country. A wonderful hodge podge of folks - but hodge podge nonetheless.<br />
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I think it's easy to feel like you don't belong to a village when your network is similar to ours. I remember putting together our wedding invite list several years ago and thinking how interesting it was that we were sending invitations all over the country to several different "groups" of people - many of which had never met anyone from other groups. It made me wonder if we were really connected to any group of people or if we had spread ourselves too thin.<br />
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Then I remember how humbled I was the weekend of our wedding.<br />
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So many people from all aspects of our lives took the time out of their busy lives to come celebrate with us. From family we hadn't seen in many years, to new friends, to coworkers, to childhood friends. I'll never forget walking into the Hermes Bar at Antoines, Brennan's, Pat O's, the St. Louis Cathedral and seeing faces from all corners of our lives. I realized that this was likely the only time in our lives that all the important people in both our lives would be in one place at one time. And an amazing thing happened as the weekend wore on, different groups of people were mixing and mingling. By the end of the weekend, it had gone from a hodge podge group of folks, to one cohesive group - all in New Orleans for one common purpose, to help us celebrate (and perhaps experience the French Quarter....).<br />
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I've been humbled once again. Since baby TB's arrival, we've been overwhelmed by kindness from our friends and family - many of the same people from our wedding and many new people we've met since that time in New Orleans. From all the meals that have been dropped off, to our neighbor mowing our lawn, to the kind notes and thoughtful gifts. <br />
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As we've started this new part of our lives, we've been reminded again and again over the past few weeks that we do indeed have a village. It might not be the type of village that we traditionally think of, but a wonderful village that suits us perfectly. Our village.<br />
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Our village 3 years ago today<br />
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Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-22997994899165890882012-08-13T18:44:00.002-04:002012-08-13T18:44:55.320-04:00TSA Owes Us A Baby GiftMy adventures on the road began to get even more interesting than normal once I became pregnant. I quickly figured out where all the bathrooms were in the airports and buildings I frequent, I spent more time in the airplane bathroom than I ever hoped, a bit of vomit in unfortunate places, I learned not to wear heals late in a pregnancy and most importantly - I got to know the TSA agents on a very intimate level. So much so, that some of them at the smaller airports started to recognize me. With all this time spent together, I really thought they'd get baby TB a gift - perhaps even a card. But I still seem to be waiting. You may ask why I spent so much time with the TSA during my pregnancy. Oh, just a little thing called a full body pat down.<br />
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The full body scanners have been in use for a while and although I find it a bit disturbing to go through them on a regular basis, I honestly don't have much time to think about it and the thought of a pat down was never very appealing so I just ignored the weirdness of it and went through the machine. Until I found out I was pregnant. I figured that I went through the machines 2-4 times a week and perhaps it was time I stopped. Just in case. For at least nine months. For nine months I was touched and rubbed down by TSA agents all over the country while I declined to go through the scanner and asked for a pat down in stead. The TSA spent the most "intimate" time with me, next to my OB, over the past months - hence why I thought they should get us a card in the very least. What I found most interesting about this process were some of the responses by the TSA agents when I asked for the voluntary pat down. Some of my favorites:<br />
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<strong>At the Baltimore airport:</strong> <br />
<em>Me:</em> I'd like a pat down please<br />
<em>TSA Agent:</em> (looking at my face, down to my stomach, back to my face) Oh. OK. I'll call Barbara. You'll really like her, she's the best one at the pat downs<br />
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Hmmmm. The best? What does that mean? More thorough? I'm not sure I want a more thorough pat down. And shouldn't you all be really good at your jobs? And I'm not sure I want to "like" the person who's touching me in front of all these strangers at the airport. I'd like to get this done, no chit chat and then let's get out of here. End of story.<br />
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<strong>At the Sarasota airport:</strong><br />
<em>Me:</em> I'd like a pat down please<br />
<em>TSA Agent:</em> (looking at my face, down to my stomach, back to my face) Oh. OK. I'll call Susan. She used to work at the jail and really knows what she's doing. She used to do full cavity searches on all the female inmates.<br />
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Are you kidding me? This is not a cavity search. I don't want 'ol Susan to get a little over zealous and think she's back at the jail.<br />
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<strong>At practically every airport, every time I asked for a pat down:</strong><br />
<em>Me:</em> I'd like a pat down please<br />
<em>TSA Agents:</em> (looking at my face, down to my stomach, back to my face) You do know this is safe for pregnant women - right?<br />
<em>My internal dialogue</em>: Oh. Pardon me. I didn't realize you have extensively looked at the research with this technology. Or is that just what your TSA manual tells you to say? And wait. There is no research on pregnancy and the new airport scanners because that would be unethical. And I'm sure in 10 years when they figure out there are some adverse effects, you will personally be responsible for the medical bills because you said this was safe. Is that right?<br />
<em>My actual response:</em> (no verbal response, roll of the eyes and then diligently took my place in line for my pat down) <br />
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These were such unpleasant experiences that I suppose I'll just go back to the invasive scanning machine once I start traveling again. I just can't take a chance on Susan in Sarasota and her full cavity searches.<br />
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And on to more baby photos!<br />
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-35764212463400168022012-07-31T17:07:00.000-04:002012-07-31T17:07:54.034-04:00Baby Tarbutton Has Arrived!Similar to <a href="http://www.thebuttonlife.com/2009_08_01_archive.html">this post</a> when the Tarbutton family was last expanded - we have a new addition to announce! A baby TB was born on July 19th at 3:09 PM. He arrived a week early, but right on time according to grandma Shinnick's prediction. He looks like neither one of us - unless we hold him at a distance, squint our eyes and try really hard - then we can see some of TB in his eyes and nose.. But then again that's probably a stretch. Regardless, we think he's a pretty darn cute kid even though we have no idea where the cuteness comes from.<br />
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We've been overwhelmed by all the congrats, gifts, phone calls and messages - thanks to you all. Baby TB is lucky to have so many people excited to see his arrival and watch him grow into a full sized TB.<br />
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The Button Life posting was a little lax during the pregnancy and although it was a relatively uneventful pregnancy in terms of my well being and baby TB's health - there were definitely some blog-worthy moments. I have notes (because I love notes and lists) and plan to update during my maternity leave.<br />
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In the mean time, a new baby means lots of obligatory photos - so I'll leave it at that for this post. Enjoy!<br />
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He really is ours... and we wanted to make sure no one stole him....</div>
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Father/son love</div>
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Our exit from the hospital - it looks like I could use a lesson or two in holding a baby.</div>
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James may be just a bit too little for posing in front of the gigantor chalkboard from Grandpa Shinnick - but we made it work.</div>
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Our first bath....</div>
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was not a happy time.</div>
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A sweet sigh of relief when it was over</div>
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<br />Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-39333309221490882382012-02-28T20:18:00.001-05:002012-02-28T20:18:00.325-05:001+1=3Seems like a bit of monkey math. I think it can be best illustrated by this:<br />
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You got it. Our little family of two will soon become a family of three! Sometime around the end of July. We're unbelievably excited and can't wait to meet the little guy.<br />
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From here on out, I'll try not to turn the blog into baby land and keep some random musings on life scattered here and there - although I'm sure you'll all get a healthy dose of baby TB. BUT..... a few things you will not see on this blog:<br />
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1. A picture of a positive pregnancy test:<br />
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You'll have to take our word for it. I'm not keen on displaying a stick which has been soaked in my urine for all to see. I can read. Trust me. It said "pregnant". I will not deny that one of those pictures exists; however it's cryptically filed away and categorized on our home computer.<br />
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2. A picture of my insides:<br />
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- Kudos to everyone who posts pictures of ultrasounds, but I'm not comfortable posting a picture on the interwebs of my uterus. Personal preference here.<br />
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3. Absolutely any pregnant photos of me. At all. Not even one.:<br />
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- Call me vain, but I'm not interested in having pictures of this time in my life. Considering the icky way I've been feeling, I'm sure I'll remember these 9 months well. I don't need photos. I've heard people talk about the preganancy "glow" and I call BS on that one. I'm not so sure what's "glowing" about the overwhelming urge to fall asleep anywhere you can find, the urge to vomit most of the day or your normal clothes not fitting correctly. If you really must see evidence of this pregnancy, you'll have to come visit and see it in person as there will be no photographic evidence.<br />
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And by the way, it's a boy :)Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-2662914362208860782012-01-12T18:10:00.002-05:002012-01-12T18:10:00.088-05:00The Ice Cream Cone TestI love junk food. Cookies, cupcakes, chocolate - but more than anything, I love ice cream. I'm not sure when this love affair started. Maybe in college. My first roommate Heather, used to always eat a scoop of ice cream in the evenings out of a coffee cup. Maybe we ran out of bowls, who knows. I never asked her why she used a coffee cup or why I even remember that..... Then while living in Tampa, TB and I literally lived around the corner from a Marble Slab. It was heaven. I'd drag him over there almost nightly. I'd happily order up my concoction and TB would always order something - but seem unimpressed. One of TB's major faults is that he is not a dessert person. But I've gradually worn him down and I now catch him stocking up our grocery cart with ice cream - even without a subtle suggestion by me.<br />
<br />
While TB and I were recently in an airport waiting on a connecting flight, he disappeared and came back with a surprise. A large waffle cone with chocolate ice cream. Yummy! <br />
<br />
Like a greedy 4 year old, I reached out to snatch it out of his hands..... just as he was taking a big bite out of the side of my ice cream cone. What????!!!! A mouthful of my ice cream and my cone - all at once. At that moment I realized two things:<br />
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1. He bought the ice cream cone for us to share.<br />
2. He had just ruined it.<br />
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Now, I will admit that it was a slighly selfish thought to think this whole thing was for me. I'm willing to share. And I quickly conceeded that point. But only that point. He still ruined the ice cream cone. <br />
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Everyone knows there's a proper way to eat an ice cream cone. I mean we've all seen that messy kid that lets the ice cream get away from him and seems oblivious to it dripping all over his arm and clothes while he's eagerly chowing down. Picture that in a grown man and you know what I experienced in that airport.<br />
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After his huge bite of our shared cone, I weighed my options. I was willing to share, but that thought was based on a non-ruined ice cream cone. Am I allowed not to share, if he ruined it? Do I go buy my own? Or do I still make an attempt to share?<br />
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As these thoughts are quickly running through my head, TB holds out his chocolate dripping hand to pass me the cone. I hesitantly took the cone for my turn. Seeing the gaping hole in the side of the cone, I had to take preventative measures and clean up his mess by licking up all the impending drips. Which meant, I didn't get to eat any of the cone. The best part. In the corner of my eye, I can see him working his way through a mountain of napkins attempting to quickly clean up the chocolate drippage before his next turn. On his next turn and much to my horror, he takes another big bite of cone/ice cream and hands it back to me. Again. Preventative measures. This back and forth went on for a few turns and then TB asks an interesting question.<br />
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"Oh. I didn't know you don't like waffle cones. Why aren't you eating any of the cone?"<br />
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Really. The nerve.<br />
<br />
I had to explain that because of his reckless eating style that I had to use my turns to make sure we didn't end up looking like 4 year olds with ice cream from head to toe and I just never had a chance to eat the cone.<br />
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After a thoughtful, "Hmmm." TB made an interesting observation. He said, "I think the way we each eat the ice cream cone reflects our personalities."<br />
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Now that's a thought. <br />
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TB dove in head first when he saw something he liked, without regard for the consequences. He would fix those later, and maybe it didn't matter in the grand sceme of things if he ended up with ice cream all over the place. At least he enjoyed the best part of the ice cream cone.<br />
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I took a step back and looked at the ice cream cone as a whole and came up with a plan. Eat the ice cream at the top first since it has the potential to make a mess. Then, when it's perfectly eaten and safe, it's OK to go for the ice cream cone. All the while, monitoring the ice cream and it's potential for mess creation.<br />
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Is it a scientifically sound study? Probably not. But I think it does hold a bit of truth in our situation.<br />
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Conclusion: Me. Slightly neurotic. Him. Slightly less neurotic.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQj8VGqWT_EudpI3wu8f7TbUQEmpyC2MTk_LdDkbXNRgX3WHk7KncRNj1wquwgTk2Vkrq0vxR91qXiWsl3BwaWYkkWrz-pKFt0Hf8zwYH1NMqFx7NKw-jJ15ZxjBilPYlmFAobyat6IdY/s1600/0714_Rome_best+gelatto+in+the+world2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQQj8VGqWT_EudpI3wu8f7TbUQEmpyC2MTk_LdDkbXNRgX3WHk7KncRNj1wquwgTk2Vkrq0vxR91qXiWsl3BwaWYkkWrz-pKFt0Hf8zwYH1NMqFx7NKw-jJ15ZxjBilPYlmFAobyat6IdY/s320/0714_Rome_best+gelatto+in+the+world2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyDJaHct5I0u16eLpGEQm7FCHGLwFHjvjVk2EwPtie2gqXAX8t9Kn6fX3u7re9tMxq24eacUacGpR1ViOkujst63cvjdTFdvEqvZLSs-PsV41Ovdx8bqoZS51yFlasA1Ku8ZJyIXEwAML/s1600/0714_Rome_best+gelatto+in+the+world.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioyDJaHct5I0u16eLpGEQm7FCHGLwFHjvjVk2EwPtie2gqXAX8t9Kn6fX3u7re9tMxq24eacUacGpR1ViOkujst63cvjdTFdvEqvZLSs-PsV41Ovdx8bqoZS51yFlasA1Ku8ZJyIXEwAML/s320/0714_Rome_best+gelatto+in+the+world.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-85894952066291429292012-01-03T18:00:00.001-05:002012-01-03T18:00:06.592-05:002011: In ReviewWhen 2011 began, I made a few resolutions, wrote them down and left them in my planner/notebook. If you know me - I live and die by my planner, so I saw those resolutions almost every day. You would think that would mean I was successful in keeping those resolutions. Well. Let's do a little review to see how I did...<br />
<br />
<br />
1. <strike>Take tennis lessons:</strike> <span style="color: #cc0000;">FAIL</span><br />
I have no excuse. There's a big tennis complex about a mile down the road from our house. They offer lessons on a monthly cycle. I just never signed up.<br />
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<br />
2. <strike>Run a 1/2 marathon:</strike> <span style="color: #6aa84f;">SUCCESS</span><br />
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This was probably the hardest resolution I made in 2011 and somehow managed to achieve it towards the beginning of the year. If you missed it, you can find the deets <a href="http://www.thebuttonlife.com/2011/05/fast-girls-have-good-times.html">here</a>. All in all, it was a grand time and I'm planning on signing up for another one soon and hope to beat my time. <br />
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3. <strike>Take cooking classes:</strike> <span style="color: #cc0000;">FAIL</span><br />
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I'm ashamed to admit that I put minimal effort into this one....... I checked out some classes online and then...... that was about it. I have no excuse.<br />
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4. <strike>Take a wine class:</strike> <span style="color: #cc0000;">FAIL</span><br />
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Ummmmm. Same as above.<br />
<br />
<br />
5. <strike>Learn to knit:</strike> <span style="color: #cc0000;">FAIL</span><br />
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This one is definitely a fail, but I'm going to make a few excuses this time. I found a class which met every Saturday for a month. Our travel schedule was absolutely crazy this past year - so it took most of the year to find a month were I was actually home four Saturdays in a row. And then a week before my first class, it was cancelled. It seems I was the only one signed up for the class....... I suppose there isn't much interest in knitting classes. My spirits were a bit dampened after the cancellation - so I never looked for another place. Excuses excuses.<br />
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6. <strike>Recycle:</strike> <span style="color: #cc0000;">FAIL</span><br />
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Still a fail, but I did print out the county's application for recycling boxes. Just never quite mailed it in with the check. Seriously - you can't do this online?<br />
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All in all, I'm proud of my one success story here, but a little embarrassed I didn't put much effort into a few of them. I'm still working through my resolutions for 2012, but a few of these might carry over. We'll see.<br />
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Here's to a happy and successful 2012!Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-85749821278841903752011-12-22T21:31:00.000-05:002011-12-22T21:31:48.124-05:00Christmas Decorating. With Shoes On.TB likes to say that I grew up without shoes. While that is definitely a bit of an exaggeration, I did grow up in a small town. And I'm talking small. A few hundred people. A two-way stop as there was no need for a four way stop. One police man. A post office. A town maintenance man named after a cut of beef. And that's about it. I grew up not knowing how the flag on a mail box worked - since there was no mail delivery. I had no idea until I left for college, that you could get pizza delivered to your home, since the the delivery drivers wouldn't come out as far as we lived. While I've since moved on to bigger towns and cities, there are still some things that I can't quite get a handle on. As I recently found out, by the stark difference in picking out a Christmas tree in small town USA versus Atlanta.<br />
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There was no black Friday shopping at the mall growing up. We reserved that day for something a little more special. Every year on the day after Thanksgiving we would all head out to the Christmas tree farm to pick out that year's tree. Aside from the turkey, it was the most exciting thing about the Thanksgiving weekend. On the main highway (if you could call it a highway) going through town, there was a small sign indicating where to turn for the farm. Way back in a corner of a cow pasture, behind a small farmhouse you could see a patch of Christmas trees. No need for us to pull up to the farmhouse - we were regulars. There was a gate of sorts to get into the pasture - so one of us would always jump out of the truck, unlatch the gate and we'd drive through the pasture (avoiding the cows of course) and head straight to the patch of trees. All three of us would jump out and try to find the best tree - it was always a competition of sorts to see who could find the tree that made it home with us. At some point during the process, a rickety old truck would come driving through the pasture and the tree farmer would get out with his handsaw. The tree farmer was the grandfather of my brother's classmate, so we definitely had a tie to him - but it didn't matter, he always remembered us. He helped us cut the tree down and my dad would ask, "How much?". In 18 years, the price never changed. $20. My parents tell me the price still hasn't changed to this day.<br />
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Flash forward 10+ years to Big John's Christmas trees located down the road from the TB house. Similar to the farm from my childhood, Big John's is located just off the main highway. Except this is a real highway. And no cow pasture. Big John's is set up in the Kroger parking lot with a full out cash register and pre-chopped trees. Shipped all the way to us in the big city from small town South Carolina. The selection and ambiance weren't quite the same as I was used to, but we did select a mighty fine looking tree - no saw needed here. While this "tree farmer" hasn't known us for 20 years, he seemed nice enough and said he'd help us tie it to the car (no truck owners in this family). I was curiously watching how this would happen, since I wasn't exactly sure how this worked. How does one tie a tree to a car without messing up the tree? To my horror, the tree man ran the tree through a netting machine of sorts which bundled the tree up into a tight little package. TB assured me that our carefully picked tree would snap back into place as soon as we got it home and cut the wrapping off. I reluctantly agreed not to make a scene since no one else seemed to have a problem with the tree wrapping method. We were then directed to the cash register and asked if we had a coupon. A coupon? For a tree? Seemed like a weird question to me - why would we need a coupon for a $20 tree? Well. Perhaps when your tree isn't $20. I'm ashamed to admit how much we paid for the tree at Big John's - we'll just leave it at NOT $20.<br />
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During this whole process, I kept comparing my childhood Christmas tree buying experience with this year's and TB didn't quite understand my being perplexed by the whole process. All he could say is, "Well. You did grow up without shoes." Hmmm. Interesting point. I guess this is how people with shoes buy trees. I suppose I'd better get used to it. I like my shoes.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN042zmPHIDCrLNqfMSzxrmwVrOZQ6w3qRs_0bUG26rlhWrHfImNECR0WlE7lJ5z86RuVv-JrMvBcrdAbFUgVvqt2eL9OPB-V7NaulKIowcJfRYQXLOUu2R7HYq-NNnhNUzH0fwF8X5qQE/s1600/IMG_0513%255B1%255D.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN042zmPHIDCrLNqfMSzxrmwVrOZQ6w3qRs_0bUG26rlhWrHfImNECR0WlE7lJ5z86RuVv-JrMvBcrdAbFUgVvqt2eL9OPB-V7NaulKIowcJfRYQXLOUu2R7HYq-NNnhNUzH0fwF8X5qQE/s320/IMG_0513%255B1%255D.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The "wrapped" up tree</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3s7kK2BWF9WN1MHT4PQJ3d6FH66p8PCESnnZe8MaWSaGZEd73XsrqHyz4DlP5m_qu8F6rHmklxBnurCMLgx_CsDN0kuNNYVFEKT0x8kpRy-iJ20hAWN4gKb7b4wk3Yqt5NfPXvQs_5iWK/s1600/IMG_0514.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3s7kK2BWF9WN1MHT4PQJ3d6FH66p8PCESnnZe8MaWSaGZEd73XsrqHyz4DlP5m_qu8F6rHmklxBnurCMLgx_CsDN0kuNNYVFEKT0x8kpRy-iJ20hAWN4gKb7b4wk3Yqt5NfPXvQs_5iWK/s320/IMG_0514.JPG" width="239" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">The "unwrapped tree"</div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-36783774664080194022011-11-30T19:16:00.001-05:002011-11-30T19:16:00.526-05:00The Coincidence of All Coincidences. In a Bad Way.A very bad way. <br />
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We recently scheduled a dinner date with another couple who also likes to eat good food. It was our turn to pick the restaurant and there was one that I had been really wanting to check out. So I went ahead and made the reservation at the restaurant. The restaurant that will not be named. <br />
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Our evening started out just fine, we were seated right away, drinks were ordered, appetizers ordered - and then it all went downhill. Downhill in a way where we crashed and burned at the bottom on the hill. And then exploded.<br />
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As we were enjoying our tasty looking appetizer of the "cheese plate", TB decided to tell the story of a recent episode of Andrew Zimmern "Bizarre Foods". The episode was about Andrew visiting a city in Italy that makes this special cheese in which maggots live in the cheese. For real. Maggots in cheese. You open up the wheel of cheese and just eat around the maggots....... You really must click on the "Maggot Cheese" link below and watch the video before you continue reading this. Really. You should watch this. Go ahead. Click.<br />
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<a href="http://www.travelchannel.com/Video/andrew-eats-maggot-cheese-15349">Maggot Cheese</a><br />
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Done? Story continued below....<br />
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As TB was just beginning to recap the video above, we saw a horrified look on our dinner mate's face. He had just sliced into a piece of cheese, was about to place it on a cracker and noticed something moving. Something small. And white. Maggot. IN THE CHEESE. No kidding. Imagine seeing that video above happen right before your eyes.<br />
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A live maggot. Wiggling in the cheese at the restaurant not to be named.<br />
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Long story short - our meal was free. The restaurant was horrified. Probably not as horrified as we were - but still horrified. We lost our appetites. And got out as quickly as possible. And will not be back to that place. Ever.<br />
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Worst dining experience ever. Bring on the hair in the soup, the bug in the salad and the finger in the beans. I can top it. Maggot. In. The. Cheese.<br />
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Maggots in the cheese. While telling a story about maggots in cheese. How weird is that?Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-50072806302526664692011-10-30T13:08:00.000-04:002011-10-30T13:08:41.797-04:00I've Always Wanted My Man to Smell Like........ The Pope?Once a month or so we get a publication in the mail called The Georgia Bulletin. It's a little newspaper about the goings on of the Catholic church in Atlanta. Mixed throughout the articles there are usually advertisements about Catholic schools, religious movies, church bookstores - you know, the usual - very targeted advertisements.<br />
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We usually thumb through it, perhaps read an article or two and then toss it. The same thing happened this month; however one of those very targeted advertisements caught my eye. See below:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQnmVbfPAahqeL5g9NwRLdtZwJvR9TiyrRH5SK4gVYNbbhoO3lK_UgY6Gp1NAtR5rHJxkfajU3LH80uWtX_tGVRHTjpUJRksjMtnr0YNx9wqUJLXzdw2LX0hH7Pb5QKGn6rd7ztn4D02qn/s1600/photo2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQnmVbfPAahqeL5g9NwRLdtZwJvR9TiyrRH5SK4gVYNbbhoO3lK_UgY6Gp1NAtR5rHJxkfajU3LH80uWtX_tGVRHTjpUJRksjMtnr0YNx9wqUJLXzdw2LX0hH7Pb5QKGn6rd7ztn4D02qn/s320/photo2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
An aftershave that smells like the Pope? I'm not sure about you, but when I think of aftershave, I think of a rustic manly smell. I think TB's current Old Spice says something like, "smells like wilderness, open air and freedom". Corny? Yes. But I suppose it makes sense. And it probably works well from an advertising sense. But the Pope? Nada. I just can't make any sense of that. This puzzled me so much that I thought maybe if I visited the website I could understand it a bit more. I did find a further description of the product - but did I make more sense of it? Nope.<br />
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<em><span style="color: #999999;"><span class="style3"><strong>Benedictus </strong></span>- The marriage of linden blossom from Benedict's native Germany with frankincense from the Holy Land and bergamot from Italy creates a subtle and dignified fragrance, befitting a man of finely cultivated tastes. Barely perceptible is a nuance of citrus, and as it evolves, a discrete hint of musk. The overall impression is one of understated elegance. A slightly astringent and balsamic quality makes it a soothing and refreshing aftershave.</span></em><br />
<span style="color: #999999;"><br />
<em>$27.00</em><br />
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</span><span style="color: black;">"Befitting a man of finely cultivated tastes?" With that description, my mind immediately goes to the Pope. Right? Doesn't yours? But hey - at $27 and free shipping to the US, what a steal!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Upon further investigation of the website, I did discover that if Benedictus isn't exactly your speed, there are other options. Made from the "private formula of Pope Pius IX" no less. Christmas is coming up after all.</span> <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1vczs2Vk_VYMNbvjBRZgHh8Y_iGZjHjFgQU_S1hCHJ4ZwnGPvJGL8U9BsFFAqSNzfPbjIhlS-BViAa8YworRWn_Vzs2ahXqb6h_48thB2p-qQmdGRynLNgNcjM9l1wQ43snEG4L9dum4/s1600/Pope_cologne1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio1vczs2Vk_VYMNbvjBRZgHh8Y_iGZjHjFgQU_S1hCHJ4ZwnGPvJGL8U9BsFFAqSNzfPbjIhlS-BViAa8YworRWn_Vzs2ahXqb6h_48thB2p-qQmdGRynLNgNcjM9l1wQ43snEG4L9dum4/s1600/Pope_cologne1.jpg" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-55297493772372104772011-10-16T14:53:00.000-04:002011-10-16T14:53:31.900-04:00Airport Dating. The Non-Creepy Kind.I've come to the conclusion in the past few weeks that we don't lead a normal life. We keep an odd schedule. To say the least.<br />
Between both of us having traveling jobs, weddings, bachelor parties, bachelorette parties and football games - we have hardly had any time at home. Much less for a date. So what did we do? We improvised!<br />
<br />
It all started 2 weeks ago. I was flying home from a work trip on a Thursday evening - TB was connecting through the Atlanta airport - from work, but continuing on to a bachelor party. He had a bit of time between his flights and it happened to coincide with my flight landing. Perfect! So we had a nice date at the Wendy's on the main concourse at ATL. We caught up, shared some fries and it worked out wonderfully.<br />
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The next Thursday, I was flying home from a work trip and TB was once again connecting in ATL but continuing on to another trip. We did a bit more planning and had a nice sit down dinner in concourse B. Glass of wine and all. But we did split the check, since we were both expensing our dinners..... perhaps that wasn't romantic. But it sure was economical.<br />
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The following Monday morning, we both had flights out of ATL at the same time. TB headed to NY, and I was headed to Orlando - but we had time to share some Starbucks and biscuits.<br />
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At this point, I'll take what I can get. I've even done some research on airport restaurants and I hear there's a good one on concourse E called One Flew South. Yes, it's true. An airport restaurant that doesn't have fried food as half of the options.<br />
<br />
As I was trying to find some pictures for this post (because it never occurred to me to snap a photo of our airport dates), I found a whole bunch of photos of that movie - Up in the Air. None of them really struck my fancy, so I kept looking. Until I hit the jackpot. It appears that TB and I are not the only ones who like to meet up at the airport. This find was so interesting that it trumped photos: <br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.meetattheairport.com/">www.meetattheairport.com</a>.<br />
<br />
For realz. Check it out. The website claims that you can meet new and exciting people all over the world. Read the excerpt: <br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left"><span style="color: #999999;">"Meeting someone new at the airport is fun and exciting. We've all thought about it while waiting for our flight. It's a bit of adventure that adds spice to your everyday life. MeetAtTheAirport.com can now make a fantasy a reality. Find fellow travelers that are looking for that added sense of excitement that you only get when meeting someone new. Share a drink with an attractive stranger in the totally safe environment of a public airport. Perhaps, share a brunch or romantic dinner while waiting for your flight and explore the enticing possibilities that are presented to you. Romance, friendship, travel companion, networking... The possibilities are endless. If you're tired of reading a magazine while waiting for your flight, don't hesitate, register now."</span></div><div align="left"><br />
</div>Add spice to your life? Make a fantasy a reality? All I can imagine is some scandalous happenings. In the airport bathroom perhaps. Remember that senator a while back that got caught meeting fellows in the airport bathrooms. I wonder if he ever used this service? <br />
<br />
You have to create a profile to see any other details and although I love a good investigation, I was too chicken to do that. I could only imagine the creepy characters. This will make you wonder the next time you see a couple having a drink at the airport...... It could just be someone like TB and I, or it could be someone that got bored of reading magazines and decided to meet an attractive stranger.Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-10078063771155962312011-10-03T18:48:00.001-04:002011-10-03T18:48:00.778-04:00Keep LeftDriving on the left side of the road is reserved for the UK and Australia. At least I thought. But it looks like I was wrong.<br />
<br />
For some weird reason, the US Virgin Islands require you to drive on the left - which we quickly discovered on our recent trip. But they have American cars with steering wheels on the left. And most tourists in the USVI are Americans. So we have American cars, American drivers - but you have to stay left. Hmm - looks like a lot of confused people to me.<br />
<br />
There are signs everywhere that say, "Keep Left". And when you rent a car, the rental agency nicely reminds you several times to "Keep Left!". All of these reminders are nice in theory, except that they can also create additional confusion. For example:<br />
<br />
An American guy is driving his American car, with steering wheel on the left - except he has to drive on the left since he's in the USVI. His navigator wife is giving directions from the paper rental car map and sees a fork in the road. Being a nice navigator, she says:<br />
<br />
Navigator: "Up here, you'll want to keep right." To which American guy replies:<br />
<br />
American guy: "But I'm supposed to keep left."<br />
<br />
Navigator: "No. Drive left, but keep right"<br />
<br />
American Guy: "What???" "How do you keep right when you're driving left? Would that be a right turn? And right turns are different when you're driving left."<br />
<br />
Navigator: "What???" "OK, keep left"<br />
<br />
American Guy: "But I thought I was supposed to keep right!!"<br />
<br />
See where I'm going with this.....<br />
<br />
We only had our rental car for one day and opted for a taxi after this. Luckily there wasn't much driving on this vacation and we spent most of our time out on the water. Where left and right didn't matter.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrHjFOovfqAlyrW7L0iHp8ZfuICqduEfga0TgHrS8BKitX8HMTbBvr0TVBKF1mop_cKT6gl3zNgbJW1dgbPCvVQBt1ibPuaIyfwHkZ7PVD95eK-vpvztR819hQjwoH0UQW4Um5qXPt-L_/s1600/IMG_0435.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320px" kca="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbrHjFOovfqAlyrW7L0iHp8ZfuICqduEfga0TgHrS8BKitX8HMTbBvr0TVBKF1mop_cKT6gl3zNgbJW1dgbPCvVQBt1ibPuaIyfwHkZ7PVD95eK-vpvztR819hQjwoH0UQW4Um5qXPt-L_/s320/IMG_0435.jpg" width="239px" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-49517750766968885172011-08-01T20:34:00.001-04:002011-08-01T20:36:27.028-04:00My (almost) Most Embarrassing MomentA few weeks ago we met some other couple friends for dinner. They were new friends, so we wanted to make a good impression and not do anything stupid. So of course, I (almost) did something stupid.<br />
<br />
It was on a weekend, so TB and I were running around doing errands during the day before our dinner date. In an effort to put my best foot forward, I took a rinser before we were supposed to meet our friends. I'm normally a once a day showerer. But I went out on a limb this time. Although I took a rinser, I decided I'd throw on my same jeans and change shirts and shoes. As I'm selecting my outfit, TB is yelling, "Hurry, hurrrrrrrrrrrry, huryyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!". Keep in mind, we're not late. He just likes to stress me out. For some reason, he enjoys this. And it works every time.<br />
<br />
I threw on clothes, slapped on some makeup, half buckled my shoes, hurried out the door and into the car. The drive was only about 2 minutes away, so as I was still arranging things in my purse, we hopped out at the valet and into the bar to wait for our friends and my heart was still beating fast from all that action. AND, we did have to wait at the bar.... because we WERE NOT late. We were the first ones there. By a long shot. TB just likes to play this little prank.<br />
<br />
As I was settling into my first drink, our friends arrived. At that very moment of saying hello and making small talk, I realized something was not right. Something with my outfit. I'm going through the typical hellos on the surface, but I'm just trying to figure out what was wrong, without a look of sheer panic on my face.<br />
<br />
I slowly figured out what was wrong. There was something wrong with my jeans. Inside the left pant leg, just behind my knee, there was something lodged between my knee and my jeans. I quickly did a run-through of my getting ready process and realized it must be my old underwear. Yes. I changed underwear during my rinser and when I hurriedly put the same jeans back on, the old pair must have been stuck in the jeans. And I didn't notice they were there the whole time I was getting ready. And they were still there. And I'm in public. With people that I didn't know very well. What was wrong with me!!!<br />
<br />
As I'm coming to the conclusion that I have a dirty pair of underwear stuck in my pant legs, I can feel the underwear slowing start to slip down my pant legs. I'm trying to hold a conversation with someone about a wedding or honeymoon, or something - I really couldn't concentrate on the conversation and could only nod and smile at the appropriate time, while trying to hold my leg in a position that would stop the underwear from sliding down my leg, to the floor of the bar and have everyone look down to see a pair of purple underwear laying on my foot. Talk about never going to dinner with this couple again.<br />
<br />
It finally reached the point of no return and I had to abruptly excuse myself to the restroom- while getting a weird look from TB for my odd behavior. I looked around frantically for the restroom sign, only to see it on the other side of the restaurant. Crap. I began to dodge my way around tables, waiters and slippery floors all while keeping my left leg bent enough to keep the underwear trapped behind my knee. But still needing my left leg to walk. It made for an awkward and very nervous trek across the restaurant.<br />
<br />
As I pushed open the door to the restroom, I immediately locked myself in a stall and grabbed the underwear. I think any sane person would have just thrown away the underwear and cut their loses. But those were good underwear, and I couldn't stand the thought of giving them up. So. I stuffed them in my purse. And hoped I wouldn't need my purse.<br />
<br />
The night ended on a normal note - without needing my purse - and we still have those friends. Thanks to my quick thinking and a bit of good luck, the night ended up being my (almost) most embarrassing moment and not my most embarrassing moment.Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-83718650873610520822011-07-08T20:54:00.000-04:002011-07-08T20:54:44.920-04:00Worse than a Crying BabyThe only thing worse than sitting next to a crying baby on the plane is....<br />
<br />
Sitting next to unaccompanied minors. Two unaccompanied minors. Brother and sister. Roughly aged 8 and 6.<br />
<br />
I endured an entire flight of pinching, biting, nose picking, 10 minutes of "Ilovejustinbieberilovejustinbieber", singing, yelling, drink spilling, peanut throwing, seat shaking and tray slamming. It was absolute torture. Torture. But perhaps the best part of the flight was the conversation regarding backwash. Yep. Backwash. See the rough transcription below.....<br />
<br />
Bieber Lover: (Yelling) "Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!! You have backwash in your water bottle! Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!!"<br />
<br />
Nose Picker: "It's just backwash. You know what backwash is, right?"<br />
<br />
Bieber Lover: "No. I just know backwash is gross"<br />
<br />
Nose Picker: "It's just pieces of my sandwich. They were in my mouth when I took a sip of water and then fell to the bottom of the bottle. Look, you can see pieces of bread and cheese floating the bottle."<br />
<br />
(Bieber Lover and Nose Picker both intently stare at the backwash in the VASA water bottle)<br />
<br />
Bieber Lover: "Oh. OK. It's not that gross."<br />
<br />
Nose Picker: "Yeah, backwash is cool."<br />
<br />
<br />
Ahhhhh. More adventures from the road.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sBAxZ01HyM3pIS2BKU225kxUYBoTprlpWcLvuHb9Wo2p3nccoKPxFBAnj-x39Pc8ZMFZGc4BNiGg2Q7WFwR-68Bt_yONaOFwd-XaH7e394rJGASFRs79hKX1tjsedJIdXOgkdu4GxOaZ/s1600/VASA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" m$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_sBAxZ01HyM3pIS2BKU225kxUYBoTprlpWcLvuHb9Wo2p3nccoKPxFBAnj-x39Pc8ZMFZGc4BNiGg2Q7WFwR-68Bt_yONaOFwd-XaH7e394rJGASFRs79hKX1tjsedJIdXOgkdu4GxOaZ/s1600/VASA.jpg" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-86536910142502037142011-06-23T20:21:00.001-04:002011-06-23T20:24:03.600-04:00Vegas: According to Your EarsNo, that wasn't some lame audiology joke. Vegas is one of those places that appeals to your senses. Sight, taste, and especially sound. Even if you've never been to Vegas, everyone has a mental idea of the sounds you will experience. Particularly the casino sounds.<br />
<br />
I've been to Vegas a few times, but this most recent trip was my first since college and at the risk of sounding like an old person, things just weren't the same as they used to be - at least the same according to my ears. On the college trip, I distinctly remember a few things that were missing on this adventure. Some auditory distinctions to be exact.<br />
<br />
A few years ago you went into the casino, sat at a slot machine, pulled the side handle and (hopefully) won a little coin. As soon as those lights started flashing, you immediately heard the distinct "dink dink dink dink" sound of the coins hitting the tray as they fell out of the machine. Then you grabbed one of those plastic buckets on top of the machine, gathered your spoils and jingled the bucket onto the next machine. It all went down a little something like this:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/ECQ-HuArv3s?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><br />
<br />
Really a glorious experience all around. Until some genius decided to change it.<br />
Now a days, you sit at a slot machine, pull the side handle and when you get lucky, the lights still flash, but there is no sound of coins falling. Nope. The metal tray to catch the coins is still there, but nothing falls out. If you listen closely, you hear a different sound. A receipt printing. No kidding. A receipt. They did away with the coins and spit you out a receipt stating your exact winnings.<br />
I almost felt like I was at the gas pump pressing "Yes I want a Receipt" on the key pad. <br />
<br />
And even worse than the absence of coin, there are no more plastic buckets. I guess that makes sense. Walking around jingling your receipts in a bucket just doesn't seem to have the same effect.<br />
<br />
<br />
If Vegas had a suggestion box, I would drop a note saying we should bring back the coins. And the buckets.Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-58647106676194959452011-06-06T20:50:00.000-04:002011-06-06T20:50:15.628-04:00A Retainer is Never CoolRemember back to the middle school days, when there was some lucky kid that got to have a retainer? That kid had already graduated from the old metal braces with rubber bands and corn on the cob stuck in the teeth to the seemingly cool retainer. The dead give away that you were one of the lucky ones was that distinct lisp the retainer gave you. If you were super lucky, your orthodontist would make your retainer in a bright color and you got to show it off at lunch time when you removed it to eat. You then put it in the plastic retainer box and got to show it off once again when lunch was over and you had to put it back in. And then inevitably one day, you would throw the retainer away and have to dig through the trash to find the retainer to keep your mom from yelling at you about how much your braces cost. Anyone else remember this? <br />
<br />
Well, I did actually go through the ugly braces stage and I eventually got a retainer. Although my retainer didn't come until high school. Which meant it was no longer cool. But I wasn't really a cool kid anyway, so I did diligently wear that sucker until sometime in college and then I fell off the wagon. A few years ago, I realized that darn retainer really did make a difference and without it my bottom teeth had started to move. My vanity eventually won out and I started looking into some options for fixing my bottom teeth. I quickly found out there was no need to go back to the full on braces stage (sigh of relief), which meant that my option was a retainer! But it wasn't that old retainer that I remembered from middle school. It now looked a little something like this:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBx6Tv25zdazlXNnWqffx1-Cguy75jhATKqEUl7So6Wcn8Wyj6ThCQt39qOU6bpe7S9cja5hOtock28-gp_dbfaP1phPFi5MQrO8DDoXyqf3d8WQhHIFWG0EXRtlauoXO7LQci3rm5R9BM/s1600/retainer.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBx6Tv25zdazlXNnWqffx1-Cguy75jhATKqEUl7So6Wcn8Wyj6ThCQt39qOU6bpe7S9cja5hOtock28-gp_dbfaP1phPFi5MQrO8DDoXyqf3d8WQhHIFWG0EXRtlauoXO7LQci3rm5R9BM/s1600/retainer.bmp" t8="true" /></a></div>No cool colors, but at this point in my life - I'm OK with that. It's actually quite invisible and doesn't give you that tell tell lisp when you talk (which is definitely not cool now). The one thing that inherently can't be fixed, is that it does have to be removed when eating. Unfortunately, there is no way to do this without being totally disgusting. You really have two choices when it comes to retainer removal:<br />
<br />
1. Reach to the back teeth, pry it up and then pull it out of your mouth - along with a long line of spit. <br />
2. Reach to the back teeth, while prying it up, slurp the spit and then pull the retainer out. <br />
<br />
Neither option is what I would call appropriate for the dinner table. Or around any other people for that matter. And it doesn't matter which option I choose, TB always makes a barfing sound when I remove the retainer.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I didn't get the necessary retainer holder box this go around. So when I remove the retainer for meals, I often slip it in my pocket or purse. When I'm cooking at home, I do often set the retainer off to the side on the counter, so I can taste my food. The only problem with this process is that the retainer is clear and can blend into the counter. Not a big deal, unless you have company coming over for dinner and you suddenly can't find the retainer minutes before your guests are about to arrive and you just KNOW that you set it down on the counter just where the plates are set. It would be just horrible to find someone else's retainer sitting beside your dinner plate. After a few panicked moments of frantically searching for the missing retainer, it was found just before our guests arrived. Phew. I really need to get a retainer carrying case.<br />
<br />
Although the middle school me thought that a retainer was cool, I was so very wrong. What was I thinking back then? The spit lines, slurping noises, losing the retainer and the thought of searching through the trash for it...... something that causes all of these things could never be cool. Never.Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-16925287658141458282011-05-24T20:25:00.001-04:002011-05-24T20:25:00.139-04:00Someone Else's Sweat... On MeIn an effort to branch out my fitness abilities, I will occasionally try something different from my usual running (as seen in the previous post). On several occasions, I've tried yoga or pilates and have determined that I am entirely too wound up to do these activities. I like the middle portion of the class, but the beginning and the end with all the breathing and relaxing mumbo jumbo - I tend to find myself thinking about my grocery list, what I'm going to watch on the DVR and what I'm getting for dinner. Maybe that's a sign that I need to keep going back to these classes to relax, but I typically ignore that sign.<br />
<br />
It's been a while since my last attempt at yoga but Groupon made me attempt it again. Groupon was offering a great deal on this newfangled thing called Hot Yoga. It's similar to yoga, with the small exception of the temperature of the room. The thermostat is cranked up to a mere 105 degrees while you're doing the yoga. It was a good price and good location, so I bought my Groupon and headed down to the studio. <br />
<br />
Before class, the room was a typical yoga studio with everyone laying down on their mat and meditating - while I stared at my toes and wondered if I liked my current polish color. Then it started. These little machines in the corners of the room starting pumping hot air into the room and I started sweating.... and the class had not even started. Uh-Oh.<br />
<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/AVvXsEhgCR2q40NA8U-0JT5LNQJ6Cf6-OO88_8JHuYFOL93AB8-aF98KBTnielEHYZZrf8BtX0VmGvKDa0j-KPZqEo0gHuXCaI0hP0snC4Ct3cEOZ_Gp8zZ9h9Prgsq2IDY_oDqFmkr6WTmaasv3/s1600/imagesCA74IQNL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgCR2q40NA8U-0JT5LNQJ6Cf6-OO88_8JHuYFOL93AB8-aF98KBTnielEHYZZrf8BtX0VmGvKDa0j-KPZqEo0gHuXCaI0hP0snC4Ct3cEOZ_Gp8zZ9h9Prgsq2IDY_oDqFmkr6WTmaasv3/s1600/imagesCA74IQNL.jpg" t8="true" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Obviously not me. But you get the point.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
The class consisted of a full 90 minutes of profuse sweating, with a bit of yoga mixed in. I'm not really sure how much yoga, because I was in awe of the amount of sweat dripping off not only me - but all the strangers packed into the room, so I couldn't really concentrate on what I was supposed to concentrating on. I'm talking about sweating to the degree of dripping in your eyes, running down your legs and puddling in pools on your mat. It sure is hard to hold a downward dog when your palms and feet keep slipping out from under you. I think I spent more time wiping the sweat off my body in the attempt to hold a pose than actually holding the pose. 30 minutes into the class, I was insanely exhausted - not to mention nauseous.<br />
<br />
One shining light in the process was the instructor. She mingled throughout the room and gave tips on how to hold poses or adjust your body to get the most out of the class. But a small problem. <br />
<br />
She was sweating too. And leaning over people. Which meant she was dripping her sweat on someone else. Including me.<br />
<br />
YUCK.<br />
<br />
You never EVER want a stranger dripping sweat on you. It's pretty gross.<br />
<br />
After a very long 90 minutes, the class finally ended and we all filed into the locker room to rehydrate and try our best not to pass out. I was struggling to stay alive by this point and was one of the last people to trudge in the locker room. I was so tired and barely hanging in there, in fact I starting trudging through this long trail of water on the floor.....weird. Someone must have dropped their water bottle.<br />
<br />
Wait. That wasn't water - it was a pool of sweat, running from the yoga room to the locker room. A collection of the entire class' sweat. UGGG.<br />
<br />
The saddest part of this whole story is that I didn't realize the co-mingling of sweat until after I got home and started to thinking about the class. The class made me so tired, that at the time I didn't care about other people's sweat. I was swimming in other people's germs and I didn't even know it.<br />
<br />
They say you eventually get used to the Hot Yoga and tend to like the hot room..... but do I really want to spend a day a week mingling with stranger sweat? Not so sure about that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IMXhGeM8X5Vpj23LqQIO-0SeRzZAmoePVwnTjU8Z1zp1Aib3gmaNSCXRmeods62V7GubRgFUu3xa_iXfvwajBBBglgfz8hED9kuUIVyGe_18JDmsPWK5A7zCkTM2Ydgops5zsxJRcvwf/s1600/sweat_excessive.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0IMXhGeM8X5Vpj23LqQIO-0SeRzZAmoePVwnTjU8Z1zp1Aib3gmaNSCXRmeods62V7GubRgFUu3xa_iXfvwajBBBglgfz8hED9kuUIVyGe_18JDmsPWK5A7zCkTM2Ydgops5zsxJRcvwf/s320/sweat_excessive.jpg" t8="true" width="320" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-24239383198386651032011-05-17T18:26:00.001-04:002011-05-17T18:26:00.389-04:00Fast Girls Have Good TimesI am not a serious runner. You know - a serious runner, like those people with the crazy belts that hold water, eating that weird energy gel and keeping their pace on the GPS watch. I am not built to run long distances. My knees turn in and I don't look like one of those marathon runners on TV. I have a serious objection to exercising more than 2 hours a day. And I refuse to change my diet of cereal and chocolate just to run a race.<br />
<br />
I like to plug in my Ipod and go running around a cool neighborhood on a nice afternoon. I may have a distance in mind, but no specific pace in mind. I like races. I think they're fun and you usually get good food and a cool t-shirt. I'm the kind of runner that likes the large races with tons of people. Yes, you may have to dodge people everywhere, but I like the motivation all those people provide and all the spectators on the side of the road cheering you on. Honestly, I really need all those people to keep me going toward the end of the race.<br />
<br />
Although I sound like a terrible runner, I somehow got this crazy idea that I wanted to train for a 1/2 marathon................................. OK, so maybe the idea came from watching several seasons of the Biggest Loser contestants run a marathon (don't judge me please). <br />
<br />
All in all the race was a great experience. Completing the race was one of the most difficult things I've ever done, but also great fun at the same time. I'm not really sure how that worked, but it did. While crossing the finish line I kind of wanted to collapse, drink a gallon of water and cry - but at the same time it was one of my prouder moments. It was something I never thought I could do, but I did it all on my own. Even with cereal and chocolate.<br />
<br />
<br />
After the race, all the serious runners were talking about the course, the hills, their time... blah, blah. My non-serious runner favorite part of race day was all the homemade signs that are put up for the thousands of runners. They kept me entertained and almost kept me from asking myself for the entire race why in the world I decided to run this far... Almost.<br />
<br />
A few of my personal fav signs seen in Nashville:<br />
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"May the course be with you"<br />
"Kick Assphalt"<br />
"Sorry, I've Got To Run"<br />
"Staying up all night making this sign was hard too"<br />
<br />
And of course, my all time favorite:<br />
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"Fast girls have good times"<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxddWwlZpJAMUV2zN6V1IZELntXp0gheWTvxfWeJVL9lTAv0Q9FrKixCq1wT2kA9SJmJcsfSFOquvp2LtVI3PMFE23pEcmZxWHn53vfrMhm5duyh4Muqnh7m4w3P1Onfx4IO_NQm6Jh5-/s1600/Nashville1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaxddWwlZpJAMUV2zN6V1IZELntXp0gheWTvxfWeJVL9lTAv0Q9FrKixCq1wT2kA9SJmJcsfSFOquvp2LtVI3PMFE23pEcmZxWHn53vfrMhm5duyh4Muqnh7m4w3P1Onfx4IO_NQm6Jh5-/s320/Nashville1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-23839398905145556642011-05-05T19:58:00.001-04:002011-05-05T19:58:00.899-04:00Right is RightI do a great deal of teaching and training in my every day job. The challenge with this task is making something that could be complex seem like a snap.<br />
<br />
A big part of what I'm teaching people to do is to put a device together. A device with many moving pieces and parts that has to fit together in a very specific order. Among all the moving pieces, there is one very important part of this system that has to fit onto the right side of the device. It's tricky, because it can go on the left side, but it should go on the right side. Have I confused you yet?<br />
<br />
If you're still with me.... One of my co-workers always uses the saying, "Right is Right", when referring to this very important part of our system. She means that the right side (as in the direction left or right) is the right (as in the correct) side. See, right is right.<br />
<br />
Right is right, isn't just applicable to correctly putting a cochlear implant speech processor together, it also applies to TB's recent back surgery. He's been teetering on the edge of being an invalid for the past few months. He hasn't been able to sleep, drive or even sit - all due to bringing that sweet 65" TV into our living room. Totally worth it. But we still had to do something about his back.<br />
<br />
After several months and quite a few doctor's appointments, he ended up getting a shot in his back. The right side of the spine to be specific. And wouldn't you know it, the back doctor uses the same saying, "Right is Right." See, they even marked TB, just to make sure that no one forgot that right was right.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJnnraDy2F2eq1hFDrrOhipvYdgDHKXYkYQUApxHSJB37eerbbqHQPcBKnE2ScOIrbRAjU6fStPqueZHZXXdTJW-F1aaCApZqz8CA7f9JGa5k9lOSzTgLHK5VjPM45KKP2f3ncFY8-UNX/s1600/IMG_0165.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAJnnraDy2F2eq1hFDrrOhipvYdgDHKXYkYQUApxHSJB37eerbbqHQPcBKnE2ScOIrbRAjU6fStPqueZHZXXdTJW-F1aaCApZqz8CA7f9JGa5k9lOSzTgLHK5VjPM45KKP2f3ncFY8-UNX/s320/IMG_0165.JPG" width="239" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSn4qwoGQB3xN8AnC43Re72n3ECMC1NvI0Z9CLEy944mhFhGVVAbCf_TH4-eaykRZXe6suCXIjJuXdEA9uMPPQWLAXvIHtLSc8xeLkQl9bYuS5HuPzH0CYYwBqkgg7v8EKHmU9gW4ijId/s1600/IMG_0166.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfSn4qwoGQB3xN8AnC43Re72n3ECMC1NvI0Z9CLEy944mhFhGVVAbCf_TH4-eaykRZXe6suCXIjJuXdEA9uMPPQWLAXvIHtLSc8xeLkQl9bYuS5HuPzH0CYYwBqkgg7v8EKHmU9gW4ijId/s320/IMG_0166.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our sheets are even stamped with the confirmation.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And right was indeed right in this case. I'm happy to report that TB is feeling much better!Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-2970125418222312742011-05-01T20:54:00.000-04:002011-05-01T20:54:16.231-04:00"We Just Have Different Styles"In a moment of "do-it-yourselfedness", I decided that we should take on a home improvement project - versus our history or just paying someone else to do it. Since we've moved in, we've hired someone to hang the blinds, paint the exterior, stain the deck, do the landscaping and clean the house. I was feeling a little guilty and lazy about all this subcontracting - and decided that we could take on the next project ourselves.<br />
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Painting the ceiling and built-in bookshelves in the office.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9K-YxMT9iDz3jLOSHzDb7dda6yOiMW5xsGGJu5Q9b5FdTJTcR0VdlXhMUBlrMKzHSoPjROV28SzW0_R9Q592z41A1fVON3yinDTE7vlJ8P9JSB9AkwwfPgcv559HjSSV9ME5lVpv9vS9B/s1600/IMG_6441.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9K-YxMT9iDz3jLOSHzDb7dda6yOiMW5xsGGJu5Q9b5FdTJTcR0VdlXhMUBlrMKzHSoPjROV28SzW0_R9Q592z41A1fVON3yinDTE7vlJ8P9JSB9AkwwfPgcv559HjSSV9ME5lVpv9vS9B/s320/IMG_6441.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Notice the dark brown color. Yuck. Too dark for our taste.</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6VHrG1MxgGr9jylDYaQGL54TLB0Wl79pFoKOaC3xQITSj-pIuXpzHO8CX2YB3CBziILSFMLFDEtUeKVALbUjgrtTJyVxV9E_sIq0wj_3xF3EnQNh9o2z5xaQtSK-JOHhcmNwxNr9VoDB7/s1600/IMG_6442.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6VHrG1MxgGr9jylDYaQGL54TLB0Wl79pFoKOaC3xQITSj-pIuXpzHO8CX2YB3CBziILSFMLFDEtUeKVALbUjgrtTJyVxV9E_sIq0wj_3xF3EnQNh9o2z5xaQtSK-JOHhcmNwxNr9VoDB7/s320/IMG_6442.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVw-XJGCc2_uojS8cWWUiJtbYAKiB63g-cdPuTe0FlatDI_z-5pxIMzsw6IyjdfdL8qLI3bU42_HjYoNAsjnl5ZrW6HsYaKX0vieFvEFCUVT3F93QrWnXulV8kmOjmkUUvna6WBWkoMa4l/s1600/IMG_6445.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVw-XJGCc2_uojS8cWWUiJtbYAKiB63g-cdPuTe0FlatDI_z-5pxIMzsw6IyjdfdL8qLI3bU42_HjYoNAsjnl5ZrW6HsYaKX0vieFvEFCUVT3F93QrWnXulV8kmOjmkUUvna6WBWkoMa4l/s320/IMG_6445.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And the dark ceiling beams. Yikes, those might be hard to paint.....</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Painting can't be that bad and doesn't require too much skill, right? My suggestion was greeted with hostility and doubt by TB. Serious hostility and doubt. After much convincing, he agreed to make an attempt at this project, but was sure to let me know that my credibility was on the line. Talk about pressure!<br />
<br />
I diligently prepared for painting day, by doing research on the best paints and tools to use for the project. I wanted our office to look good, but to also prove two points: <br />
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1. I can prepare for a project just a well as TB can - proving that I am credible and a good project manager.<br />
2. We could take on a home improvement project and succeed! <br />
<br />
Side Story: Now is probably a good time to point out a theme in our house, that may explain the comment above about my credibility being on the line. Sometimes TB gets confused about who I am. He does often come home in work-mode and thinks that I am one of his employees and not his wife. He'll occasionally says things like, "Let's have a discussion about our goals for the year." or "Let's table that" or "Send me a meeting invite" or "Why don't you create a deck on that issue" And of course the above mentioned action of often assigning a project manager to each task we take on.<br />
<br />
Side story done and on the painting prep: Now, I'm typically an over-prepared organized person. BUT, as prepared as I often am for projects, I'm rarely TB prepared. You see, as Type A as I can be, TB makes me look like a sloppy mess. He is a super planner. TB preparedness includes spreadsheets, charts, graphs and research galore! Checklists and timelines. From vacation planning to minor purchases. It's endearing, except when I am painting project manager. We did assign a project manager to this task after all. And it was not TB.<br />
<br />
And finally, on with the painting. The inevitable happened and we got in a scuffle over whether we should sand the built-ins with sand paper sheets or sand paper blocks. I said sheets. He said blocks. As we're both furiously Googling the benefits of each and stating our cases, TB stated that this was bound to happen because, "we just have different styles." <br />
<br />
Hmmm. That's an interesting thought. We do don't we? I always lumped us both in the same group, but he made a good point. I've always been the most organized person in my group of friends and definitely in my family, and I would always get frustrated with the lesser organized folks. Well, in our house - I am now the "lesser organized folks" that makes TB frustrated. Hmmmm. That's one side of the fence I've never been on. <br />
<br />
Once we compromised on our sandpaper delimma, it took us 2 weeks, countless hours and few more stupid fights due to our different styles, but the built-ins were complete. And not only complete, they look pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. And we both learned a good lesson - there are multiple ways to successfully complete a project. Perhaps a chart or graph wasn't completed, but it was done well. <br />
<br />
As for proving my two points:<br />
<br />
1. I can prepare for a project just a well as TB can - proving that I am credible and a good project manager. <span style="color: red;">Check. I think you'll see by the pictures below that it was a job well done.</span><br />
<br />
2. We could take on a home improvement project and succeed! <span style="color: red;">Half Check. We both got a little discouraged by the ceiling aspect of the project and had to throw in the towel on that one. Pablo's Painting took over PM duties. Even without an Excel spreadsheet.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13yHCEB6TpP0MX3kUaknNZapvPPuR3ggbgOFtNx1UJTnKRUZ4DT91qcesrCQ8mAwhQEe0xzY6LWxWtwoiW2E9D2LtVE3fJL_NgLm6PGNoqNUJXi_clF3o45pUDvNid7zUJFqNyUo8O380/s1600/IMG_6451.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj13yHCEB6TpP0MX3kUaknNZapvPPuR3ggbgOFtNx1UJTnKRUZ4DT91qcesrCQ8mAwhQEe0xzY6LWxWtwoiW2E9D2LtVE3fJL_NgLm6PGNoqNUJXi_clF3o45pUDvNid7zUJFqNyUo8O380/s320/IMG_6451.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVqSq67iYrgijcv37eeEcvh7LAHB6ca_QcEU2Sc_dbhrO-E7-vO2IVv_-Yy_C6cz9a79Z_p2mH9t2IjEH2a6cdH-px37tEAjtZNXHa35IJeuyZBhbJom6fjArEDmfwoHoZ8tfG4W8HH08/s1600/IMG_6452.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghVqSq67iYrgijcv37eeEcvh7LAHB6ca_QcEU2Sc_dbhrO-E7-vO2IVv_-Yy_C6cz9a79Z_p2mH9t2IjEH2a6cdH-px37tEAjtZNXHa35IJeuyZBhbJom6fjArEDmfwoHoZ8tfG4W8HH08/s320/IMG_6452.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFPtejdfWKd34rOTG58CjsB1tkRcbzM5JkJPHQkJOsVGv5fPRb3bZJTMNmt_IKGSWhwgW8VsCART5BKk7ET34fNB-uuta8XFO49UzBq1z1_Adqfrdi4OLF_NXzzpOXrG7nY_PrqTOZ_ym/s1600/IMG_6456.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNFPtejdfWKd34rOTG58CjsB1tkRcbzM5JkJPHQkJOsVGv5fPRb3bZJTMNmt_IKGSWhwgW8VsCART5BKk7ET34fNB-uuta8XFO49UzBq1z1_Adqfrdi4OLF_NXzzpOXrG7nY_PrqTOZ_ym/s320/IMG_6456.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><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/AVvXsEj0aWpeDLmBYN2DBWdTddyS3NoijCR0Y2wvV3zkfxtZhf6aFwKBoFv7sqkHyvWE9q_oaWq9chkHs1BSb8OXQuKU7kHKcfLNHAcX2NELjWMMjumXi_PmtZuC1ML_6YhjqdjaIFvzVFz5zXH0/s1600/mail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0aWpeDLmBYN2DBWdTddyS3NoijCR0Y2wvV3zkfxtZhf6aFwKBoFv7sqkHyvWE9q_oaWq9chkHs1BSb8OXQuKU7kHKcfLNHAcX2NELjWMMjumXi_PmtZuC1ML_6YhjqdjaIFvzVFz5zXH0/s320/mail.jpg" width="238" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The completed project (without books put up - of course)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><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/AVvXsEitqCQ0iYC7lSfvFOCcEw9neqcy2igOdRAQfALcysy8VQrmr001DFdurJzmDUgBfDz5cQipsaNiCop8qWxhH6dI1hlgnZSECnLad1LGKL0l6N-hqUDRCuOFSS6shi8Ea2i1_wzVUhO_k1o0/s1600/2mail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitqCQ0iYC7lSfvFOCcEw9neqcy2igOdRAQfALcysy8VQrmr001DFdurJzmDUgBfDz5cQipsaNiCop8qWxhH6dI1hlgnZSECnLad1LGKL0l6N-hqUDRCuOFSS6shi8Ea2i1_wzVUhO_k1o0/s320/2mail.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pablo's Contribution</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ93T3ODZkTIsiG34gRJsIQAOmHVeM_XAEYfV6o9eXFwym1YD_pZ7gP2sUa6BPfSO_rztqgS1zIfee2QW_pHsd_QA7FKbTEQNcVh0sqAnBw39BfPneHEs5_jXVk2QqS_jpZBPlbGpiZiRv/s1600/3mail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" j8="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ93T3ODZkTIsiG34gRJsIQAOmHVeM_XAEYfV6o9eXFwym1YD_pZ7gP2sUa6BPfSO_rztqgS1zIfee2QW_pHsd_QA7FKbTEQNcVh0sqAnBw39BfPneHEs5_jXVk2QqS_jpZBPlbGpiZiRv/s320/3mail.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-59496743475113789442011-04-15T18:00:00.001-04:002011-04-15T18:00:00.833-04:00Craig and His Shady ListI will always have a slight allegiance to Craigslist due to my first experience with him. Thanks to Craig, I was able to snag that amazing Vera Wang wedding dress for a steal! So what, that I had to drive 10 hours, meet a strange girl in a mall and hand her an envelope full of cash. The risk was totally worth it!<br />
<br />
But all that aside - Craigslist is a dangerous sketchy world. As I recently found out first hand.....<br />
<br />
In all of our furniture buying, I have made one mistake. The green chairs. They looked cute in the store, but just didn't match the dinning room. Unfortunately, they were on sale and I couldn't return them. Doh. But, wait!!! No big deal - I'll just list them on Craigslist! Piece of cake.<br />
<br />
The listing process is easy, all I needed to do was to sit back and wait for the flood of emails from local folks wanting to buy my green chairs. I even got a confirmation email that my chairs were listed successfully! <br />
<br />
But wait. <br />
<br />
You have to be concerned when the beginning of every email from Craigslist starts like this:<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: yellow;">** CRAIGSLIST ADVISORY --- AVOID SCAMS BY DEALING LOCALLY<br />
** Avoid: wiring money, cross-border deals, work-at-home<br />
** Beware: cashier checks, money orders, escrow, shipping<br />
** More Info: </span><a href="http://www.craigslist.org/about/scams.html"><span style="background-color: yellow;">http://www.craigslist.org/about/scams.html</span></a><br />
<br />
Hmmmmm. Concerning. But my first experience with Craig was so great! Maybe all those stories of serial killers and con artists on Craigslist are real? That warning sure is harsh. But scams can't be that common - right? Hmmm. Nah. Can't be.<br />
<br />
Just a few short hours after my post, I had a nibble from a fellow named Brian. I replied to his inquiry telling him the chairs were still available and he could come look at them anytime this week, to let me know what day worked best for him. Oh, and Brian - don't forget, I'll only take cash.<br />
<br />
Then "Brian" replies with a few red flags:<br />
<br />
- He needs my full name, address phone number and several other personal pieces of information<br />
- He's such a nice guy that he'll pay me MORE for the chairs than the list price!<br />
- He'll get the MONEY ORDER over to me as soon as I give him all my personal information.<br />
<br />
I'm pretty sure 'ol Brian is a scam artist in Nigeria and had I replied, you would have seen me on the next Dateline NBC talking about how I was taken for everything I had. Right alongside the little old ladies who lost their retirement.<br />
<br />
Oh Craig. Your list has so much potential, but hasn't seemed to help with the sale of my green chairs. It has only succeeded in giving my email address out to shady characters who just want to steal my identity. That was a bit more than I bargained for. I just want to sell my chairs. Is that too much to ask?<br />
<br />
Anyone out there need some chairs? :)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qUDCeQ__ZjmHZDqK36mwUMP_2NZFx2Xvj3-P8ZVTTuJIp_-_POY_BBI0togtUU8_xl4oskAqLuPt0hoXABo_s5J17xyl3qzQp1kJgX6i9xTVOatQzDd7a-1IgErv6QJHpk9tOchyphenhyphenQGXh/s1600/IMG_6527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4qUDCeQ__ZjmHZDqK36mwUMP_2NZFx2Xvj3-P8ZVTTuJIp_-_POY_BBI0togtUU8_xl4oskAqLuPt0hoXABo_s5J17xyl3qzQp1kJgX6i9xTVOatQzDd7a-1IgErv6QJHpk9tOchyphenhyphenQGXh/s320/IMG_6527.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-33982678621800789532011-04-04T16:48:00.000-04:002011-04-04T16:48:37.005-04:00Cheese + Bread + A Bus = Nom nom nomRemember when you were little and your mom would make you grilled cheese sandwiches? Every kid loves cheese and bread. Of course, aside from those poor kids who were lactose intolerant - I'm just not sure how those guys survived.....<br />
<br />
My sister recently told me about a new phenomenon hitting the Portland food truck market. The Grilled Cheese Grill (<a href="http://www.grilledcheesegrill.com/">http://www.grilledcheesegrill.com/</a>). What a phenomenal idea! Even into adulthood - everyone loves a good grilled cheese. I have to admit though, at first I was a little skeptical - I mean how many ways can you spin cheese and bread? And on top of that, it was clear across town from my sister.<br />
<br />
But regardless, we decided to make the trek and check out the grilled cheese guys. Upon walking up to the spot..... my 4 year old niece immediately stopped and said she was NOT eating there. You see, the seating at the Grilled Cheese Grill was in an old double decker bus. Tallie exclaimed that she could not eat in there because the bus might roll away. Once we showed her that there was no engine, she tentatively agreed to give it a go. And I'm glad she did! The food was delicious! Perhaps even the best grilled cheese sandwich. Ever. Seriously. I've tried to figure out how they made their bread perfectly brown and crunchy - but can't seem to get it just right. If you're ever in Portland - you MUST check them out. <br />
<br />
Now if only the Atlanta area would jump on this food truck train.....<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/AVvXsEiwhcjVr2d9TUtH2tlsylX50LnnwgJa10CLkm4IfyYPBQiPkzggnR6pMfInds4yj1B_Rw84wtbm3EpHjbh29360ZB_QswbSqIJaptMTGoHb_9sPMdsX1zdta6MdOyTF5dA0P-GjjdbweiBe/s1600/FT2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwhcjVr2d9TUtH2tlsylX50LnnwgJa10CLkm4IfyYPBQiPkzggnR6pMfInds4yj1B_Rw84wtbm3EpHjbh29360ZB_QswbSqIJaptMTGoHb_9sPMdsX1zdta6MdOyTF5dA0P-GjjdbweiBe/s320/FT2.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The terrifying seating arrangements</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisIkJO3boxjJOFY2oIMZkwEn_av3IW7R6upyZbtpH_EPPghz3F9Jjg9_dc19x6eyo-TxGCSPBR0qXvbKpAe8bQeZh5GGj_kuvsVfPzGr2_TemJT7CrlIWZTn-1wLcycC4iAfxyKVcvly2/s1600/FT3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgisIkJO3boxjJOFY2oIMZkwEn_av3IW7R6upyZbtpH_EPPghz3F9Jjg9_dc19x6eyo-TxGCSPBR0qXvbKpAe8bQeZh5GGj_kuvsVfPzGr2_TemJT7CrlIWZTn-1wLcycC4iAfxyKVcvly2/s320/FT3.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Skeptically checking out the bus and making sure there was no engine</td></tr>
</tbody></table><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/AVvXsEilHJ2g_l5pYvO7dXF5dEzK8RuwwFDnakQqEP6p1bU_iZBhBcjix3HK3OaGFvI_knp5d7VyFwoKv65IIxByuCIrQTe5HWuEgXj4JuGxoR9ZtSHespq0hS-SqoSaGDM-auuBMYdwEjvCxrKR/s1600/FoodTruck.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilHJ2g_l5pYvO7dXF5dEzK8RuwwFDnakQqEP6p1bU_iZBhBcjix3HK3OaGFvI_knp5d7VyFwoKv65IIxByuCIrQTe5HWuEgXj4JuGxoR9ZtSHespq0hS-SqoSaGDM-auuBMYdwEjvCxrKR/s320/FoodTruck.JPG" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Grilled Cheese Grill</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhsAwYpqFOaS8Pka3-vQav52GrNTisIYA3A0NjZU1kyjF6N-K_DdjCw2tTkZ9xKnuP3YlbQTrE19KqCbrGPv1gCuGttVYg0QzjTaE8GWB9Ty72EZWsjnPVqgFwws7NjKzQI6g0NWCZgrP/s1600/FT1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUhsAwYpqFOaS8Pka3-vQav52GrNTisIYA3A0NjZU1kyjF6N-K_DdjCw2tTkZ9xKnuP3YlbQTrE19KqCbrGPv1gCuGttVYg0QzjTaE8GWB9Ty72EZWsjnPVqgFwws7NjKzQI6g0NWCZgrP/s320/FT1.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-790741645779797357.post-3611135054034910232011-03-19T14:41:00.001-04:002011-03-19T14:41:00.779-04:00The Worst Thing in the Entire WorldMy four year old niece recently asked me an interesting question. Our conversation went a little something like this:<br />
<br />
<strong>Tallie</strong>: Auntie Leslie, you want to know what the worst thing in the world is?<br />
<strong>Me</strong>: Gosh, I don't know - what is it?<br />
<strong>Tallie</strong>: Going to the bathroom on the airplane.<br />
The door was freaky and the toilet was gross.<br />
I walked in and said," What the mess is this?"<br />
The floor freaked me out.<br />
I don't ever want to use the bathroom on the airplane again.<br />
It was the worst thing in the world.<br />
<br />
Ahh. That little one is wise beyond her years.<br />
<br />
A few more wise thoughts from a four year old:<br />
<br />
- My mom is never driving a minivan! Ever!<br />
- If you cheat at the Disney Princess matching game, my dad will ninja chop you. <br />
- Freaky looking people live in Portland.<br />
- Policemen come to get you if you're bad, firemen come to help you if you're in trouble and ambulances come to get you if you're dead.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9xl6b4vyLwkRWNEfG1H0LkDEd5F596aS_0rcBJ8LICYFS60cW-PxYj8Kht8GPuEE2t_-mkY2aTQTt8rHyQY1R2yJQgsPn827mjz0Agr3krmiMW0lg5HbvC0sjS3lJk32kJ6DPLZfOxND/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" r6="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV9xl6b4vyLwkRWNEfG1H0LkDEd5F596aS_0rcBJ8LICYFS60cW-PxYj8Kht8GPuEE2t_-mkY2aTQTt8rHyQY1R2yJQgsPn827mjz0Agr3krmiMW0lg5HbvC0sjS3lJk32kJ6DPLZfOxND/s320/photo.JPG" width="239" /></a></div>Lesliehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12140894369808183201noreply@blogger.com0