Politically Restless . . .

I'd like to entertain you with a light entry, brimming with bright and beautiful pictures of my past week.  Pictures full of friendship and color and animals.  But there's something buzzing around in my brain that simply won't let me be.

Instead of feeling the urge to party like it's 1999 . . . 

. . . my tear ducts want to water.

So, I'm hoping to unload my carry-on bag right here.  Give us all a little food for thought.  

And maybe THEN we can ALL breathe a little bit easier.  (I find that with this delightful head cold which my husband found necessary to share with me, Mucinex-D also assists in better breathing.  Let's consider this a bit of written decongestant.)  And, YES, I'm fully aware of the mixed metaphors in this paragraph.  I can do it if I wanna.  This isn't a term paper, you know!

We live in a world of opposites.  Of differences.  And at no time in our society does this fact appear more glaringly apparent than during a presidential election year.

A person without a hard and fast party affiliation -- like myself -- starts looking around and sees how very alone they are on the vast opinionated political plains.  But, instead of longing for a nice little pre-cut niche in which to fit, round peg to round hole, square peg to square hole, I breathe a sigh of relief, and at times dismay, disgust or disgruntlement.  And, I'm supposing I'm not as alone as it might at first appear.  Voters like me just don't perform cannon balls from the high dive into the deep end of the pool, eager to make the biggest, loudest, most obnoxious splash, so we're harder to locate.  Personally, what with the glut of costly negative ads on television, paid pundits jabbing and sparring with weighted verbal gloves, and now the social forums like Facebook and Twitter alight with unkind, abrasive, and often untrue, pictures and posts, presidential election season fills me with dread.  It doesn't bring out the best in most people.  And the constitution takes a beating, with folks declaring their 'right to free speech' every time something crass and downright ignorant is said or written.

It's at those times that I take a good hard look at the person next to me, so very individual, so fortunate to be an American, so patriotic if somewhat misguided in the way they are choosing to express their political leanings, and thus represent our democratic system to the rest of the watching world, and want to ask, "Do you have MY back as a fellow citizen?  Because I have YOURS."  However I vote, regardless of the thought process by which I arrive at that decision, I'm not only considering myself and the well-being of my family and circle of friends, but the well-being of the people of my nation.  The decision weighs on my conscience all the way to the booth.  I'd like to believe that a majority of voters out there in election land feel a portion of that awesome burden as well, whether Democrat or Republican, independent or other.  But when they're so intently bent on bashing the candidates (and as an aside, as a stumbling but loyal Christian, I see how it hurts the way non-Christians view our faith when WE partake of the bashing, and often more loudly and righteous than others), it muddies the waters to such an extent that any clear true motives are obscured. 

 I wonder if it is more important for people and parties to be number one, to be right, to be morally, religiously or socially superior, so much so that they've neglected to contemplate how our founding fathers approached their right to create and live in a republic, unencumbered by a monarchy, fettered solely by the discretionary views of the educated and fair-thinking populous, regardless of their affiliation.  I think we disrespect the process when we insult the office of the president, and that means whoever is holding that office, with base innuendo and cruel or flippant mockery.  There's a line between disliking the incumbents on principle and desiring alternate policies, and crowing like a bandy rooster that they're satanic or manipulating a sound-byte to make it appear they've espoused something that they clearly have not.  Whatever happened to possessing divergent perspectives and debating those perspectives as ladies and gentlemen?  Whatever happened to taking our portion of individual responsibility for how our nation is turning out, from insurance to infrastructure to economics, and NOT simply placing 100% of it on the shoulders of WHOEVER ends up precariously perched on the highest seat?  To looking at how each of us spends and lives and works, how we each represent our America on a daily basis?  Including how we post on social forums and how we discuss men and women running for office, whom we've never even met, in front of our children.  And I include myself in that equation.  Over the years, I've tried to temper my immediate visceral response to what I see and hear in all instances, including politics, by considering how I'd feel if I was connected to the person or situation.  Because, really, by three or three thousand degrees of separation . . . I am connected.          

There.  All better now.  I've said my piece. 

 Probably the most you'll ever 'hear' me say about politics.  There's enough fodder in the form of polls and shows and literature to choke the entire population of Tennessee Walking horses in our fair state.  I'm definitely not tossing my hat into THAT ring.  I'd rather wear my hat and shade myself from the heat of the next two weeks.  

And then I'll hang it up and join everyone in a collective SIGH-H-H!

Prepare To Be Impressed?

You may be unaware of one of the more fascinating aspects of my scintillating suburban life: I'm a member of the 3-person panel on my neighborhood's Architectural Committee.  Yup!  That's right.  I have a heavy hand in approving pools, fences, playgrounds and major landscaping changes for Jamison Place.  Go ahead with your applause.  I'll just grab a special toothpick and bide my time until the din dies down . . .

Okay.  Now that you've recovered from the sheer delight of this revelation.  

What?  Oh?  Well.  Hot off the presses.  It looks like there yet another impressive surprise for my readers as they remain suspended in curious abeyance: Jimmy Valdez was roped into HOA service as a board member for the next three years!  All it took was his attendance at the annual meeting last night.  (I asked him and my son to accompany me to the festivities to a fill a couple more seats: 150+ homeowners but there's always less than 20 who show up.)  No one raised a hand when the query for new board members was tossed into the ring, but my husband smiled.  Say no more.  He caught the eye of the one long-term female member on the board who knows me pretty well.  Evidently, if you are in my physical vicinity when the call for help goes out, I exude eau du volunteerism, and the scent rubs off.  "It's a done deal, bear!"  (From a favorite children's book I used to read to my children.)  It's actually a pretty low-key gig.  One of the best aspects of the position is that of meeting neighbors you'd otherwise never know.  And for my husband, it's a very good thing for him to make the acquaintance of a few of the folks in our surrounding cul-de-sacs.

One of the hot topics up for discussion centered around the abuse of mailbox rights in our community.  We're one of those hoods sporting the same black mail receptacles.  It's the responsibility of the homeowner to replace or repair them as needed.  We've lived here for 8+ years now; twice our mailbox has been plowed through, so twice we have replaced it at $275 a pop!  And as for minor repairs, limp flags, droopy doors, rust -- the thing always needs a minor facelift of some sort.  However, the covenants are vague and the board has no power to actually enforce this rampant problem of mailbox abuse, save from sending out notices.  Thus, there are bent flags, flapping doors and full-on broken-down boxes with configurations of duct tape and bungee cords in use to extend life and save the pocketbook.  In a middle-class neighborhood like ours, with quarterly dues paid regularly by most, this ghetto chic habit is an assault to the sensibilities of certain folks.  

(I have to offer full disclosure here and state that though I regularly, REGULARLY, walk, walk, WALK, through the streets of Jamison Place, and I notice the disrepair, it doesn't actually rate on my radar of annoyances.  It won't come as a surprise to most that my reasons for volunteering to serve on the architectural committee centers around my sense of responsibility: I just want to do my part for my neighborhood.  I'm NOT interested in having my fingers in everyone else's pie and flaunting what very little power the position holds to nitpick and make contacts for my future political career as I make the very slow climb up the ladder of local government.)

At one point in the great mailbox debate, while ideas were hurtling through the airspace of the church room we were using for the meeting, I declared, "God bless America.  Land where we have the freedom and luxury to groan about mailboxes!"  That got a few smiles from the board; people who thoroughly researched every aspect of the subject for well over a year and treated it with the gravity due homeowners who care for their property and diligently send in their HOA fees check every 3 months.  And yet their own lives are burgeoning with far weightier issues, I know.

And that's just it.  It's that significant aspect of my life that I want never to forget.  I had absolutely NO choice in the circumstances of my birth, including the my citizenship.  I'm American, as opposed to Syrian, Iranian, Latvian, Hungarian, Swedish, Japanese, Polynesian or Liberian, only because of the location of my entrance into the community of the entire PLANET.  Because I'm American, because I'm a suburbanite, because my husband has been blessed with a job history which has allowed me to remain at home full-time throughout a significant portion of our 24-year+ married life, I can sit in a fold-up chair in one of many 'spare' rooms in a large local place of Christian worship and listen to my neighbors opine about the state of their comfortable brick homes with indoor plumbing to several working bathrooms, laundry room and roomy kitchens; two-car garages where cars don't even reside due to the congestion of mowers, bicycles, tools and gardening supplies; driveways spacious enough to accommodate a lesser-sized home elsewhere in my town, or several huts or shacks in third-world countries; yards green with the luxury crop of grass which requires enough summer water to supply an entire small village with cooking and bathing for at least a few months; and access to grocery stores, doctors, vets, churches, shops of all kinds and technology to the N'th degree.

(May I briefly digress and ask that you pay minor homage to that last paragraph?  Not the length of the third sentence. NOT bad, eh?)

I'm an American.  It's a privilege and not my right.  I feel fortunate.  I don't feel superior to other nations.  Nor do I want to see entire populations of 'enemy' countries wiped off the face of the map.  Under other circumstances, I could be one in the numerous other populations which pepper the land masses of our enormous and diverse Earth.  Every day I am alive, I try to exercise my citizenship with the proper perspective and gravity I have ben afforded.  That includes voting because I won't be forcibly dissuaded from trying to get to the polls.  That includes attending Church at Cross Point in a public manner because I'm not like one of my friends who works in the Middle East to further the cause of self-sustaining agriculture and disperse the seeds of his faith without the freedom to actually discuss said faith online or in real time with real people.  That includes sending my daughters to school because they won't be shot in the head for attempting to secure an education.  That includes walking side-by-side with my husband at the mall, and even holding hands if I like, because I won't be stoned by the men in my community.  And I enjoy clipping my toenails, pulling weeds, playing Bunco, baking lemon biscotti, watching the news while I wash dishes, hunting for the dish sponge when the cat hunts it and drags it to her mistress' room as a trophy of her indoor prowess, chasing Hankie Mutt down the road when he escapes the yard, chatting it up with the Wal-Mart checkout employee, sending cards across the country, FaceTiming with my daughter and son-in-law in Germany, posting morning-hair pictures of myself on Facebook and even rounding up those pesky balls of hair in the bathroom which like to congregate behind doors and in corners -- the mundane and momentous -- each and every . . . all because I CAN.

As I've said many a time before, I'd rather be poor or grieving or dying in America than many other places 'out there.'  

Cap the WHAT?!

I'm so-o intensely irked right now.  My cousin, Annette, writes a blog.  Today's topic was based on news that a good friend of hers received regarding his status as a Stage 4 breast cancer victim: "What would you do if you had two years to live?"  Serious stuff.  And sweet.  As per my M.O. I left a thoughtful comment with a smidgen of humor at the end.  Or rather I TRIED to leave my comment.  Over.  And over.  And OVER again.  However, the sadistic creator of the latest round of captchas -- you know, those garbled letters and numbers we must decipher and type in to prove we aren't robots? --  that dreary human being, perhaps HE/SHE is a robot, must detest comments.  The more sure I am that I've entered the code correctly, the more apt I am to be informed that I was a complete failure and should try again.  Oh!  Better yet, try the audio button if you are visually impaired.  Yes, that's loads better.  Now, the letters and numbers are indecipherable against a background of moans and groans and  oddly varied and sundry other noises which make me question my sanity and wonder what horror movie I've stumbled into.

What's worse is that many of them form two words.  I'm supposed to figure out what those two words are and then space them.  Besides bearing unletterlike shapes and huddling together impossibly tight and topsy-turvy-rollercoaster-curvy, the words supposedly within the captcha aren't like any words I use on a daily basis.  Not even words that might end up written on occasion though not common in speech.  What the WHAT?!!!  The help instructions inform me that this will prevent an abuse of the service by automated programs designed by schemers who would rather use their talents to jam up the Internet and scam companies and contests and e-mail users than for some employable purpose.  Well, thank you, abusers of the system.  Because I feel like I've been abused.  Mentally violated.  Made to think that I am both visually and hearing challenged.  Not to mention the fine folks who are missing out on their comments from true fans; I know I'm not alone in this online frustration.  Commentary is one of the reasons we blog.  We want to be read.  We want to express and opine.  For me, I yearn to write and will do as I can until I'm free to do as I want.  And we like comments.

So, I returned to the scene of the latest captcha drama and tried once again.  Yeah.  Just now.  I realized that a picture of a number and the crazy letters were showing.  My mind would not register the strange little picture.  (You really need to see it to believe it.  Try to post a comment on my blog if you have a Google account and take a gander.)  Evidently, the picture represents one of the words.  O-o-k-a-ay then.  After expressing only one-fifth of what I tried to say earlier, it took three attempts to correctly interpret the code, taking the picture into account.  I'll admit my success but tell you the letters really were impossibly difficult.  One would almost have to be a robot to stick with it.

I think it's causing me to lose my hair.  Maybe dark chocolate would fix that.  And I could text my cousin my appreciation for her latest efforts.

There you have it.  Until the next Fare Forward entry I peruse.  Then I'm in real trouble!  Eeeek.

P.S.  A blurry shot of the number 1 + BUSINBA = comment posted.

 

The Web of Fear

I'm a fan of fear.  But probably not in the way you think.  Horror movies: I have absolutely no use for them.  Haunted houses: my son can knock on those doors.  Paralyzing thoughts which impede my progress as a questing member of the human race: back off!

Nope, what I like resides in the mind and gut, refusing to budge until I fling wide the gates and take a full-on gander at the roiling contents.  By then, the fear of whatever [failure at writing/being overweight/losing a child/losing my faith] has oozed out, far beyond a possible return behind said gates.  It's there, ugly and a bit scary, or a trainload of scary, and in need of action.  Either I wade in, wrestle it, figure out how to eradicate, extricate and otherwise empty it, or I willingly surrender to it and allow the toxic flow to wash completely over me, to envelop, enfold and enter my every psychic nook and cranny.  I rather prefer my nooks and crannies room to breathe, thank you very much, so then the war is on, often epic in scope, battles at every bend in the thought road.  Battles from which I don't always emerge as victor.  Those are the ones where I remind myself that there are a few strategies and troops at my disposal.  Friends, family, information, counseling, medication, prayer.  Because, as they say and has been proven time and time again, you can lose a few battles but still win the war.

I was raised to understand that fear should not be the victor.  But fear can be an excellent tool for personal growth --there aren't too many things that feel better than overcoming: this is the aspect of fear that I like, or perhaps 'welcome' is the better word.  The way one welcomes a flooding rain which washes away all evidence of clay-cracking drought and ushers in all that is lush and green.  Even if that means you are literally peeing your swimsuit all the way down the multi-storied waterslide at Water World in Denver, quite certain you may have actually achieved more than just a mere emptying of the bladder!  (In these types of instances, in which one tackles an immediate physical fear within safety parameters, simply so that the fear does not rule you or your bladder or your bowels, achieving it ONCE is MORE than enough!)

It took me awhile to realize that fear cannot be conquered until it is first identified.  Knowing the enemy is key.  And the enemy can be quite deceiving and alluring at first, second, or even third glance.   The kind of fears of which I write don't resemble spiders or snakes or clowns (I blame this one on Stephen King, as clowns enjoyed an uplifting reputation before his revamping of said famed circus performer).  They inhabit the gray matter beneath our skulls, the nerve ending traversing out bodies, the deep recesses of our spiritual beings, masquerading as ideas and perspectives and supposed logic.  From them spring all manner of diseased thinking, from anorexia to racism to suicide.  Often, they are rooted in nonsense allowed in from an external source, but they raced in unidentified as a future danger, and there they take root, festering like a cancer, until they eventually push against the vital spaces around them and reveal their presence.  Upon that revelation, don your armor and brandish your sword!

At least arachnophobia makes sense from an logical standpoint of bites, venom, and multi-legged crawly buggers which don't possess the typical cuddly lovable attributes of puppies and kittens which generally appeal to human beings.  (Having said that, spiders enjoy a special place in my mind as things of wonder, purpose and beauty in the natural world.)  There's a visceral trigger which warns a person to protect against a possible danger because even in their usefulness, a spider can be a harmful thing in the right circumstances.  This type of fear doesn't have to stop us from pursuing a vital life unless there are plans to star in "Snakes On A Plane Part 2: Invasion of the Arachnids".  Unless you live in Australia where poisonous and venomous snakes and spiders abound in unusually high numbers: seriously consider relocation.  I never hear about such things in, say, Antarctica.

I leave you with a collection of lovely photos, some in macro, which leave little to the imagination and perfectly illustrate my point.  But here.  Take a look for yourself and see what I mean.

Waltzing Mathilda . . . Kind Of

It's been an interesting week.  But a highlight had to be making a new friend, er, make that FRIENDS, at the Bark Park.  Hank, much like my children have over the years, puts me into situations where I'm thrown in with a bunch of friendly strangers with a hankering to discuss their pets much the way parents hash over their kids -- only over slobber and poo-bags instead of coffee and pastries.  (Yes, I realize there are owners who consider their pets to be on par with their children; but as much as I adore Hankie Mutt, I did NOT carry him in my womb for nine months and lose my dignity in allowing him entry into the world.  Having said that, Hank has caused me and a few select friends and relatives a loss of said dignity with that forceful nose of his.) 

This is Mathilda.  (It may be 'Matilda' but the word-lover in me rather likes the 'h.')  A gentle Neapolitan  Mastiff, or Italian Mastiff.  She weighs in at a puny 120 pounds and lumbers around more like a small bear than a dog.  An ancient breed, the Neapolitan Mastiff's lineage can be traced back to ancient Egypt, Persia, Mesopotamia and Asia - to the dogs of war used by the Roman army. The breed later existed on estates and farms in northern Italy, designed to be imposing in appearance for use as a defender of owner and property. [As stated on the AKC website.]  Because her skin is loose all over her body, it creates the droopy-eyed look which some people mistakenly belief to be indicative of an eye infection or eye condition.  In fact, one of the trademarks of this particular breed of mastiff is an abundance of skin rolls on the head.  I can only imagine the extra grooming attention that would require.  I love that her fur color is referred to as blue, and the plural form of Mastiff is Mastini: the 'Blue Mastini' should be a drink or a dense blueberry dessert.  I'd imbibe either way.  As it was, I imbibed on Mathilda and her owner, a pretty petite woman by the name of Bonnie.  

I met them both on Wednesday afternoon when I opted to drop in on the Bark Park with Hankie Mutt rather than brave Wal-Mart.  Good choice, if I do say so myself.  Hank met his match in this big girl.  Though she's a slow mover, she know's who's queen of the dog pile and has the paws and bark to prove it!  I again met up with my new friends today but, alas, has to leave my pooch behind after orders from the vet to avoid public canine fraternizing for two weeks as we try to clear up a developing skin allergy issue most likely related to diet.  Bummer for him.  I, however, chatted it up with Bonnie, each of us sharing our lives and insights while constantly avoiding more than a few pretty intense traffic jams consisting of dogs of ALL sizes, breeds and temperaments.  We were also mercilessly attacked by gnats and mosquitos.  Our next meeting may occur indoors with a warm mug in our hands!  I put my sister's DSLR to good use, too, as I find that dogs are generally photogenic across the board. 

So, in that vein, I thought it would be fun to share my shots of the four-legged, kibble-nibbling, hiney-sniffing kind who caught my eye this past week.  Enjoy.

One of Panda's uptown purebred cousins.

Such a sweet little face . . . 

This Great Dane was taller than Mathilda!

This little guy was BEGGING to be with the big boys.

This guy's random black spots atop whitewashed black spots is too cool.

Mathilda/Matilda.  WHAT a mug!  And she slobbers non-stop.
Bonnie carries a towel around for clean-up.

Puppies and babies: showstoppers ALL!

The next set of photos are dogs of friends.  Namely, Earth Diva Gayla and her son & daughter-in-law.  I'm telling you, good dogs are most often determined by good owners!

Okay, so-o Winslow -- a labradoodle -- stands as the example by which all other dogs in my circle are measured: and found to be lacking.  In a word, he's PERFECT.  Well-mannered.  Obedient.  Mellow.  Fun.  Gentle.  Smart.  He starred in a play.  I expect his first book to be released any time now.  Fortunately, Hankie Mutt is clueless as to Winslow's shining merits and the case they build against his, er, errant habits.

Rosie is a bully terrier rescue dog.  I hesitate to use the term 'pitbull' because of the negative connotations so often associated with these terrier breeds.  She loves all dogs.  Is rather skittish but not aggressive with new humans due to abuse.  And she is Hank's very first love.  She's a dainty but strong little thing and her ears are lovely.

During last year's dog training with three of four Earth Diva dogs, Rosie trusted me enough to be her handler during a test.  I felt like I had won a prize!  Gayla and her family have worked patiently and diligently with Rosie; she's come a long way.  She truly IS a 'lucky dog' as are most rescues.

Bristol is the newest member of the Edwards' family doggie dynasty.

She downright ADORES her papa . . . 

. . . loves her mama . . . 

 

. . . and from what I gathered at our Saturday night dinner party, she enjoys sneaking up on unsuspecting folks and licking their faces before they realize what's happened!

In closing, lest you forget, Hankie Mutt reigns supreme in my home.

Seen here with my grandmutt, Abby.  They really are a good looking contrasting duo.

Falling Into Changes

Me at my desk in the under-renovation Writing Room (photo courtesy of Zachary Valdez)

Hulloo-o-o-o there, blog readers!  I just did the math and realized I let 10 days slip by since my last entry.  In that time, summer surrendered to fall.  Not intentional, I promise.  (The 10 days, I mean.  I have no control over the seasons though at one point I may have convinced my children to believe this for awhile.  Hey, some kids are gullible!)   It's been a rough couple of weeks.  Between my shoulder pain and the upped dose of Celexa (the mild antidepressant I started AND stopped last year, and then REstarted this year) my body and its chemistry have been out of whack enough to slow me down and subconsciously bum me out.  That's a long story made sub-compact right there. 

Was feelin' a little blue . . . 

However, I made two significant decisions to battle these detractors of me.  Namely, adding acupuncture to the list of prophylactic measures in my bag of tricks for this recurring injury to that wondrous joint which anchors my left arm to my torso; and, after a month of waiting for 30 milligrams of citalopram (generic Celexa) to make peace with my brain, I dropped back down to 20 milligrams this past Friday.  These simple acts of proaction (sorry, Spellcheck, it's a word tonight!) have psychologically nudged me back to a comfortable position far from the cliff edge to which I was scooting day by day.

My GAME face.

Because none of my fears revolve around needles, my problems with acupuncture centered more around the money than anything else.  I'd heard enough about Dr. Kestner to feel comfortable in choosing him as my practitioner of this Eastern medicine.  But insurance companies are not on board with the insertion of hair-fine shafts of stainless steel into nerve and muscle.  My first session began with a consult and questions which didn't end when the good doc stuck me with 9 teensy-weensy spears; at my second appointment, I told him to let me have it . . . full strength . . . that resulted in 20 of the little buggers.  I assured him I could sit very still for the roughly 20-minute session.  Oh, how I tried!  But I must admit right here that in reaching for my iPhone to attempt a few photos, I knocked out one of the acu-needles.  Ooops.  I was paying for that!  Lesson learned.  (So, what you see below are the 3 shots Dr. Kestner obligingly took for me during my maiden voyage.)  And with the addition of daily icing, a touch of ibuprofen as needed, and a complete withdrawal from all forms of physical exercise requiring my shoulder, I've noticed an incremental improvement each week 0f 10%-15% which differs from simply doing nothing or attempting physical therapy.  (That also means that for THREE weeks -- sad weeks for me -- I've refrained from my push-up regimen for the third late summer in a row.  Aaargh!  Amazing how quickly muscle loses its form in a post-40 body.)

I'm NOT apprehensive about the treatment . . .
I'm thinking about my wallet!

The doc suggested I try smiling so that folks wouldn't
the wrong idea about acupuncture!

Still working with some muscle here . . . 

Per the antidepressant, even with the aid of my organic cold-brewed Rwandan coffee twice a day, I found myself in a haze most of the day which robbed me of my natural energy and brightness.  It was as if I was unable to every fully wake up.  Concentration came and went.  Usually went.  My mornings took two hours to get me up and at 'em -- totally out of character.  Instead of being late to church or other events because I tried to cram too many quick chores right up against my shower-shampoo-and-shine-time, my tardiness stemmed from a very real physical inability to move or think quickly. I know someone who takes 60 milligrams of this drug daily; it explains a lot about the lack of quality function in their life.  (This little blip in my health radar further enhanced my awareness of the difficulty that my brother and people like him who suffer with mental and emotional illnesses face when they really MUST take lithium and stronger medicine in order to live day-to-day with any semblance of normalcy.) Add to that the increase in my desire to eat, full belly or not, which started to pack on some of those hard-fought ten pounds I lost earlier this year.  NOT COOL!  The lower dose decreased my appetite.  Part of the reason I added this particular anti-depressant on board was to alleviate my anxiety and thought-cycles concerning my weight, eating, etc.  All of which I've touched upon in this blog, or The Reluctant Suburbanite blog, over the past few years. 

Say HELLO to my little friend . . . 

On a positive note long in the works, my last visit to my primary care physician came with an order for blood work.  Turns out that I've finally succeeded in raising my B-12 levels to normal AND my iron is much improved.  It took years to get this right!  My orders are to continue my supplement regimen for the rest of my natural born life.  ROGER THAT!

  

That's ONE type of butterfly.

THIS is another type.

So, let's end this entry right there.  I'm back in the saddle.  Again.  Perking up.  And relieved to say it.  My dog is at my feet -- speaking of feet, he nibbled on my hubby's Harley Davidson black leather boots one morning after my son left them out, minor damage but aggravating to my man, AND I replaced an expensive pair of Nike Air Max tennis shoes to the tune of $120, ON SALE, plus a 20% coupon but STILL, that belonged to my son's friend and found their way to Hank's mouth because they were left in his domain, and there's my son in both stories, enough said about Hank, let's focus on the boy.  

But I digress.  It happens.  

The hubby.

The SON!

The HANKIE Mutt!!!

5x7 Folded Card

Black Border 5x7 folded card

Tell them you love them with Shutterfly Valentines cards.

View the entire collection of cards.