Flowers and Camping

During our last camping trip, we went on a walk on a dirt trail.. We stopped and took a picture of these wild flowers...


My son Christopher picked these lovely bunch of flowers when he went on a different walk with my friends 15 year old son.. He brought me these flowers.. I had to take their picture cause I knew they were going to be dead by the time we got home which was a few days later..


This is my daughter and her friend down at the lake.. They didn't know that I took their picture..


This is my son after his walk.. Passed out in the tent for the night.. He never woke up during the night.. That long walk did him in... peace and quiet...


Of course I had to get my other son peeing in the bushes... Don't you have any pictures that could embaress your child when he/she gets older... I know my parents have some pictures of me when I was younger, but you will never see them and I plan on keeping it that way...

My Cats

Our cat Misfit has been missing for a little over 2 weeks now - maybe he knew I had an appointment for him to lose his manhood... We miss him dearly... About a week before he disappeared, my son Christopher had him painted purple with latex paint.. You should have seen us cutting that purple fur off him.. Thankfully his fur was kinda long... Our cat Tator Tot has her own set of problems.. She will not walk on our bedroom floor at all.. It seems like something is out to get her.. Instead of walking on the floor, she will hop from one piece of furniture to another to get where she needs to get to... She follows me around the house and nobody else.. (she is supposed to be my husbands cat) She sleeps with me all the time and we use the bathroom together too... (the litter box is in the bathroom)...

Do any of you have any cats with mental problems?

We also have some cats that are stupid enough to be carried around the house by the kids.. The cats are old enough to learn how to get out of that situation.. Yet dumb enough to stay.. What is wrong with those cats?

The Pivotal Point

There comes a point in every life, I hope, when the reasons and excuses and fears to hold back wilt in the mind. There comes a point when it is suddenly pointless to remain in the shadows, to deny dreams and to keep the lid on creative forces that can change your world for the better. There comes a point when you must simply bloom.

Pain and grief and exhaustion often bring the reasons for self denial into the grimy, filmy light. You look at them and think, "what in God's name am I waiting for"? "Who the hell cares anymore for opinions and consequences? It's my life, dammit, I can do what I want and be who I want".

The pivotal point in a life can come at 16, at 29, at 43, at 60, at 81 and a half. It does not matter when it comes, just as long as it arrives before your last breath shudders out of your lungs. Because freedom rides on the petals as they fall open in bloom. Freedom rides the thoughts and actions that burst the bonds of self-restraint and self-imprisonment. Freedom lies in your choice to live the life you deserve. And you deserve the taste of freedom.

So get married. Write the cookbook. Get the loan. Walk away from toxic people. Learn to sail. Finish the degree. Open your heart and so what if gets trampled. Open it again. Make this moment or the next moment or 14,532 moments from now the point that pivots your dreams into reality.

Do not hold back forever. You don't have forever.

Bloom soon. Bloom now.

Copyright 2008, Graciel at Evenstar Art

Blogging Den 2

Some of you know by now, there is no longer Blogging Den..But there is now Blogging Den 2
If anybody would like to be a co-author over there, please let me know...Colin is over there along with Robert,Maunie James and Angel Baby...Come visit anytime..Colin did his first post over there already...

The Duct Tape Guys' HOW TO

The Duct Tape Guys' HOW TO - Make It Yourself - WITH DUCT TAPE

EGO

"The goal of the ego is not perfection.

It's ultimate goal is to fade away

in order to reveal the inherent perfection already present."

g g g

Meet Lily

Dear fellow BRBs...

We're proud to announce our the birth of our little girl.
Lily has made her grand entrance a few days ago ;-)

Thank you all so much for your support, kind comments and all the ♥ you showed us during the pregnancy.

You ROCK!

Hello!

Hello all Blue Ribbon Bloggers! I am new here and don't have any idea yet of what to write. Let me just introduce myself, first. My name is Emila Yusof and I am a freelance graphic designer/illustrator from Malaysia. I have two blogs: Emila's Illustrated Blog and The Other Side of Emila. I have been awarded the Blue Ribbon Award by Francesca on July 19th, 2007.

I have been actively involved in the drawing community, such as Illustration Friday, Monday Artday and a few others. I recently joined the Drawing Day which has been held on June 7th and illustrated my so-called first children's book. I actually challenged myself to really sit down and draw the whole book, 12 pages to be exact. The story in undergoing a re-writing in a form of poems. Here are few pages from the book:


You can see more, here.

Cheers! Have a great weekend!
Emila Yusof

Sugar Cookies

by Kathleen Maher

When I was in high school I was a great baker. I baked whenever my parents were home. Usually, if they were home, they occupied the kitchen. And although I mostly hid in my first-floor back bed room, which I’d painted a streaky red, unaware of how the thin, already close walls would move in, I needed to emerge practically every day. Unless I climbed out a window, I needed to pass through the kitchen. My mother and father, sitting across from each other at the table, always wanted me to sit down and talk.

A terrible motor-mouth most of my life, from age thirteen to seventeen, I had nothing to say to my parents. Nothing. In fact, being in the same room with either of them required a good deal of self-control. The secrets among us made me jittery. The Joy of Cooking saved me.

Because, obviously, if I was busy baking, I couldn’t sit down with them. Baking required me to stand at the counter, my back turned. They could see I was laying out the ingredients for bread or cake or puff pastry. The physical activity brought me further relief, really to the point of pleasure. Bread especially: Kneading, pushing, slapping it—and oh, punching it down—felt wonderfully satisfying.

One December I discovered my grandmother’s recipe for sugar cookies. These called for creaming pounds of butter with pounds of sugar; if done without a mixer, which I announced was how these cookies originated and we very much wanted originality, this first step could last a good, strenuous hour. Measuring the flour and baking powder, salt and soda demanded precision and concentration or else all the expensive staples would be wasted.

I folded the dry ingredients into the whipped butter and sugar very slowly, dredging what lay at the bottom of the bowl and tossing it carefully up with a spatula. Altogether the preparation could fill an evening. I scrupulously refrigerated the dough overnight, planning to wile away the weekend rolling it flat, cutting it into the shape of snowmen, bells, trees, wreaths, et cetera. Half a dozen cookies baked in the oven for ten minutes and it was time to set each one to cool before filling the trays again.

What a good girl I was, always making cookies. If my mother or father asked me a question, any question, “Just a minute,” worked as an agreeable answer. If they wanted me to wash the floor or vacuum or do the laundry, I said, “Just a minute,” and they realized they might better ask one of my sisters. Because what I was doing was sweet. Nothing was wrong with me.

What I saw or my friend saw was a sliver of daylight in the bedroom.

They would never think that, though, not in those words. At worst, as they made small talk at the kitchen, a shared pause might arise. But all the sugar and cheerful busyness erased any worries.

After I’d used the dough to make seven dozen—we’d give tins of them to the neighbors—each little reindeer deer and rocking horse would be elaborately decorated with butter cream frosting heavily spiked with food coloring.

Awesome Blogging?

A Writer's Edge, is one of "100 Awesome Webmaster Blogs by and for Women" listed by Web Hosting Database in the section for "Social Media, Organizations, and Writing Skills". According to the article, I'm a "strong, talented, innovative and resourceful" web woman.

"She’s a widely published writer who provides classes and coaching to beginners who want to write for magazines and journals, news mediums and more. Ms. Hancock’s blog reflects her coaching skills as she imparts information about every type of writing imaginable."

Aw, shucks! In honor of this honor, I made sure the links to this site are all working, because the Blog Fairy was the original reckoner of good blogging.

Hey, It's Friday

Firstly my apologies to all for my prolonged absence due to a few problems with my neck and shoulders, but rest assured, I am not pushing up the daisies just yet but it is hard going getting used to typing with one hand lol.

Life is a learning curve and I guess this is payback time hahaha.

Anyway, it's Friday and the weekend is approaching so I thought I would post a video I did some time ago on my blog and it's quite relaxing, well I think so anyway, so take some time out and 'chill.'

So sit back, get the popcorn out and enjoy.

Have a great day all and enjoy the weekend ahead.

A Thought To Ponder

When you speak or hear anything negative, it pollutes your mind.

When you do anything negative, it pollutes your body.

When you deny anything positive, it weakens your spirit... your soul..... (Yogi Bhajan)

Our Purple Cat

Well, some people around here have heard what my son has done to our male calico cat recently..My son Christopher painted the cat Purple with latex paint...We had tried washing him off with no luck...Luckily he kinda has long fur..I ended up giving him a haircut with scissors the best i could to get the darn paint off the poor cat...These are the pictures of the cat before his haircut...His name is Misfit...He still has plenty of fur left..Shinade-the cat is not bald at all..His fur will even out in time....

Rommecat and Juliet Monttecappulate

Juliet: Dost en a Capulate? Whomever-est thine eyes shine upon thee.

Rommecat: Your family stinks ... go away. Gosh, kinda cute though!

Juliet: Rommecat, Rommecat, where fort art thouest Rommecat???
Rommecat: Here I am. Even though I am supposed hate you, a find a burning desire. Is it wrong to love!!!

Juliet: Taketh me to the parlor Rommecat! You nomenclature you...
Rommecat: Well, OK. Make sure my cousins are not looking. If loving you is wrong, I DON'T WANT TO BE RIGHT! Booyhaaa

Jerk Guy Capulate: You werest in bedding with a Montegue. Surley you will live no longesteth. On gaurd.
Rommecat: Whatever .... AHHHH!!! I am stabbed (sigh)

Juliet: Mine love mine love, I cannot liveth without-eth you-eth. I shall drink poison from the death flask.
Rommecat: "Nothing"

Rommecat: I'm not dead .... I am alive! Ohh my goodness dear juliet .... WHY ..... WHYYY!!!!!!

Juliet: "Nothing"

Juliet: I dost thinketh thine death juice was kool aid from another jar... I am alive againest!
Rommecat: Hot Dog!!! Lets marry and get a cat. They are hiring at the orchard.

Thy Montague tale of unrequeted love ! "Oh, bloggy" ! Allest that endeth well is well indeed. Oh no...Timmy just fell down the well. Go for help Lassie.

The End

Dona Nobis Pacem: My Selfish Reasons Revealed

This was published on Blogblast for Peace Day, June 4th. And, please understand, I am a veteran of two services and come from a long line of people who have been honored to serve.


Dear Members of Congress,

A call was received one fall day over 17 years ago from the executive director of the Nebraska Childrens Home Society, that maybe, just maybe, there was a birthmother who may want us to adopt her child. It was a boy. He was five weeks old. On the off chance the birthmother decided I was to be a mom, the director told us to buy a car seat, so we did.

She was 16. The birthfather was 17. She was a good student in her little high school. She decided adoption was her best route to give them both what they needed. She had dreams of college and escape from her little bit of nothing town. She wanted more for her child. The birthfather and she were no longer together, but he remained by her side as she made this journey.

We stashed the family photos in the back seat so the birthmother could see what the boy would be in for. How there were cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents to love her son. We ticked through names again, just in case he didn’t look like the name we’d so carefully selected. Clothes were hastily packed and tossed in the trunk. The plan was to leave in disappointment, but we hoped for the best outcome.

The six hour drive across I-80 and the three driven north beyond that was of little of interest and was mostly spent just contemplating what might happen. After traveling for hours through buttes and mesas, we arrived. That night, we stayed at the Sleep Is Futile Lodge.

In the morning, we trekked over to the appointed meeting place. The western office of NCHS was a beat up old mobile home that sat forlornly in the middle of a square plot of Nebraska desert dust edged with a white picket fence. The old woman who answered the door had social worker written all over her. She asked how our drive was and told us they’d be here soon. Before long, a beat up old red pickup truck with a bag of Pampers in the back showed up.

A thin, handsome young Mexican man with a whispy teenager mustache and cowboy boots stepped out of the driver’s side. A cute brunette, who looked such a child herself, stepped out of the passenger side, holding the child. They tentatively approached the door and knocked.

At that moment, I found myself shaking uncontrollably. Would she like me? Would I be the one she could see rocking her child to sleep every night? The fate of my dream to be a mother was in the hands of two who were children themselves.

Hours later, after thousands of questions had been asked and answered in both directions, they stepped outside to speak to each other in private. A few minutes later, they came back in.

She walked up to me. She slowly lifted her eyes from the shining eyes of the boy in her arms to mine and said quietly, “What will you name him?” I told her.

She handed me their child. She handed me her child. She handed him to me. I was holding my child.

She kissed him goodbye. He rubbed the boy’s head.

They cried and held each other. Then they left.

Suddenly, despite all of our preparation, we had no idea what to do with this thing, this human being who had been so ceremoniously handed to us. Would I be a good mom? Would I love him enough? Would I do it unconditionally?

The boy turns 18 in four months. I’ve had 17 and 2/3 years to love this boy. To love him so much that every time he makes a mistake, I ache for him. That every time he has a triumph, I cheer for him. That every time he has a sniffle, I wish I’d started that medical degree. That every time he pulls away on his way to growing up, I cry for me.

He is my first child. He’s the one I had hours and hours to spend holding up in the air as I lay on my back, slowly bringing him and his cute little protruding ears down to my chest as he giggled with glee at the ride he had somehow ended up on.

He’s the one I have hundreds of photographs of as he made his way from formula through 52 flavors of Gerber’s as though he was the first child ever to master strained carrots and peas. This boy who still faints at the site of blood or needles.

He wants to join the Marines. He has some idea that it is heroic or valiant or he will somehow make a statement about who he is or what he can do if he does this. There is nothing heroic about the war in Iraq. We are the invader.

No amount of counsel has thus far made a difference. And, in four months, it’s out of our hands. He knows that.

My son will be a teenage man-child, far from prepared for the horror of battle and the scars that will eventually come later, if he’s gets that far. Just like so many others who came before him. Many of whom never came home. He doesn’t understand that his sense of immortality is a false god to rely upon. Or the permanence of death and what it leaves in its wake.

I don’t want that for my son. My son with the big empathetic heart and the dimples in his cheeks and cleft in his chin. He is destined for something else, not this, not this war.

The war needs to stop. I don’t want to lose my son. There, I said it. I’m selfish. I think I’ve finally earned that right. I want the chance to someday hold his child up in the air as I lay on my back, slowly bringing him and his cute little protruding ears down to my chest to giggle with glee. And, I don’t want any more mothers or fathers to lose their child to this nonsense–not on either side.

Tell me you can make that happen, Ladies and Gentlemen, tell me you can. Tell me you’ll do it now. Before my son turns 18 and does what teenage boys do – not listen to his parents just because he can. What a stupid reason to become a Marine.

Stop the War Now.

Never More Sincere About Anything,

HAH

Some picture`s for Speedy