tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-299685772024-03-23T12:10:22.199-06:00Reversible ErrorsLike a tornado, I can rip through your life. Or not.Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.comBlogger221125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-13224522690990706942021-07-10T15:43:00.001-06:002021-07-10T15:43:01.065-06:00Oh Haiiiii!!I was so afraid that my blog had disappeared- I mean, I haven't actually logged in for a couple of years, but still, shouldn't it be there? It only contains about 200 years and tears of my emotional growth...just saying. <div><br></div><div>I gave my momma a present of StoryWorth last year for Mother's Day. If you aren't familiar, it's a company that sends your loved ones a writing prompt about once a month, and then binds all of the essays in to a book when they are done. It really is genius - and worth it if you ask me. I think it is just HARD sometimes as a human to answer some questions that hit too close to the bone. </div><div><br></div><div>Anyway, I started thinking about how many of my learning/teaching moments from the 2000's made their way to my blog but there is a definite drop off in activity - why?? I didn't stop learning or doing really ridiculous things that I would want to save others from (isn't THAT the truth??l). Rather, I think I ran out of prompts. Ha!</div><div><br></div><div>I need me some prompting. </div><div><br></div><div>In other news - it's been 11 years since the infamous break up with Mr. G. </div><div><br></div><div>I think my body is remembering all of that trauma - what a bewildering yet awesome way we process past pain. </div><div><br></div><div>I will be very gentle with myself today in light of this realization. </div><div><br></div><div>What is YOUR body remembering today?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xbMsdlhaYEE/YOoUYwYv8EI/AAAAAAABkP0/LfWmYsCLbXwWUacvMn7FccDyyIHTRtvqACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1625953374993958-0.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;">
<img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-xbMsdlhaYEE/YOoUYwYv8EI/AAAAAAABkP0/LfWmYsCLbXwWUacvMn7FccDyyIHTRtvqACLcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1625953374993958-0.png" width="400">
</a>
</div></div>Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-58384411643324396822019-09-20T15:43:00.000-06:002019-09-20T15:43:04.624-06:00Road Damage Ahead<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
I am not a fan of riding the motorcycle on dirt roads, but this one was only partially dirt. The other part of the road was pavement from prehistoric times. It was a rough road any way you slice it. </div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
The view, though!</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
So very lovely. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CFWIUN_NC68/XYVGRtHsGII/AAAAAAABNwM/NUupiWQwyk0AnQXOYVWHFMBuw6LMzt1mwCKgBGAsYHg/s1600/20190915_153923.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="778" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CFWIUN_NC68/XYVGRtHsGII/AAAAAAABNwM/NUupiWQwyk0AnQXOYVWHFMBuw6LMzt1mwCKgBGAsYHg/s320/20190915_153923.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
It looks like it will be my last ride on the back of the bike as a single lady -I am getting married in 20 days. 20 days. Twenty days. TWENTY DAYS.</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mxqgWIFVzCg/XYVGmZrGI0I/AAAAAAABNwU/gtMYh7xrA3MVr8DAEHY_RczqkLuOBudRQCKgBGAsYHg/s1600/20190915_141827.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="778" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mxqgWIFVzCg/XYVGmZrGI0I/AAAAAAABNwU/gtMYh7xrA3MVr8DAEHY_RczqkLuOBudRQCKgBGAsYHg/s320/20190915_141827.jpg" width="155" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
Lord, have mercy. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-57401364741866261862019-04-30T10:46:00.001-06:002019-04-30T10:47:22.595-06:00That's What Friends Are For<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v4VAEwQ4zRQ/XMh6kDhpZuI/AAAAAAABIx0/q1xEJWbzuqc55f1uR-5FIzGFAHOmLHtmgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG954011-01.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="800" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-v4VAEwQ4zRQ/XMh6kDhpZuI/AAAAAAABIx0/q1xEJWbzuqc55f1uR-5FIzGFAHOmLHtmgCKgBGAs/s320/IMG954011-01.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div>
We have a girlfriend who gets to go on lots of dates. She really is that charming and lovely!<br />
<br />
Goodnaturedly, she has allowed us to start a pool on which of her many suitors will make it to the next level.<br />
<br />
What she didn't know is that we would do our own reconnaissance during her dates.<br />
<br />
We involved the bartender, the hostess, the server, AND the other guests in the restaurant - and so we got the job done.<br />
<br />
The man in question will survive to see another date with our approval. Lucky guy!! Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-7158478892380861102019-04-29T10:24:00.001-06:002019-04-29T10:27:03.330-06:00Annoying Things Pt.367551<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XPdOnllBO5o/XMclKyNMWkI/AAAAAAABIs4/gRQ7Zd6a8Jo6guCjSWr9PV84XLZMbCEbQCLcBGAs/s1600/20190409_112553%2B%25282%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1258" data-original-width="1600" height="251" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XPdOnllBO5o/XMclKyNMWkI/AAAAAAABIs4/gRQ7Zd6a8Jo6guCjSWr9PV84XLZMbCEbQCLcBGAs/s320/20190409_112553%2B%25282%2529.jpg" width="320" /></a>Seriously. When looking for a recommendation, why do you have to qualify it as being a request for a GOOD recommendation? Do you have people in your world who routinely set you up for failure by giving you bad suggestions?<br />
<br />
"In Search Of: Mechanic. Must be trustworthy and competent. Not too expensive."<br />
<br />
Really? Do you think there would have been someone thinking, "Oh! I know a great mechanic, but now that you say that you need someone trustworthy and competent...well, that one is out." Good thing you clarified ahead of time! Think of all of the untrustworthy, incompetent and overpriced mechanics your friends and family would have suggested to you.<br />
<br />
Or this one: "Looking for free or cheap lawnmower. Must run great and be in excellent condition."<br />
<br />
I am sorry - what you are looking for is a new lawnmower and those must be purchased at (or near) MSRP. Or stolen, I guess.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should start ignoring those types of posts instead of answering with my favorite response: "???".<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-24714350792495546242018-04-05T15:25:00.001-06:002018-04-05T15:25:39.103-06:00Prickly<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-06EHsV0rHv8/WsaRvFjScNI/AAAAAAABAMA/Peq0Ewz5DJQn7MYpnssnZIUx1XebGYB_wCEwYBhgL/s1600/20180405_132755.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-06EHsV0rHv8/WsaRvFjScNI/AAAAAAABAMA/Peq0Ewz5DJQn7MYpnssnZIUx1XebGYB_wCEwYBhgL/s320/20180405_132755.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I am dangerously prickly and sullen lately. Quick to take offense - and sure to give it. Being known for my rays of sunshine and optimism, this is hard to reconcile! I honked and "gestured" at someone who cut me off (he pulled up next to me and apologized), I refused to engage in an argument with a client and ended up losing his business (not because I was taking the high road...I simply didn't care enough to exert energy on him), and have been randomly glaring at one household child or another (so I am told). I feel yucky on the inside but don't have enough spunk to commit to a change. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
I need a pep rally or something. I can see it now: Go! Fight! Be nice! </div>
Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-14283764037760211012018-04-02T16:32:00.000-06:002018-04-02T16:32:03.249-06:00Bye Little Birdie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rZDG_cErvms/WsKtkjFCwdI/AAAAAAABAKA/0QRp6fmnUCQKNvu3rInmUOPSHcGk6GOTwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_20180326_132430_510.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rZDG_cErvms/WsKtkjFCwdI/AAAAAAABAKA/0QRp6fmnUCQKNvu3rInmUOPSHcGk6GOTwCEwYBhgL/s1600/IMG_20180326_132430_510.jpg" /></a></div>
Jeremy is a senior this year. I have already grown and graduated a senior child (she graduated from both high school AND college), but this time seems to be different. I am not sure if it's because my daughter insisted on doing everything herself and making sure that I didn't stick my nose in her business, or if it's because I actually understand now what it means for a child to graduate and go on about their life without you. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am panicking a little. It's not that I don't want them to have their own lives...it's that I don't want them to have their own lives without me. And yes, I have already inquired: Jeremy will NOT let me attend college with him next year. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Bummer. Maybe the youngest will. </div>
Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-50282184089887742442018-03-30T11:30:00.000-06:002018-03-30T11:31:40.577-06:00A Spring Lament<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t9dXPSezVVs/Wr5ysYWsjWI/AAAAAAABAF8/zAKvehzLVJwoTxTBiwTXe72cXeRtVcHHwCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_20170718_131107_343.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t9dXPSezVVs/Wr5ysYWsjWI/AAAAAAABAF8/zAKvehzLVJwoTxTBiwTXe72cXeRtVcHHwCKgBGAs/s320/IMG_20170718_131107_343.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
It's that season-in-between-seasons here in Colorado. Not Winter anymore and not really Spring yet - but almost. It still gets below freezing at night and can snow any given afternoon if there are enough clouds. Even if the forecast says 61 degrees.<br />
<br />
We are past the Spring Equinox, and that should mean something!<br />
<br />
All it really means to me is that I wore the wrong thing to work again today.Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-61453065872876188852018-03-29T12:36:00.000-06:002018-03-29T16:35:54.271-06:00Nom. And more Nom.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ygUuM1-Uzw8/Wr0v_CU7RZI/AAAAAAABAE8/Qnnpk9bgnvshGJrm65Uw0JfIcdImVCAUgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_20171215_200656_652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1364" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ygUuM1-Uzw8/Wr0v_CU7RZI/AAAAAAABAE8/Qnnpk9bgnvshGJrm65Uw0JfIcdImVCAUgCKgBGAs/s320/IMG_20171215_200656_652.jpg" width="272" /></a></div>
I can tell you without a doubt that I will need to take cooking classes before I walk down that aisle again.<br />
<br />
In the last 11 years, the percentage of meals prepared<i> </i>by me for me and my little tribe is maybe an optimistic 45%. The percentage of meals prepared by me for me and my sweetheart is around 9%.The rest of our eats have been prepared by fantastic restaurateurs.<br />
<br />
While I really enjoy those percentages, I am pretty sure that cooking meals for my man will increase my chances of<i> staying</i> married in the future. I want to have at least a 50% success rate of marriage when it's all told. So far my percentage rate is 0.<br />
<br />
How many nights in a row can you serve grilled cheese and tomato soup before it starts getting redundant? Asking for a friend.Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-75628777318088994122018-03-28T16:21:00.000-06:002018-03-28T16:21:48.591-06:00What's ya digits?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yW0-nsF4HX4/WrvkqS37eyI/AAAAAAABADM/Ad_ypashG6Ys531TQBCZMjAGwl8HS8rdACKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_20150711_172333830.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yW0-nsF4HX4/WrvkqS37eyI/AAAAAAABADM/Ad_ypashG6Ys531TQBCZMjAGwl8HS8rdACKgBGAs/s320/IMG_20150711_172333830.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="display: inline;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> First thing out of the box, I would like to share this comprehensive and practical list of <a href="http://www.daniellelaporte.com/good-manners-and-some-wuv-we-could-all-use-more-of-them/">GOOD MANNERS</a>. I am a fan of good manners because I believe it is the easiest way for us to show respect and awareness to others. Plus, I am terrified of seeming rude so having a list to refer to fits me well!</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Speaking of fitting me well, I have been studying my Enneagrams pretty intensely for the last few weeks. Last Spring, our health coaches Amanda and Carrie did a segment study on them using the Enneagram Institute's material. I was hooked! It's like astrology without the dark stigma of occult involvement. I don't even have to confess to my priest when I study the Enneagram! Anyway, our little church did a workshop seminar earlier this year and I discovered that I was actually mistyping (misnumbering? misclassifying??) myself as a strong 2 (who needs to be loved and creates dependency situations with others) when I am actually a 6 (who needs to be valued - I actually run away if someone depends on me too much). I also learned that 6's like to know what all of the rules are (like manners) but chooses when and if they will follow the rules rather mercurially. That makes sense to me! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What is YOUR number? </span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">At <a href="https://www.eclecticenergies.com/enneagram/test">Eclectic Energies</a>, you can find a smaller and pretty accurate test - it will even give you little bonus information like what your "wing" is. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I believe my wing is a 7 in case you were wondering. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That makes me funner and enhances my inability to commit. Wooohooo!</span></div>
Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-14142753622118704292018-03-27T12:04:00.000-06:002018-03-27T12:25:29.062-06:00Leftovers<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wawLOVoUibY/WrqHUEzh95I/AAAAAAABABE/axkXSobylXU5T9fEkR40SkI2Q1Df-Wp_gCKgBGAs/s1600/20180207_133241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-wawLOVoUibY/WrqHUEzh95I/AAAAAAABABE/axkXSobylXU5T9fEkR40SkI2Q1Df-Wp_gCKgBGAs/s320/20180207_133241.jpg" width="240" /></a>I joined a gym this year. It was supposed to be a body-altering decision, but apparently you actually have to go more than once a week. More than once a month, even!<br />
<br />
I love regaling my friends with my gym anecdotes because it usually involves me dropping something while on the treadmill and the absurd chaos that follows whilst I try to do retrievals with grace. (Grace and I are not friends, btdubs. Smooth, Grace and Style have evaded me for years.)<br />
<br />
The last time I went to the gym was a little scarring, however. Ever try really hard to engage someone in conversation that doesn't really want you to talk to them anymore?<br />
<br />
It's probably because you have eggs and spinach left over from dinner in your teeth. Check yourself before you wreck yourself. Word to the wise, friends.Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-58114120763736355582018-03-26T15:53:00.003-06:002018-03-27T12:05:09.289-06:00More Bread Crumbs<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h80AW46pHvA/Wrlp67SWtzI/AAAAAAAA_0M/6Goj8I3Nl_cNu0v3hjaP21s16_vx12VfgCKgBGAs/s1600/IMG_20151004_125836380.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1201" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-h80AW46pHvA/Wrlp67SWtzI/AAAAAAAA_0M/6Goj8I3Nl_cNu0v3hjaP21s16_vx12VfgCKgBGAs/s320/IMG_20151004_125836380.jpg" width="320" /></a>I did a search on my email to see if I could find the name of the Chicago suburb we stayed at when we had our Quitnet International 3D. It was just a piece of trivia that I thought would be an easy find.<br />
<br />
I didn't find it. The year was 2007 and there were a whole lot of other emails that year, too. The email listing the itinerary with the town name is a literal needle in the haystack.<br />
<br />
What I did find, however, read like an archaeological dig. What a year that was. Who in the world was I, even? I can feel myself slipping back in to that whirlpool of confusion and excitement ...and fear. Like I have stumbled upon a portal of the Time Between Times. I followed breadcrumb trails through my blog, through my instant messages - even through picture archives I had forgotten about.<br />
<br />
Shaking off the swirling emotions is proving difficult. But is that even what I want to do? Maybe my ruminations are designed for a purpose.<br />
<br />
One thing that I know for sure: I feel the loss of you keenly. I miss my support system, my tribe of vagabonds and artists and writers and musicians. I wish there was a way to tell some of you that.<br />
<br />
<br />Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-70056011225901882212017-07-21T15:55:00.000-06:002017-07-21T15:57:19.257-06:00More of the Same<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0CZ4TyLYH70/WXJ1xh4EDLI/AAAAAAAA6V8/_gKmYvQIhaYM5gmwyQKSBfPFdxfraABaACKgBGAs/s1600/DSC_0264.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1064" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-0CZ4TyLYH70/WXJ1xh4EDLI/AAAAAAAA6V8/_gKmYvQIhaYM5gmwyQKSBfPFdxfraABaACKgBGAs/s320/DSC_0264.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Goodness!<br />
<br />
It's been awhile. Too long, really. I am always thinking about the words in my head that want to find their way to paper (you know what I mean), but have been too ...I don't know. Stubborn? Prideful? Petulant? Lazy?? However you want to describe it, I have been too much of it to open this blog back up.<br />
<br />
But here I am.<br />
<br />
Today I said something really awful to a friend. It was the very worst kind of awful - the kind that leaves marks and hangs in the air with all of it's poison relentlessly oozing. Ugh.<br />
<br />
I asked him why the terrible people in our world couldn't be the ones offing themselves instead of the talented, beautiful and beloved.<br />
<br />
It was supposed to be a harmless musing out loud. It was not harmless.<br />
<br />
I am glad that my friend knows my heart and can forgive my outrageousness (that isn't a word, by the way - but it should be).Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-54304438563074804622015-09-30T16:51:00.000-06:002017-07-21T16:12:06.247-06:00I'm LeavingI'm leaving on a jet plane! I am going to NH to see my mom and Bob! <div><br /></div><div>Truly, it is a magical adventure whenever my mom is part of my plans. She still creates magic for me - I have no idea how. </div><div><br /></div><div>I hope to see some ocean, maybe hike a little, maybe eat some really great comfort food and sit by the fire. </div><div><br /></div><div>Do you know what I hope for the very most, though? A scare-free plane ride. Both ways. </div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xF5bjiQuKq0/RuGd6kFfDSI/AAAAAAAACEI/X3SSbvpAObA/s1600/NH%2B082.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xF5bjiQuKq0/RuGd6kFfDSI/AAAAAAAACEI/X3SSbvpAObA/s320/NH%2B082.jpg" width="239" /></a></div><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">The beach not too far away from the Boston International Airport - 2007</span></i>Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-78747578809254085152015-09-26T17:39:00.000-06:002017-07-21T16:12:06.272-06:00Pricey Bargains<p dir="ltr">Garage sales are so fascinating! It's like gambling (only most of the time it's cheaper) because you could come across a treasure...or not. I am safer than most from the siren call of the garage sale as I never carry cash (which is also a problem). </p><p dir="ltr">Today I stumbled across a garage sale in my own neighborhood. Actually, right across the street. Turns out the couple that has been living there for the past 25 years is moving. It seemed like a perfect opportunity to meet them as I had never seen them before. Not once in the last eight years that I have been here. </p><p dir="ltr">Anyway, as I moseyed my way through the piles of "stuff" they were hawking, l noticed that they had some interesting goblets here and there. One particular goblet looked like it was silver - tarnished, yes, but silver nonetheless. I brought it down off of it's perch to get a closer look, and quickly returned it as it felt too light to be the quality I hoped it was. And wouldn't you know? It fell off of the shelf and crashed to the ground in two pieces. Guh. The base had snapped right off of the stem.</p><p dir="ltr">I have never broken anything at a garage sale before, so I didn't know what protocol was. The neighbor hadn't seen it, and no one was around. So I left. </p><p dir="ltr">I went back to my house, got the two quarters that was the asking price, and returned to let the garage seller know what had happened. He didn't seem to care much - as was my anticipation. But if I had not paid for it (although I left it with him to dispose of), I would have been waiting for Karma's swift retribution my whole life. And I wasn't willing to go through that for a fake silver goblet. </p><p dir="ltr">Or anything else, really. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXb4-SXtnnSLMMg2JcYz2qA7OnjS0ydisItZnM7Z6U7maiOcynkWVVsiAhuSpLXJnZ0qOKOD2Jv69ruWneLsG_78XYd30JmLDw5m6O-O-3dqEmAH4NYrfZ-wWftGRd0t3_fmP/s1600/Aviary_2014_03_10_10_08_50_upload.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> <img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXb4-SXtnnSLMMg2JcYz2qA7OnjS0ydisItZnM7Z6U7maiOcynkWVVsiAhuSpLXJnZ0qOKOD2Jv69ruWneLsG_78XYd30JmLDw5m6O-O-3dqEmAH4NYrfZ-wWftGRd0t3_fmP/s640/Aviary_2014_03_10_10_08_50_upload.jpg"> </a> </div>Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-148962244578112612015-09-25T14:39:00.000-06:002017-07-21T16:12:06.295-06:00Tweet Tweet TweetWriting has always been my "thing". My blogging started in '05 with MSN's Spaces ( I was writing at the Tow Away Zone! Clever, huh?) and then migrated to Blogger in '06 when all of my fellow bloggers did. I think Facebook was the death of our blogging. I can't be for sure of that fact, but as evidence, our blogging decreased as our FB'ing increased. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeGXNvtHB3xl_4gq1ewoJnMt4gvvt1PK19RjU5KWA1iSFh1_izpeuIaCOhyphenhyphenTdVnoNJ9bQDvLSQq61aLuI3TYb8E2bXB-A1n-2AwLno-lb1kSjGl0wFbB0MXoGlsTmE9aT8M1D/s1600/IMG_20150604_165806717.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKeGXNvtHB3xl_4gq1ewoJnMt4gvvt1PK19RjU5KWA1iSFh1_izpeuIaCOhyphenhyphenTdVnoNJ9bQDvLSQq61aLuI3TYb8E2bXB-A1n-2AwLno-lb1kSjGl0wFbB0MXoGlsTmE9aT8M1D/s320/IMG_20150604_165806717.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Twitter is another factor responsible for our (collective) decreased writing. I really haven't enjoyed Twitter all that much - that may be because 90% the tweets in my feed were either upsetting to me, offensive or political. I never saw anything from people I actually knew, and if I did, I had already seen their post on Facebook! I refused to delete anyone because doing that made it seem that I am close-minded, judgmental and not open to anyone else's point of view. Which is exactly the opposite of who I want to be.<br /><br />But, holy cats! My Twitter feed! It. Was. Infuriating.<br /><br />So, I decided to take a look at who I was following - and who was following me. I guess I didn't know enough about what a good follower/followee relationship looked like when I started my tweeting...nor was there any rhyme or reason to who was included in my twits. I started hitting the unfollow button. And that brought me so much happiness that I kept hitting the unfollow button until there was nothing left but people I WANTED to follow (and who were following me)! My whole experience with this particular social media has just changed for the better. I know there is a life metaphor in there somewhere about how when we choose our companions well it makes our life happier...when I get it worded better I will be sure to tweet it!<br /><br />(@terilyn1610) :-)Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-36482577199560498712015-09-23T12:50:00.000-06:002017-07-21T16:12:06.317-06:00See You At the Pole<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn9zH5pC8Lgqm9L_igScEup2seTB2MOCdTHmd73Ld17luf8Sn2iOwv80NiZs7Uc2uY2ruzDzZrhdbeJxH7yIQAwkmp1GJ0RpmRKSu-joPd5OJ1gg8zTqXJkJOxCoLMIb4jJtN/s1600/945653_10151707301175948_1126029028_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOn9zH5pC8Lgqm9L_igScEup2seTB2MOCdTHmd73Ld17luf8Sn2iOwv80NiZs7Uc2uY2ruzDzZrhdbeJxH7yIQAwkmp1GJ0RpmRKSu-joPd5OJ1gg8zTqXJkJOxCoLMIb4jJtN/s320/945653_10151707301175948_1126029028_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />Today was See You at the Pole day for my kids and their high school. Truly, I was impressed that they went - mostly because it entailed getting up and being to school even before the sun came up.<br /><br />Both of the boys have been active with their youth group, our church and summer church camp for about a year, and all on their own accord! I am so grateful for that. They even have a school bible study that meets at lunch on Tuesdays. Now, I went to Christian schools when I was growing up - I don't think I had near as much God in my life as these boys do. They seem to be comfortable with their spirituality around their peers and adults alike.<br /><br />But even in their cool Godliness, they are still teenaged boys. As my youngest was leaving for the school this morning I hollered,"Love you! See you at the flagpole!". Horrified, he stopped in his tracks to look back and ask, "Uh, you aren't coming, are you, Mom?"<br /><br />Haha! I really did think about going after that. In my jammies.<br /><br /><br />Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-53082870060809226392015-09-22T12:40:00.000-06:002017-07-21T16:12:06.345-06:00Oily Happenstances<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I bought a new car. (See picture- it's cute, right?) I spent many hours searching the internet for this specific car: Chevrolet Sonic RS. The RS part is important because it means I have a turbo, leather and a sunroof. I don't know why those things indicate luxury to me, but they do and I had to have them. So I got them. I also get 35 MPG on the highway - not luxurious, but very practical. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tw8atfJOg7Q/VOuw-2O1aiI/AAAAAAAAhBE/rmLJe2kqiOM/s1600/2015-02-23.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-tw8atfJOg7Q/VOuw-2O1aiI/AAAAAAAAhBE/rmLJe2kqiOM/s320/2015-02-23.jpg" width="244" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">To date, I have put 30K on my new little car in 10 months - somebody quick figure out my monthly average, but I'll estimate that it's pretty high what with all of the commuting for work and my long-distance relationship. And, oh yeah, the road trip we took to Yellowstone this summer. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A couple of weeks ago, the kids and I were "flying low" down the highway when I heard a terrible thump under the car, and saw something that looked like a rock careening down the lane behind me. Thinking I must have hit a dirt clod or something similar, I didn't take too much notice. Until oil started covering my back window. (Oil? How in the hell would oil get on my back window?) As my oil pressure lamp lit up and the oil pressure alarm sounded off (like this: DINGDINGGGDING!!!), I wobbled my way off of the highway to a gas station parking lot. Ugh.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The kids and I sat on the curb next to my little car, bewildered and waiting for roadside assistance. Believe it or not, I have never had to use roadside in my life. It's pretty easy, all in all. However, I was so shaky that my sons were dialing dueling phones for me while we arranged for rides, advice, etc. </span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0RwEq43EZ4xzib0cEQfmuumOPL5LIdlRwKDb-x1cnDR6MdxTMtQtEOXmbnmbGcAif1zYuW9vM2MQqcDhcVxeaLc81e0OM77IjB0tlrIG4H9i_KIY_Qb3DZ1WBgeviSm1wdBg/s1600/11949352_10153596510525948_1365849338257129138_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0RwEq43EZ4xzib0cEQfmuumOPL5LIdlRwKDb-x1cnDR6MdxTMtQtEOXmbnmbGcAif1zYuW9vM2MQqcDhcVxeaLc81e0OM77IjB0tlrIG4H9i_KIY_Qb3DZ1WBgeviSm1wdBg/s320/11949352_10153596510525948_1365849338257129138_n.jpg" width="240" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The tow truck driver was a young kid, burly and earnest. As he jumped out of the truck, he let out a low whistle at the puddle of oil now staining the parking lot. "Threw a rod", he says, "Wow - that stinks". (What? What? WHAT?? I have thrown a rod in a vehicle before...it was my fault...I was waiting for the Change Your Oil light to come on. It never did come on. It was a 76 Toyota pickup that didn't even have a Check Your Rattling Engine light. I have been very good about oil ever since. I could not have thrown a rod in this little car.) "Would you mind looking at the hole in the pan, Sir, to see if the hole is coming out or going in? I am sure that I just hit a rock," I said, trembly voice full of panic. Trying to scootch his large frame under my tiny Chevy, he finally located the spot where the oil had been pouring out of. "Huh. This hole is threaded - this is where your oil plug should be!", he nodded wisely to me. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So - apparently - when you are flying low down the highway, your oil plug can just FALL OUT. This is not something I have ever heard of, and of course was not prepared for. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Now I am well versed in all things Oil Plug, Oil Light, Overhead Cam, Turbos, dealerships who promise you the moon but give you moonrocks, other dealerships who pick up the slack and restore your faith in some dealerships, and roadside assistance. Go ahead - ask me anything. </span>Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-55366599200911503282015-09-22T11:21:00.000-06:002015-09-22T11:21:19.229-06:00Privacy, PleaseOh! Now, that feels nice. I can say whatever I want to and I don't have to worry that somehow, someway my words will be read by people who will take them the wrong way. And I also don't need to worry that I sound whiney or too happy or too ANYTHING, really.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wr9P9SPDUjw/UMjFIVdkqkI/AAAAAAAAXe8/ghqbutHzpKc/s1600/100_4566.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wr9P9SPDUjw/UMjFIVdkqkI/AAAAAAAAXe8/ghqbutHzpKc/s320/100_4566.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
I really do like to write. Well - mostly, I like to muse. And I like to look back to see what it looked like in my head in the past, if for no other reason but to make sure that I am growing as a human.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I also like the feedback and the communications with others that an open blog provides. I miss my old bloggy friends. Sarah, Colleen, Jock, Brenda - I miss them. I miss the tremendous influence that they had in my everyday life.<br />
<br />
I hope they are all well.<br />
<br />
Maybe I should reach out...Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-39487928182353218652015-09-16T15:33:00.000-06:002015-09-16T15:35:35.668-06:00Regret and Breadcrumbs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KsKWeIE2WN8/VfncD8qRM-I/AAAAAAAAhAQ/JOAd_G7qzLw/s1600/0da5ba7dc1816e1cf0d76c55582e1095.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-KsKWeIE2WN8/VfncD8qRM-I/AAAAAAAAhAQ/JOAd_G7qzLw/s320/0da5ba7dc1816e1cf0d76c55582e1095.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
I feel an incredible amount of shame in regards to who I have been. It can be overwhelming. And this blog is a written record of it.<br />
<br />
Deleting the blog is an obvious option. So is turning the more "odious" posts back in to drafts (which I have done already with some), so that I don't lose the content but am not displaying it for the world to see. And judge. Like I do.<br />
<br />
I dunno. We'll see. I kinda like being able to see where I left my breadcrumbs of words so that I can tell which paths I should not traverse again.<br />
<br />
I truly have lost touch with a couple of the people I used to be. And that is okay.<br />
<br />Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-38014834056709009982015-03-29T21:06:00.000-06:002019-04-26T10:17:05.123-06:00A few things.<br /><br /><ul><li>At Atlas today we learned that how we perceive Jesus Christ informs how we treat others. I LOVE Him...I just don't trust Him. Wow. Pretty great discovery. </li><li>Also, why am I making sacrifices for someone who can't remember to call me in the morning? Who has no pictures of me anywhere? Who is fine with me just being his girlfriend? For EIGHT years? Why? What is wrong with me? </li><li>Sigh.</li></ul>Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-2047473700631602872014-09-04T22:41:00.002-06:002017-07-20T15:10:16.746-06:00How you like them apples?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-37CDLvSq1rs/VAjINO-jwTI/AAAAAAAAcwQ/5gVJHkMtIpg/s1600/IMG_20140904_141050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-37CDLvSq1rs/VAjINO-jwTI/AAAAAAAAcwQ/5gVJHkMtIpg/s1600/IMG_20140904_141050.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
My biggest struggle in trying to live my life as a self-actualized human being/Wonder Woman is knowing what to do with those who don't like me.<br />
<br />
Honestly, in 2007 I was pretty sure I had this licked. "I am not everyone's cuppa tea - I get that. And that is okay", I would say. And I would truly be fine with it.<br />
<br />
But now - not so much. I have a totally new world of people to interact with, and a totally new set of personalities to adapt to. I walk in on a future relative saying something mean about me and I shrink. I shrivel! I run away. The neighbor is snotty and disdainful one day, but friendly and engaging the next? I spend hours in turmoil trying to figure out how to increase the friendly, engaging minutes while erasing whatever I did to cause the snotty, disdainful ones. I have wasted so much time dissecting interactions between people in my past, my present and my future, all to determine how to make things better. How to make things right for these people who don't seem to like me.<br />
<br />
I need to write it on my heart: I am not everyone's cuppa tea. I am me. And I am just fine! I don't like everyone and not everyone has to like me. That is okay.<br />
<br />
I hereby resolve to be myself and pretend that I haven't heard or seen anything from anyone that would indicate that they think I am anything less than wonderful. And I will be much happier, I am sure. And if they are much happier as a result, that will just be bonus.Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-14585880174997884142014-09-03T23:01:00.002-06:002014-09-03T23:01:57.197-06:00Over the Hills <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N4_fLlDEVFI/VAfxLD1w5bI/AAAAAAAAcvk/fRlqe_Oyr6k/s1600/0216141652.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-N4_fLlDEVFI/VAfxLD1w5bI/AAAAAAAAcvk/fRlqe_Oyr6k/s1600/0216141652.jpg" height="239" width="320" /></a></div>
I am getting old. And not metaphorically. I am aging at an exponential rate that is startling and shaming to me.<br />
<br />
I eat so well. I don't drink a whole lot anymore. I use sunscreen and I get 8-9 hours of sleep every single night. I am blessed with very little stress and I have great genes. So WHY?<br />
<br />
I am hoping that it is just a perception thing...like body dysmorphic disorder. Or maybe a mirror distortion.<br />
<br />
I am not ready to be old. I didn't get being young done yet.Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-30133003919534131162014-09-02T22:21:00.000-06:002014-09-02T22:27:02.821-06:0090. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4zOLF3FZ5fk/VAaVP5Ez6oI/AAAAAAAAcu8/8jjcfdnGLO8/s1600/14%2B-%2B1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4zOLF3FZ5fk/VAaVP5Ez6oI/AAAAAAAAcu8/8jjcfdnGLO8/s1600/14%2B-%2B1.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
I am doing a 90 day project. Not for business purposes, or to "level up" like so many of my friends are doing these days. I just really like the idea that you can select a certain length of time, set an intention, and grow something new in your life! It has the same appeal to me as the cleansing aspect of abstaining from something for the Lenten season. I am committing to doing a few things health related and a couple of things creativity related for 90 days starting today. ( I don't know why I am being vague - why can't I just tell you what things I will be doing??! Criminy. Seriously, not that big of a deal. Still - not telling.)<br />
<br />
Have any of you done something similar to a 90 Day Challenge/Project? What were your results?<br />
<br />
<br />Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-406963148690231742014-03-28T11:58:00.002-06:002014-03-28T12:01:13.400-06:00Sewage and Sage Advice<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RLnZSDrJHKo/UzW3tWvUCQI/AAAAAAAAaWc/HcIkhKcQLkY/s1600/0622130811.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RLnZSDrJHKo/UzW3tWvUCQI/AAAAAAAAaWc/HcIkhKcQLkY/s1600/0622130811.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /><br /><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span></i></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>My ex-husband</i>: You had better get a GOOD F******N LAWYER!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>My Mom</i>: Well, at least he specified what kind of lawyer to get.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Me: </i>MOM!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>My Mom:</i> Ohhh...I bet that kind is more expensive than the other kinds.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Me</i>: Ugh. Mom, I am worried. I feel like I am starting WWIII and my kids are going to suffer greatly because of it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>My Mom:</i> War is </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">good! Clears the air and good for the economy. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>Me:</i> *speechless*</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I love that lady. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29968577.post-48562725549199113152014-03-05T12:18:00.001-07:002014-03-05T12:27:35.110-07:00Class Project<div style="margin: 0 0 10px 0; padding: 0; font-size: 0.8em; line-height: 1.6em;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tlgavalens/12954472414/" title="Class Project"><img src="http://farm4.staticflickr.com/3753/12954472414_71da749f62.jpg" alt="Class Project by Gypsy Scribe" /></a><br/><span style="margin: 0;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tlgavalens/12954472414/">Class Project</a>, a photo by <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tlgavalens/">Gypsy Scribe</a> on Flickr.</span></div><p>I am converting to Catholicism. For the reals. I am actually IN the process as we speak. <br /><br />In fact, I am at the part of the process that is the most intense: Lent/Easter and my first Eucharist. <br /><br />For the past 7 months D and I have been attending class on what it means to become a Catholic, and I have to say it has been surprisingly enjoyable! I love my classmates, and the education is very interesting. One would think that D would be bored as he is what they call a "Cradle Catholic" (born in to the faith), but honestly, I think he has learned just as much as I have about his church. <br /><br />I am surprised at myself. I did not see conversion to ANYTHING in my future. My faith has been complete since I was a child - not always practiced, but complete nonetheless. <br /><br />I guess this is what happens when contemplating how to change "my future" in to "our future".</p>Terri Ghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14974450565619670462noreply@blogger.com0