tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35719138201788459812024-02-06T19:51:31.655-06:00Laura EglandWelcome!Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-73678816892175829492014-04-04T13:34:00.001-05:002014-04-04T13:34:37.510-05:00What I Learned This Week, or, How Gilligan Got Off That Damned Island<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I've been awake for a few hours. It's quiet in my place,
save the sound of traffic from a nearby intersection, and the occasional
neighbor slamming the door. (HONESTLY with the fucking door slamming.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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One week ago at this time, I was in a recovery room with a
team of people surrounding me. I'd been out of surgery for over an hour, but
apparently didn't want to breathe. I'm told it would be over an hour and half before I
would start to breathe on my own rather than being assisted, and another
half-hour before I would decide to join the world again and regain
consciousness. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I don't remember anything from those hours, save two
separate memories of what most of us would likely call dreams: in each, I sat
on a park bench very near the shade of a pink-blossomed tree with a man in a
dark, well-tailored suit—the same gentleman in each engagement. Tall and thin,
I don't remember his face, other than he was quite handsome, his intelligence
obvious, and his demeanor so very, very calming. </div>
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<br /></div>
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We sat and talked. I don't recall what we spoke about in
word, nor even theme, but I do know he was my first thought upon waking in that
recovery room. My second thought, which I'm told I verbalized with as much
force as I could muster, was, "would you stop YELLING my fucking name,
woman?” In a strange side note, it turns
out that woman was a cute little blonde thing who bears an uncanny resemblance
to my surgeon friend, Kourtney—who does not practice in Fargo—which set off some internal and
short-lived confusion regarding who actually had performed the procedure.
But I digress.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've thought quite a bit about that man on the bench. I'm
certain it wasn't one long encounter, or dream, but rather two distinct and
separate meetings. Try as I may, and meditate as I do, the content of our time
together remains a mystery. The only clue I get has twice been a
whispered voice: "Pay attention." </div>
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<br /></div>
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So this morning, as I luxuriate in the day that was supposed
to be filled with coffees, lunch, a pedicure, long bath, and packing for a season
wrap-up celebratory trip out of town this weekend, I instead sit, PJ-clad, reflecting in
my favorite recliner. I know, I know: you really thought I was
going to tell you I am sitting here paying attention. Uh … no. I am not. Reflection is my
current method of paying attention. (I have yet to really nail down the concept and practice of
being present. I'm always two or three steps ahead, trying to guide and control
things to get an outcome that seems to work best for the majority of those
involved.)</div>
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<br /></div>
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What I notice is that I've spent the last two years repeatedly saying, "I'm the only one who does what I do," at both my job, and
in relation to the Tell. Really hammering it in, ya know?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Ah, the martyr. So capable, so willing,
so alone. And I've worn this idea as though it were the mantle of truth:
my choice, nay—my DUTY—to stride tall and finish in glory, regardless of the
toll. </div>
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<br /></div>
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With this idea, the first four days after surgery should
have been a quick and easy recovery (it was laparoscopic, for Pete’s sake) instead
saw me holding things up all based on this one idea of aloneness. Steeped in
guilt for not being at work, and not getting things done there and for the
upcoming season finale, The Tell Off, I worried myself into a pile. When we
factor into that the starkly obvious state of living alone, reliant upon friends and family to
stop by and feed and help me out of bed for the first few days, my mental state
diminished, quickly and succinctly. I wallowed, my friends. I wallowed hard, sinking
deeper, all the while delaying physical healing. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What brought me around was evidence. Evidence in the forms
of emails, and Facebook messages from people I barely know, just checking in.
Calls from those I do know well, insisting I tell them what I needed. And the
tipping point: a friend new to me in the here and now, but who my soul
recognizes with a swell of love, gently suggesting that all was not lost, but
indeed, was free and roaming as it should … and that taking a shower and putting
on clean pajamas would feel really good.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I was forced to ask for help, and harder — forced to accept
it. <br />
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In the last week, my coworkers came together to figure out
how to cover things in my absence, and we're now creating ways to make sure
that if I fall off the grid again, everything is covered. Hard lessons learned,
but in the end, it all comes to the surface so we can clean it, take a good
look at it, and make it better. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My tribe closed in and descended, hands extended and hearts
open, to get the Tell Off on its way, with or without me. Plans put into place,
ideas brought forth and implemented, and soothing confidence in others instilled.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last night was one of those nights. Five of my friends
packed into my living room, clipboards created out of books, passing a fresh bag
of marshmallows for sustenance, working every angle of tonight’s show to make
sure it was covered, and that all I have to do is show up. <br />
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Reflection upon this evidence today reveals the idea of my
solitude to be complete, utter, and disgustingly mired in bull shit. </div>
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<br />
So whaddya know: ‘turns out, I am not alone. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I am, in fact, a part of a community of people, close to me
or not, who care. Who are themselves capable. And who are so obviously willing
to be there. <br />
<br />
Fuck that martyr business. THIS is right where I want to be. Mired in love,
laughter and a metric shit-ton of gratitude.<br /><br />Amen.<br />
</div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
</div>
Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-48970172956393359502014-01-10T14:06:00.001-06:002014-01-10T14:06:17.846-06:00Sooner or Later, It All Comes Out<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Something about a good show shakes something loose in me. We
had an extraordinary night at <a href="http://www.thetellfargo.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">The Tell</a> on Wednesday, and sure as shit, all day
Thursday, I felt something casting off its moorings. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I made it through the workday, cognizant of this thing
emerging, ready to fly. Called my cranio-sacral babe (<a href="http://www.relaxationplusmn.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Carolyn over at Relaxation Plus</a>), but wasn't able to get in to see her that night. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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SHIT. I was going to have to birth this thing by myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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For those of you who don't know me well, I'm an angry motherfucker.
Like WICKED angry. (Check out what Louise Hay has to say about belly fat; it
will all come together.) The reasons for the anger don't matter right now, and may
never bear any weight again. Besides -- they're nothing but stories I created
around factual events; the meaning I've added. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I damn near lost it in the grocery store. Right. There. In.
The. Squash. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Nope. Not gonna happen. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I went into full avoidance mode, calling friends, throwing
myself into work, traipsing over to my girlfriend's place, calling more
friends, working social media like a rented show pony ... until I just couldn't
any longer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I knew it was the anger wanting, begging, demanding to be
released. I took a deep breath and asked, "how do I do this?", and
heard, "focus on it."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are you FUCKING SERIOUS? Do you not know the entire reason
I'm funny? Why do you think I commit so fully to being positive in social
media? It’s so nobody has to look at it. ‘Focus on the anger?’ PASS: that shit
is dangerous.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
"Focus on it." <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Oh, voice in my head ... FINE. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So I made myself a bath with sea salts, baking soda, and a
blend of essential oils I like to call the Smart & Spicy Jesus .... and
settled in to tentatively welcome whatever was going to come forth. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It started with recognition of full-body muscle tension, so
I worked to relax each muscle in my physical being, one by one. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I swirled around, avoiding my heart and stomach (the pain
centers, as I think of them in this case), until I couldn't ignore them any
longer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My focus on the reason for my anger became intense, burning.
I could see this person, smell their wretched breath, see the gaps in their
teeth, hate the very thought of them .... and then I burst.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Like a soap bubble caught just right by the wind …
<pop>.<o:p></o:p></pop></div>
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What I thought surely was going to be some sort of verbal
version of the Exorcist— 30 years of fuck you—presented itself in hot,
exhausted, apologetic tears. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Yes. You read that correctly. Apologetic.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I suddenly found myself steeping in full-body sorrow, of all
unexpected things. Regret for the assumptions I make, the roll I play in
perpetuating all of this reciprocal bewilderment of feeling betrayed but not
being able to give name to it, and the stories I created around the entire
ordeal. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My soul called my anger forth … to ask for forgiveness. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know I can’t possibly be the first person to make this
connection. <br />
<br />
But you can be damn straight I’ll add my voice to the sound of those preaching about
the other side, amen. <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-11775112822479445602013-01-19T22:16:00.000-06:002013-01-19T22:16:33.087-06:00Mama Laura's Sweet Beef<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Man, if that post title doesn't bring folks lookin' for porn, I don't know what will. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Speaking of porn, I posted a photo of tonight's dinner on Facebook because I love me some food porn, and a recipe was requested. I obliged in a <a href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/laura-egland/mama-lauras-sweet-beef/10152453253485511" target="_blank">Facebook note</a>, but there was a desire expressed to be able to pin that bad boy. And here we are. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Honestly, given that I haven't blogged in what, months?, I really thought my first post back was going to be a life-story. Like about the <a href="http://thetellfargo.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">storytelling competition</a> I started here in Fargo. Or about Mike getting his first apartment. Or our new kitten, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10151331016123905&set=pb.833203904.-2207520000.1358654774&type=3&theater" target="_blank">Penny</a>. Or that time I accidentally showed Louie Anderson my lady parts. </div>
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<br /></div>
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I guess that one will have to be told another time. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Tonight, I come back to blogging glory to give you Mama Laura's Sweet Beef. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCDdLgQSlS4S1-65sVxXaHy2TyOmSg_keAREOu5sD6W23xaaSiGtkIwLKUNynoBSkG80E1meCsiRMpA_W9Azjl_7PkYI3v4khAizqJT1eSpMP9f2wmISNERjnkz_ra3xcVddZqHHaaVR8/s1600/sweet+beef.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCDdLgQSlS4S1-65sVxXaHy2TyOmSg_keAREOu5sD6W23xaaSiGtkIwLKUNynoBSkG80E1meCsiRMpA_W9Azjl_7PkYI3v4khAizqJT1eSpMP9f2wmISNERjnkz_ra3xcVddZqHHaaVR8/s400/sweet+beef.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A conglomeration of hundreds of recipes online, in cookbooks and on that thar tee-vee, we use cheap beef (because we're not the friggin' Rockefeller's donchya know) and there's very little to it—making it a go-to on nights when we're fighting the siren song of fast food. </div>
<br />
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<li>1 lb beef (eye of round, chuck round; whatever ... it doesn't have to be expensive. Lord knows mine wasn't.)</li>
<li>1.5 to 2 T cornstarch</li>
</ul>
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<br /></div>
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Slice into thin strips, then sprinkle lightly with cornstarch. Don't let the beef sit in the cornstarch for more than 20 minutes or it will get mushy. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<li>1/2 c soy sauce (not that light shit, either)</li>
<li>3 or 4 green onions, sliced (shallots or any kind of onion work; 'bout a 1/3 c)</li>
<li>1/2 c brown sugar (light or dark) + 1/3 c more for later </li>
<li>1 1/2 T rice vinegar (or regular ol' white vinegar)</li>
<li>1/4 t ground ginger (or fresh if you're Martha Damned Stewart and happen to have some laying around)</li>
<li>1 t ground black or white pepper</li>
</ul>
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Mix all of this bidness together. Use a whisk if you're feeling fancy. (Tonight, I used my fingers. True story.)</div>
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Marinade beef in this mixture for as little as 10 minutes, as long as one hour. Give 'er a stir at some point to make sure the sugar isn't laying down on the job.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Cook over medium to medium-high heat in whatever oil you've got until beef is about 2 minutes from the way you like it. If you're showing off and making veggies as well, toss 'em in about half-way through. Just before it's cooked to the desired "doneness" (I hate that word), throw in another 1/3 c brown sugar in and stir the bejesus out of it. </div>
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Jazz hands, bitches. Jazz hands. </div>
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<br /></div>
Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-34738776513865286702012-12-12T00:43:00.001-06:002012-12-12T00:43:14.759-06:00The One Where My FILDI Is Set Free<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scared. <br />
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Worried. <br />
<br />
Terrified. </div>
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<br /></div>
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Here I am, facing what could be an amazing opportunity for me
and my business, but I’m paralyzed.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My business feels like a relationship I’ve allowed to fall by the
wayside—first I stopped calling, then stopped writing, and pretty soon, I didn’t
even bother with a Christmas card. <br />
<br />
I think about this relationship all the time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How I really should be trying harder. How I really don’t
know what to do or say to get back into the swing of things. How I suck as a
human being because I just can’t seem to do anything in the direction of making
this one thing great.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stand just outside of it. Staring. Waiting for the rhythm
of the double-Dutch ropes to be absolutely perfect so I can jump back in, both
hands up—as though feeling the wind created by the rope whipping by will help me
gauge the perfect moment for re-entry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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At some point, I know that if I want to get back in there, I’m going to have to gather my balls about me and just …. jump. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what if I fall? What if my feet forget what I was doing?
What if my brain forgets the words? What if I was wrong and none of the other kids
really want to hold the rope for me? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s where I am: hands up, gauging the rope-wind.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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My brain plays a loop of a year’s worth of excuses to not work my business. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But a light shines like a beacon: I know—I feel to the depths of my soul—if I don’t try, I’ll wind up buried alive
in a shivering, gelatinous pile of self-loathing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All of the things I’ve been should-ing on myself with are coming rapidly to a necessity point: the one where I either take great, swift, and concise action—or plummet into a crevasse
of crap. The same crevasse—I didn’t know until I was well into my 30’s—I created
all on my own. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I instinctively knew this was going to be a year of inertia.
In the beginning I embraced it. But the more time that went by, the more my
inner adolescent started to worry. The more she started to flirt with
self-doubt and then judgment, dancing dangerously close to the edge of giving
up the whole idea. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I’m not an adolescent any more. After years of mulling over the concepts involved, I accept my role in my past and choose to
write my future in a language that builds and strengthens, with love for myself when I
screw up or chicken out. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://www.itube.com/watch?v=RYlCVwxoL_g" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">I’ve been feeding my FILDI oranges and whispering encouragement to it</a>. It’s ready. It’s time. And it’s allergic as all hell to
self-loathing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So with a big breath, I encourage you to stay tuned for a
big announcement.</div>
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<br /></div>
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I’ll see you on the other side … of awesome. </div>
</div>
Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-63711299052931792212012-09-11T10:06:00.002-05:002012-09-11T10:06:24.157-05:00On Healing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last year, I posted a reclamation declaration on September 11.<br />
<br />
A lot of time has passed since then. A full year, according to my math.<br />
<br />
Since then, Matt has met and married the love of his life. Mark's daughter and Trish's son have both grown and continue to delight their families daily.<br />
<br />
September 11 belongs to us. Not to pain. Not to the unknown. Certainly not to fear.<br />
<br />
Go: reclaim this day.<br />
<br />
The original post below can be viewed <a href="http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/2011/09/reclamation-declaration-sunday.html" target="_blank">here</a>.<br />
---------------------------------------------<br />
<br />
<br />
Today marks ten years since the Towers fell and our lives as Americans changed forever.<br />
<br />
The numbers are staggering.<br />
<br />
The statistics from <a href="http://nymag.com/news/articles/wtc/1year/numbers.htm">New York Magazine</a> recount the horror, the devastation, the obvious and solid reasons for the fallout of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">fear and anger even a full decade later:</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Total number killed in attacks (official figure as of 9/5/02): 2,819</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of firefighters and paramedics killed: 343</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of NYPD officers: 23</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of Port Authority police officers: 37</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of WTC companies that lost people: 60</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of employees who died in Tower One: 1,402</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of employees who died in Tower Two: 614</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of employees lost at Cantor Fitzgerald: 658</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of U.S. troops killed in Operation Enduring Freedom: 22</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of nations whose citizens were killed in attacks: 115</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Ratio of men to women who died: 3:1</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Age of the greatest number who died: between 35 and 39</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Bodies found "intact": 289</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Body parts found: 19,858</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of families who got no remains: 1,717</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Estimated units of blood donated to the New York Blood Center:36,000</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Total units of donated blood actually used: 258</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Number of people who lost a spouse or partner in the attacks:1,609</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Estimated number of children who lost a parent: 3,051</span></li>
<li><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Percentage of Americans who knew someone hurt or killed in the attacks: 20</span></li>
</ul>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Every September since then, I am sick all over again. My mind is consumed, my body mourns, my soul twists in agony. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This year, though, I had a revelation.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Today is an anniversary marking other things, too. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">So many beautiful things, not just in my life, but in the lives of those around me.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Events that not just underscore, but really define the joy in life itself. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
Today, for example, is my friend Matt's birthday. (HI, MATT!)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Matty is one of my favorite people. (Please, don't tell him though -- we don't need him getting a big head.)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
See that gleam in his eye? </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9Dye36ZYcP5lXaVY_zcUWlQdm2Ltxkx5mjlMN-ATLrItPola33Pejb8yucB3P1h95sTl0Yz-lPoFyaOZFdETQpvDthUCGZoWzb3b0ckBTa8c3QETlp-psK9uUzVSKqfjaHWmqdoEC0M/s1600/Matty.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI9Dye36ZYcP5lXaVY_zcUWlQdm2Ltxkx5mjlMN-ATLrItPola33Pejb8yucB3P1h95sTl0Yz-lPoFyaOZFdETQpvDthUCGZoWzb3b0ckBTa8c3QETlp-psK9uUzVSKqfjaHWmqdoEC0M/s640/Matty.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">It's pretty much always there, and it's comprised of the stuff that makes me think, inspires me to action and is usually guaranteed to make me snort-laugh in a most unlady-like fashion. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Matty is my reason number one to reclaim this day.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Enter Mr. and Mrs. Sorgaard.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;">Twelve years ago today, they were married. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; line-height: 18px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfom72DvXEOzih9nH44lDcVV1Zca_2rj8bauT8e_wmu-1PSDBm02n8_k0KOv0t27cMjH2b-wJ0OriU7y9ZKonI11JdSAebhoMsAYbmvPY7qIjBgwnTvWnZJK2ObGLkkbnVyECziwmn5Lg/s1600/287670_10150322286308817_634988816_7620946_1563459365_o.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfom72DvXEOzih9nH44lDcVV1Zca_2rj8bauT8e_wmu-1PSDBm02n8_k0KOv0t27cMjH2b-wJ0OriU7y9ZKonI11JdSAebhoMsAYbmvPY7qIjBgwnTvWnZJK2ObGLkkbnVyECziwmn5Lg/s640/287670_10150322286308817_634988816_7620946_1563459365_o.jpg" width="438" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">photo credit: Gabe Haney</span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Mark is one of my favorite photographers, and I stalk him on Facebook pretty regularly. (HI, MARK!)</span><br />
<br />
Mark's favorite subject, and his greatest muse, is his daughter, Skylar. Take some time to peruse the <a href="http://fatcatstudiosonline.com/Skylar_Flynn.html">gallery</a> on his website dedicated to her, and you'll understand why the Sorgaard family is my second reason to reclaim the day.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Finally, there is Mr. Max. </span><br />
<br />
Maximillian joined his family five years ago today.<br />
<br />
The joy he brings his family is radiant and undeniable.<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">His mama, my friend Trish, (HI, TRISH!) wanted a shot of both of her kids on their first day of school this year, but Max was having none of it. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">He needed to express something else. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Something that made a statement. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Something out of the ordinary. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Something independent, strong and solid. </span><br />
<br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiErDNCWP61zQ4ohrDYXnU9_PxkuOTxWGzzzK0jYRd_C_v2WB4275Y2GRuqlrHL7jJ0emGYXq7WthcjJRYDeAMor2hotqigGsk_VxN6EHn7m_uxVghPwCqiY30uPaiBf4opYs873WF2ak/s1600/max.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiErDNCWP61zQ4ohrDYXnU9_PxkuOTxWGzzzK0jYRd_C_v2WB4275Y2GRuqlrHL7jJ0emGYXq7WthcjJRYDeAMor2hotqigGsk_VxN6EHn7m_uxVghPwCqiY30uPaiBf4opYs873WF2ak/s640/max.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I think he accomplished it, and reason three stands before us. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">There they are. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">The first three reasons I'm choosing to redefine September 11 as my day of joy. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Will I ever forget the lives of those lost? Of those who willingly chose courage, bravery and a sure death so that others may live?<br /><br />Absolutely not. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I will, as long as I am on this Earth this time around, think of them not just on September 11, but most days. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">As an American, it's now a part of who I am. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">And it's as an American that I reclaim this day. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">For the people who make me laugh. </span><br />
<br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Who inspire me. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Who make me think. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Who make me reach.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">And for those who make the people I love laugh, feel inspired, think and reach. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Who make the world a better place by simply being them. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Matty? Happy birthday, buddy. I still owe you a birthday girly-coffee, but this time I'm bringing the trivia questions. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Lara and Mark? Here's to numerous decades more, and millions of loving memories.</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Trish? Happy Mama birthday, my friend. Your fierce and abiding love for your children makes the world a better place. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">And to you, sitting at your computer, balancing your iPad on your lap, or scrolling away on your smart phone?</span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Thank you for being you. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Thank you for being reasons to reclaim and redefine the day. </span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></div>
<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" /></div>
Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-38470534445099715232012-07-20T23:00:00.002-05:002012-07-20T23:00:15.363-05:00Creativity and An Invocation<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
My house is in ruins. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
OK. That's a gross exaggeration. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's really just the down-down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(I'd say the
"downstairs," but we have a four-level split, which makes the downstairs the garden-level family room. </i><i style="background-color: white;">Which makes the
basement the down-down. </i><i style="background-color: white;">Clear? </i><i style="background-color: white;">I thought so.)</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It's funny what <a href="http://awordfrommamalaura.blogspot.com/2012/07/passing-on-belief-creativity.html" target="_blank">allowing myself to be creative</a> has awakened
in my Spirit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Firstly, I find myself wanting a nicer space to live. A more loved space. Something deeper than just lived-in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Full disclosure: We moved in 10 years ago and haven't done
jack-shit to our home, save painting a whopping six walls of color. I bet you didn't
know jack-shit was hyphenated, didya?</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found myself looking around at the evidence of being uninspired
and happily found I was a bit beyond the apathy of my surroundings. I was apathetic
for a long, long time; I assure you. To be on the other side of it was (IS!)
like a clean shower and a cool drink of water after bathing in warm, salty sea brine.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The space in which my creativity was rebirthed is our aforementioned down-down: the
most rag-tag misuse of space for four counties. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is here I shall take the next step in the reclamation of
myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I've heard time and time again the best way to create a room
is to choose one piece and build it from there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Never one to heed any advice wherein being stingy is
celebrated, I have chosen three pieces. They were all created by <span style="background-color: white;">the brilliant, honest and willing, </span><a href="http://ashow.zefrank.com/" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">Ze Frank</a><span style="background-color: white;">, of</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><i style="background-color: white;">A Show. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;">The first, The Invocation, was introduced to me via my
friend Becky, formerly of high school, now of Denver. (HI, BEC'!) The Invocation hits me hard. In the solar plexus. And whisks my heart into a can-do frenzy. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0waE_117Jf9WsDzbIJmQxtXHhHgNOoz8fdh_YKySs_X-GPcwcO3FVwgGQqAQsKK_6ratt_lqw8bbVIvWv35x7SU7cg__c-YArhfiupk2NmFQV04WFGLIqPPnWQrA7e4KP7a7viUdXMk/s1600/invocation.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl0waE_117Jf9WsDzbIJmQxtXHhHgNOoz8fdh_YKySs_X-GPcwcO3FVwgGQqAQsKK_6ratt_lqw8bbVIvWv35x7SU7cg__c-YArhfiupk2NmFQV04WFGLIqPPnWQrA7e4KP7a7viUdXMk/s640/invocation.jpg" width="426" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">All artwork property of Ze Frank. Don't try to download it and print it out yourself. That would make you a dick. And not a big dick, either. A tiny, sad little dick. And let's face it: ain't nobody appreciates a little dick. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To fully experience the Invocation, I invite you to visit Ze's (because we're on a first name basis) <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RYlCVwxoL_g" target="_blank">channel on the Tube of Yous</a>. It will be the best investment of your time you've banked today. True story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other two pieces are snippets of the Invocation, but cry to be considered on their own. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;">.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPstl0oHIqTxVQvYmRSgt7Pd91dRwyAM4opluqTFe8CxUcHr_VykfnMAUfEpAISJr6PlGKYJhaKnKVXHYh7RslwJy__LBK2mGZMXbbxmHxHpPcBI3DV_K-evpd7G1zAix2YJ-_hu03B2E/s1600/courage.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPstl0oHIqTxVQvYmRSgt7Pd91dRwyAM4opluqTFe8CxUcHr_VykfnMAUfEpAISJr6PlGKYJhaKnKVXHYh7RslwJy__LBK2mGZMXbbxmHxHpPcBI3DV_K-evpd7G1zAix2YJ-_hu03B2E/s640/courage.jpg" width="490" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIq621GQiyokE3k4R3r3aWeQgqx2KH6YvWePDURRBFuj0e7miB0bFFPEHPpS-_al-PV3Zy8rdryIfCDtOhe2bUOfbSfRkszikEm1UxxLnWO5SoqEFqhGO-IqWEf80k9iOEBfe4xB5z3ZI/s1600/pencil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIq621GQiyokE3k4R3r3aWeQgqx2KH6YvWePDURRBFuj0e7miB0bFFPEHPpS-_al-PV3Zy8rdryIfCDtOhe2bUOfbSfRkszikEm1UxxLnWO5SoqEFqhGO-IqWEf80k9iOEBfe4xB5z3ZI/s640/pencil.jpg" width="482" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background-color: white;">Read. Be inspired. Declare your invocation. Amen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p><span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-54188608309230022212012-07-16T23:41:00.000-05:002012-07-16T23:41:21.824-05:00The Day I Stabbed The Ceiling<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
They say most accidents in the home happen in the bathroom. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br />Clearly, whomever "they" may be, they've not visited <i>my</i> home. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Imagine, if you will (and I think you will), a cool, bright spring evening. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
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You've come home from a day of work and would like to start cooking dinner with a clean slate. Those clean dishes must be put away. </div>
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You fire up your redneck sound system. (iPod plugged straight into computer speakers atop a shelving unit) and roll up your sleeves.</div>
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Now, you've spent all damned winter waiting to see the sky the color it is today. With the music secure, your next priority quickly becomes letting in as much light as possible. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NoQORUESMCy_XNz_HOBka-aHdKMCFBHifSuNG1Sdz4m2y572A4CtioWDlvwEnkfDPlGyWRmvqtM6VWhxet5KaMTbH73OrrVJm0LimZSK9wTwDmieBx3PkJj178R-6E3_-X60Ba6Az4o/s1600/sink.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7NoQORUESMCy_XNz_HOBka-aHdKMCFBHifSuNG1Sdz4m2y572A4CtioWDlvwEnkfDPlGyWRmvqtM6VWhxet5KaMTbH73OrrVJm0LimZSK9wTwDmieBx3PkJj178R-6E3_-X60Ba6Az4o/s640/sink.jpg" width="456" /></a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">You reach across your pile of clean dishes and past the magnetic knife strip and, ignoring the dust along the bottom of the fabric, give the rolling curtain a yank. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsCft9Bzq6LtZmHoOxmFyN7WL5AfQXx4XoI7rQs6If0Yg4crWLtVpen0M-XW8iLVvy1ncs5BwwUVu65BrKLw0GuwlPNHNiuJFyP4NFjSr9MQhs2PivfA4IHuqtNAd2CDUqnC3UMXqYyw/s1600/wedged.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYsCft9Bzq6LtZmHoOxmFyN7WL5AfQXx4XoI7rQs6If0Yg4crWLtVpen0M-XW8iLVvy1ncs5BwwUVu65BrKLw0GuwlPNHNiuJFyP4NFjSr9MQhs2PivfA4IHuqtNAd2CDUqnC3UMXqYyw/s640/wedged.jpg" width="456" /></a></div>
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And shank the ever living shit out of the ceiling. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8_SxJMfleWu4moranLT5DW31OL_XZ-2nUQw8BQwvKhdHcISL8qk6sH1PLDDglGjxnT9Uz1SJ7H6TRnQ2JUbqrd-lAtozHqCQLb4K8Mu6Cx2Soj_GfzJRl-1oYYw8VqReOAihOf9hnJs/s1600/knife+ceiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje8_SxJMfleWu4moranLT5DW31OL_XZ-2nUQw8BQwvKhdHcISL8qk6sH1PLDDglGjxnT9Uz1SJ7H6TRnQ2JUbqrd-lAtozHqCQLb4K8Mu6Cx2Soj_GfzJRl-1oYYw8VqReOAihOf9hnJs/s640/knife+ceiling.jpg" width="456" /></a></div>
<br />
Tell you what, that ceiling hasn't back-talked me since.<br />
<br />
Nope. Not a peep.<br />
<br />
<br /></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-70421050895900495892012-07-09T23:05:00.003-05:002012-07-09T23:05:26.755-05:00Passing On A Belief: Creativity<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I don't know if I've ever told you this, but I spent the better part of a decade working in different aspects of advertising, and in each of those jobs, I held jobs that were not considered creative. So much so that at the last one, I would not be invited to meetings, my ideas would be shit on, and I would even be told on a very regular (almost daily) basis that, I was not just "not a creative," but, "Laura, you're not creative."<br />
<br />
Don't feel sorry for me because of someone else's words, but instead, kick my ass for believing it.<br />
<br />
That's right. I spent ten years believing I am not creative.<br />
<br />
I believed it so much it became a part of me. I told myself the same thing, in agreement with the theme, over and over so that it was, indeed, my story.<br />
<br />
And then something interesting happened.<br />
<br />
I got laid off.<br />
<br />
And I started pushing, in tiny ways, my creativity.<br />
<br />
I wrote.<br />
<br />
I consulted.<br />
<br />
I brainstormed.<br />
<br />
And people <i>paid</i> me to do it.<br />
<br />
"Well, fuck YOU, lady who fed me the non-creative line every damned day of my life," I started to think on a daily basis.<br />
<br />
Then I let myself get really mad.<br />
<br />
And I stayed mad for a few more years. (You know, 'cause we have nothing but time to fritter away being mad. What can I say? Sometimes, I'm a total dumb-ass.)<br />
<br />
Then I noticed that Crystal spends the vast majority of her spare time in creative pursuits (often with <a href="https://www.facebook.com/HouseofMaus" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">amazing outcomes</a>), as do <a href="http://sarahmccurdy.net/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Sarah</a> and <a href="https://www.facebook.com/beingecochic" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Maria</a>. (HI, GIRLS! I LOVE YOU!) (HI, GREENER! I LOVE YOU, TOO ... YOU'RE MY FAVORITE SCIENTIST! EXCEPT FOR MAYBE THAT <a href="http://www.noctilio.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">HOT GUY</a> THAT KNOWS STUFF ABOUT PEOPLE BEING INFESTED WITH BUGS AND SHIT, 'CAUSE HE'S HOT. EVEN IF HE IS CANADIAN.)<br />
<br />
Sorry. I don't know why I yelled for so long. I really just wanted the girls' attention. I love them. In fact, I love them like I love mocha cappuccino peanut butter.<br />
<br />
OK, so ... the people I spend the majority of time with were expressing themselves in the fresh, fearless ways, and I was fucking playing Tetris.<br />
<br />
Yeah. That needed to stop.<br />
<br />
So I started blogging here in earnest. (Aside: Just typing his name (I know it's a homophone, calm down) makes my heart squeeze a little, thinking about Mr. Borgnine. I'm gonna miss those crazy-ass eyebrows and public declarations of <a href="http://youtu.be/3I_PeLNzxNQ" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">frequent masturbation</a>.)<br />
<br />
But blogging was a little too personal. I wasn't ready to really open 'er up, and at the time, I felt like I needed to. (Lucky for you, I now realize sharing is a choice, not a directive.)<br />
<br />
So I got a camera to hide behind.<br />
<br />
And <a href="http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">365</a> was born.<br />
<br />
Then I got a job.<br />
<br />
And it became more like 195 Snapshots.<br />
<br />
Photography is fun, but the process of lighting, aperture, filligree, pedigree and whatever else bedknobs and broomsticks mumbo-jumbo that goes into a great shot proved to be much too tiring to do daily, especially whilst holding down a job I dig. And taking 75 photos in a day and <i>going through</i> those 75 photos is a crevasse I dare not look down while crossing.<br />
<br />
Right around this time, Lee started creating wooden frames out of reclaimed wood. They have a palpable honesty to them. They're beautiful. They're artful. And I was inspired.<br />
<br />
One day, on the drive home from a visit to Maria's store, Eco Chic, I had a vision. It was a wooden bookmark, wafer thin and engraved with witty sayings, or perhaps just sanded silky-smooth and sealed. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.314875078607208.74497.314843428610373&type=3&l=5f30b94e52" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">Bad Diddy</a><span style="background-color: white;"> was born. I make reclaimed wood bookmarks. And signs. And I LOVE it. Best of all, I'm not mad any more. I realized that in order to push me into doing something that's really and truly an expression of me, rather than a mere reflection of the world around me, I had to get mad. I had to look it over, turning the mad in my hands, inspecting it from every angle like a Rubiks Cube in order to push myself. </span><br />
<br />
One night, as I was Dremeling my little heart out and mentally solving the creativity Rubiks Cube, I was working on four specific angles: where it comes from, what turns it up, what shuts it down, what keeps it going.<br />
<br />
And I realized that for me, it was about belief. Faith, even.<br />
<br />
Faith that I was created to create. And if that was the one abiding tenet, then my marching orders were clear: Wade in, dummy!<br />
<br />
I also realized that I never stopped being creative. <span style="background-color: white;">Every time I've ever been witty, every word I've ever written, any time I've ever handwritten a card in cursive ('cause it's not a waste, CRYSTAL!) or any time I've ever "Weird Al'd" a song ... that was creativity. If we factor in the new and exciting ways to curse, well, hell on a biscuit; we're talking non-stop crea-fuckin'-tivity. </span><br />
<br />
Which got me to thinking about where and why my beliefs regarding my own innate creativity went askew.<br />
<br />
For me, I believe it was a lack of communication along the way. I don't know that among the years of just trying to survive, to make sure everybody made it through the day, not a ton of importance was placed on making things. That's not to say we weren't allowed to create things. We certainly were. If we asked, we were told we could bake, sew, paint and draw to our hearts' contents. My older sister, (HI, BEESWAX STINKO!) danced. I have a very specific memory of Heather, my little sister, (HI, DAHLING!) making all sorts of things with popsicle sticks, glitter and muffin liners. (Kitty party hat, anyone?) I think it wasn't pushed because things like eating, getting to school and being kind to one another were of greater importance in our day-to-day. Of course, it could be that I'm a middle child and need constant reassurance. (This is the part where you feel sorry for my husband, trust me.)<br />
<br />
Thinking about my childhood made me think about one of the little girls in my life, our niece <a href="http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/2011/08/i-found-some-kids-at-zoo-saturday.html" target="_blank">Bergen</a>.<br />
<br />
She has wonderful parents. Attentive, encouraging, loving. That kid is never going to think she's incapable of doing anything because of those two. It makes me smile just thinking about it.<br />
<br />
But what if?<br />
<br />
What if, as little girls, we all had a front and center daily reminder that could grow with us as we became women?<br />
<br />
And another idea was born.<br />
<br />
<span style="background-color: white;">So with one of my photos of a peony from our backyard, a frame from Lee, and a vinyl print from </span><a href="http://www.shortprinter.com/" rel="nofollow" style="background-color: white;" target="_blank">Shortprinter</a><span style="background-color: white;">, I made B. a gallery wrap </span><span style="background-color: white;">to hang on her bedroom wall. Something I hope she reads every day of her life. Something I hope she hangs up when she gets her own place, and holds to her heart when someone tries to lie to her face and tell her she is less than. So that she never believes them.</span><br />
<br />
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<br /></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-77326942673716025572011-08-17T20:27:00.000-05:002011-08-17T20:27:13.672-05:00Hey, You GUYS ....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Hola!<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px;">¡</span>Buenos dias!<br />
<br />
Come esta?<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 15px;">¡</span>Mui caliente!<br />
<br />
Oh, crap.<br />
<br />
Now I've backed myself into a corner, because what you read there is pretty much all of the Spanish I know.<br />
<br />
Sorry. I didn't mean to lead you on.<br />
<br />
Were I Robert Palmer, I would tell you I didn't mean to <i>turn</i> you on.<br />
<br />
But I'm not Robert Palmer.<br />
<br />
And I don't speak Spanish.<br />
<br />
I hope we got that cleared up.<br />
<br />
I also hope you have a song stuck in your head at this point.<br />
<br />
So why did I summon you here?<br />
<br />
To invite you to a party!<br />
<br />
Wait.<br />
<br />
That's a lie.<br />
<br />
After the Spanish Robert Palmer business, I realize I need to be careful here. Respectful of your trust.<br />
<br />
I want to ask you to come on over to my other, much more active blog, and follow me there.<br />
<br />
Pack your bags!<br />
<br />
Grab your passport!<br />
<br />
Get ready for a good TSA gropin'!<br />
<br />
We're off to 365 Snapshots!<br />
<br />
For ease of navigation, I'm goin' old school and presenting the link in plain web English:<br />
<a href="http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/">http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/</a><br />
<br />
I'm looking forward to seeing you there.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 15px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">¡</span></span>Gracias!<br />
<br />
(Well would you look at that? I DID have one more up my cerebellum's sleeve!)<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-35915419430357239092011-07-23T21:56:00.002-05:002011-07-23T21:56:47.753-05:00A Worthy Cause ... AND Cheesecake!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdpRn73CRwk4cvT55ly8DfArZcd8jvZ_mKT5E0jq7fnvHHWn5o0mmarnBkMf0tX4Y6uvaxDNU3Y22DJeSFkgs2zIxtx03-TFj-UWwCePdAaYRy-7CQ79KkuMLJ4jcYV2JPs6yi5Eiw94/s1600/Sprouts+Baby+Shower.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdpRn73CRwk4cvT55ly8DfArZcd8jvZ_mKT5E0jq7fnvHHWn5o0mmarnBkMf0tX4Y6uvaxDNU3Y22DJeSFkgs2zIxtx03-TFj-UWwCePdAaYRy-7CQ79KkuMLJ4jcYV2JPs6yi5Eiw94/s640/Sprouts+Baby+Shower.jpg" width="481" /></a></div><br />
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-19466672455880747152011-06-16T00:47:00.000-05:002011-06-16T00:47:40.540-05:00OK, So Here's The Deal ....<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I can't write here right now.<br />
<br />
I know, I know ... transparency.<br />
<br />
I lied.<br />
<br />
Well, maybe not LIED, per se.<br />
<br />
Or maybe I just lied to myself.<br />
<br />
Things are ... uh ... squishy in my house right now. I need to find a great job and SOON, and that whole money thing riles up something worse than Hagrid's <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioh-CPiiT1AfEepuzFbgRGIeGdiugkwF0Mzox1GW8gPDiDIDt9fVNO1bMvmb9rSElgRFEeGsyNy8GK30oc9GUUMtY7Jd7YbpU_6z7XUQPcj5Od9upzo6ostZCPwCUqYFletKq2X1H_jWM/s1600/hp2_12fluffy.jpeg">Fluffy</a> in me. It's not a good feeling, and since I refuse to whine in public (oh, my shrink is going to LOVE this) I'm shuttin' 'er down for a while.<br />
<br />
I'll start posting again one day, just not today.<br />
<br />
Of course, you're always welcome to comb through the archives. <a href="http://awordfrommamalaura.blogspot.com/2010/09/first-day-of-school-or-did-that-just.html">This</a> is a good place to start.<br />
<br />
When you're done there (or if you've got crazy mad multi-tasking skillz), please join me over at my <a href="http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/">photo blog</a>. It's a place I don't feel pressured to keep tidy or explain very well. Some days I have words to go along with the images, and some days I don't. Some days I use a good camera, and some days I don't. Some days the photos are good, and some days they aren't. 'Just depends.<br />
<br />
I've learned that I need to express myself in some way, and for me, blogging is a great solution. But when words weigh too much, I find photos feel much better. So, you know ... it's something I can do. Something I can handle.<br />
<br />
See ya on the other side, mi amigos!<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-2278847043531882892011-05-25T12:32:00.002-05:002011-08-25T16:35:20.758-05:00Foiled Again<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Ladies, you know how some days you just don’t feel pretty? Noteworthy? Like a freakin’ super model? </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Right. I know. Some of us have those days more than the other kind … the good kind. The kind of day where you KNOW you are crackalackin’, lip-smackin’, dingo-ate-my-baby delicious. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">For me, yesterday was (finally!) one of the latter variety.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I looked GOOD, y’all. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Clearly, the planets aligned, because the hair was just right, the eye makeup went on as it should, the girls were hiked up to their proper position, and no grunting occurred when the jeans were zipped up. Glorious!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Apparently though, all that gorgeousness comes with a time-related price. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I left the house in a rush, heading to lunch with a friend. (Hi, Chris!) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now let me tell you something about Chris: the man is a punctuality <s>freak</s> stickler. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Seriously. Tardiness does NOT fly with him. His scorn, while moderated by his Scandinavian roots and therefore undetectable to those not familiar with the signs, is palpable if you know what to look for. (As innocuous as it sounds, Scandihoovian scorn is to be avoided, trust you me.) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">So I sped. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I zipped in and out of interstate traffic, a cute fella in a nice car took advantage of my mad Nascar skillz and tucked himself in behind me. I’m sure he figured I would get ticketed, rather than he, should we be caught. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I exited, so did he. A stoplight impeded our progress, and I took advantage of the pause in motion to repair a poor lip color choice made before the final wardrobe change of the morning. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As I pulled out my gloss, I noticed cute driver guy watching me with what I took to be a flirty grin on his face. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Well then. Looking for a show? Here ya go, big fella—enjoy!<o:p></o:p></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I proceeded to take my time doing the sensuous gloss application, complete with an arched eyebrow for emphasis. You ladies know what I’m talking about. It’s bullet-proof as long as you’ve got all your teeth and no signs of lettuce or legume skins stuck anywhere. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The light turned green, and I scurried straight on through the intersection as driver guy made a left. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I was smug: I looked good, I’d gotten to lunch on time and I’d come off as desirable in the eyes of a complete stranger whom I would never see again. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then I glanced down at my dashboard. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And it hit me: cute driver guy wasn’t grinning at my obvious hotness. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Oh no, he was <i>laughing at me</i>. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">'Turns out my left blinker was on the entire drive. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-42430280462378059262011-05-25T11:23:00.001-05:002011-07-26T14:29:41.967-05:00The Unmasking<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">When I began this blog, I masked the players—well, the human ones, anyway—in nicknames. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It’s bothered me ever since. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">It felt fake, inauthentic. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">GACK. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So now that the BoyRD is eighteen and graduating high school, I’ve asked the various people I hang out with if I may use their real names when I post, and they’ve all graciously agreed. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">So here it is: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro-sS1IS5J0N6Mgi2gKZu-_4oP18s6sp3oNs3AdC4bHTnraf1oAr2wznp2GAm16HzK99tXLzQbSWa6pgGHiBTN3Qj-7PsH6ABCFqgynqT9ubZ-AMEvg1GEGAAS9cc-bGSeAx6mmVIw7c/s1600/IMG_8893.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgro-sS1IS5J0N6Mgi2gKZu-_4oP18s6sp3oNs3AdC4bHTnraf1oAr2wznp2GAm16HzK99tXLzQbSWa6pgGHiBTN3Qj-7PsH6ABCFqgynqT9ubZ-AMEvg1GEGAAS9cc-bGSeAx6mmVIw7c/s400/IMG_8893.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">The big kid towering on the left? That’s Mike. Or Michael James. Or Monkey Pants. The BoyRD is actually a nickname we’ve had for him for years. It’s based in my husband’s addiction to nasty canned pasta. I won’t go into detail here, but suffice to say the stuff makes me gag. It does, however, make for a mighty adorable nickname.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">And the tall guy on the right? That would be KittyDaddy. His Mama named him Lee. KittyDaddy is also a legitimate moniker; the man never had a pet until he met me, and since I couldn’t be without a cat in the house, he was (initially) forced to become a cat person. Now, I can’t imagine he would ever choose to be without feline companionship again. (I would like to officially go on record with a great big, "told you so!" at this time. Thank you for your understanding.)</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p>So there you have it. That's my son and my husband, revealed. </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p>Say hello to my tall, tall friends .... </o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p><br />
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</div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-85630373466675300542011-05-24T02:41:00.000-05:002011-05-24T02:41:07.719-05:00Call Me Crazy<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I don't always have time, or--let's face it--the gumption to write.<br />
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I do, however, find myself snapping at least one photo a day. Sometimes it's on my mobile phone and sometimes with my digital SLR. And when I'm feeling cuh-razy I'll actually use my Flip!<br />
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Thus, I have created <a href="http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/">yet another site</a> to share those photos. I've enjoyed other folks' "year o' photos" postings on the various social sites we enjoy in this modern age, and have chosen the same time frame for this project.<br />
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Will I update daily? Maybe not.<br />
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I will, however, take a photo of some sort every day, then upload them by date to <a href="http://365snapshots.blogspot.com/">the site</a> as time--and that darned gumption--allow.<br />
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Hop on board; it's bound to get interesting!<br />
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And really? Thank you for coming along for the ride. I love having you here.<br />
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</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-13076735039489705432011-05-17T19:47:00.001-05:002011-05-17T19:48:05.878-05:00Duuuude ...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="text-align: justify;">Sweet, what does mine say?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">(Five points for the movie reference.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's cuh-razy busy around here as of late. And when it's not, I am trying to impress every sight, every move, every sound and each and every scent (well, maybe not EVERY scent) my only child has to offer and pack them safely into my memory.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's right, the RD is graduating high school.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I know, I know ... we've got months before college starts. Don't ... (hic) ... get ... me ... (welled-up eyes) ... started. (wail)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Y'all, he has access to a vehicle.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And a job. (sniff)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And a life (hic) outside of MY home.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">He's going to pack up his stuff. (a single tear escapes, coursing down my cheek)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Store some of his stuff. (snot flowing)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">And go to college. (WAIL!)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">To what far-flung land is he traveling in pursuit of his dream in technical theatre, you ask? Moorhead State. Yup, just across the river in Moorhead, MN.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">WHUT?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">(defiantly wipes nose on shirt sleeve)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Don't look at me like that. He's. My. (limb-shaking breath) BABY.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'll try to keep my keening to a minimum.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The graduation party is this weekend. Actual graduation is next weekend. Mix in there family visits, putting the house on the market right after graduation and avidly looking for my next awesome employer, and well ... yeah. Duuuuuude. There's a lot going on.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4ZsF-mQug3YQjAA4Gl1vp7xxoFEa_3e73Te3wcIjmMv4qUgoz3tpfnJ3lcmZXuMDNMwJjDfC9IcOmRRVijGoA0sonxGuTWJN4I2PrY8yb25K7AOuA5yZI9cPKchhPDmy4ppLDf0LXBg/s1600/0407012128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq4ZsF-mQug3YQjAA4Gl1vp7xxoFEa_3e73Te3wcIjmMv4qUgoz3tpfnJ3lcmZXuMDNMwJjDfC9IcOmRRVijGoA0sonxGuTWJN4I2PrY8yb25K7AOuA5yZI9cPKchhPDmy4ppLDf0LXBg/s320/0407012128.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">While I'm off being super woman, I offer you two more pictures from our trip out West.</div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">The first is the Boy RD being accosted by a five year-old. We went to visit some adopted family (you know, the kind you've known since their parents were THIS big and you love the whole brood like they're your own?) and this guy took one look at the 6'2" RD and decided he needed to take. Him. DOWN. Note the look of, "are you sure about this?" on the RD's face. And the RD's hat head -- it's so RD! Also, note the little dude's brother in the background, waiting for bloodshed. Such a good brother.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBwZTJwxs7a9xx9luZVFPTr_Dy4aykWLtwlD90DcbDxsuij8GJzfjVDMBqZ-bzjO3qlua7-0DLGnddJ_MCUIe9fOUA3xHKIImAGpCPsjpGnBMlDzWrH5514WEhG9IDlx21jyfOOJEfKE/s1600/0406011244.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: justify;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjBwZTJwxs7a9xx9luZVFPTr_Dy4aykWLtwlD90DcbDxsuij8GJzfjVDMBqZ-bzjO3qlua7-0DLGnddJ_MCUIe9fOUA3xHKIImAGpCPsjpGnBMlDzWrH5514WEhG9IDlx21jyfOOJEfKE/s320/0406011244.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This next shot is of pie. Why pie? Because pie is good. DUH.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: justify;">Suh g'on now, git yerself some puh. It's good fer ya!</div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-10215572049238164822011-05-09T21:47:00.002-05:002012-03-15T22:32:33.285-05:00Arizona -- The Mobile Phone Photo Tour<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">When Dad had a heart attack just over a month ago, I flew to Arizona. </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">I didn't know if I'd be able to put it all into words; that was a task just too daunting to consider. Instead, I snapped photo after photo on both my mobile phone and my "real" camera. </div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: justify;">Let's get started on your own personal tour of the trip from departure to return, shall we?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I noticed this as Kitty Daddy dropped me off at the airport, laying in the passenger pick-up/drop-off lane here in Fargo. It was the first time since getting the call that I remember having a total "real life" moment where my mind wasn't going over and over and over the condition of my Dad. It also made me look at KD and say, "Did I pack my toothbrush?"</span></div><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6zN1fwb99zoza4BzK56Kk9sl_LkPZW7Ur-DrT9pv-Eq-TgWeG-GvuQk2aQFzjhunJOuGWOAkZK7VYWpljeZqDoANmVj0wvka1r7uu_tmN2lVrdQzPVOls2mjrV9sLD3Ts4GnJXmMJUE/s1600/0403011528.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis6zN1fwb99zoza4BzK56Kk9sl_LkPZW7Ur-DrT9pv-Eq-TgWeG-GvuQk2aQFzjhunJOuGWOAkZK7VYWpljeZqDoANmVj0wvka1r7uu_tmN2lVrdQzPVOls2mjrV9sLD3Ts4GnJXmMJUE/s400/0403011528.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Little sister, H, and her saint of a man, D, flew in to 'Vegas from North Carolina about a half-hour before I got there from North Dakota. The first thing we noticed? It was warm enough for us to wear sandals! (Sorry if you're one of those anti-foot folks. Not having to wear socks and boots is a big deal when you live in the freaking tundra. You learn to embrace nearly-nude feet!) (Guess who has translucent skin and two thumbs? That's right! THIS GUY!)</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIuWOOdhQs_lE6B726tBrMLcqLUdlAlcFCZNzX6RK9JL8usdrLzlKJ_VYmNw2m7fhozsg7Rdlg_u-H_L1Hpml4znbXHYxyZ_xLDwD1ucRQGpqOc2alVnDmybF349VZyOru3uhW5XlQTM/s1600/0331011940.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyIuWOOdhQs_lE6B726tBrMLcqLUdlAlcFCZNzX6RK9JL8usdrLzlKJ_VYmNw2m7fhozsg7Rdlg_u-H_L1Hpml4znbXHYxyZ_xLDwD1ucRQGpqOc2alVnDmybF349VZyOru3uhW5XlQTM/s400/0331011940.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This was the room Dad was in at the CVICU. In deference to his privacy, I won't be sharing details of his condition when we arrived. I will, however, tell you that it was one of the most terrifying days of my life. I think he got me back for any of those times he had to rush to MY side at a hospital. (That is my reflection on the right; little sister H's man, D, sits next to me. This was his first time to meet the family. That man made the best of a shit situation, and I will always be grateful to him.)</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDvXjO6nBwjWtwh8m8MVmwr8qzh6AVZMUT5Zl9_N5GbcLHuQAFwRO70iTRUX5OS8mdJvcAjoB25voxM7oqWyMHRSkkt8p59fcLAo8VluY_y2us5FNnZ7atwK93Pn3WXAztV4rbgcr_LI/s1600/0331012341.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLDvXjO6nBwjWtwh8m8MVmwr8qzh6AVZMUT5Zl9_N5GbcLHuQAFwRO70iTRUX5OS8mdJvcAjoB25voxM7oqWyMHRSkkt8p59fcLAo8VluY_y2us5FNnZ7atwK93Pn3WXAztV4rbgcr_LI/s400/0331012341.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">On the first morning, I went in with coffee for my sister, and immediately abandoned that idea to go find a camera. How could you see THIS and not think, "this needs to be on the internet"? There's also a photo somewhere of D's arm around the dog, because he woke up and found a warm body next to him, only to discover that warm body was quite furry. Turns out H. had gone to the shower and Jake, Dad's big ol' Heinz 57 dog fancied a snuggle. I'm telling you, D put up with a lot on this trip. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVRZyX6JbwOuAwzJwvwfcq1_6HEz7mSTCdDPoy2x8Q0_AXHq1bbkKrfnY2wi5VQC3a6Ad6bCxjbrIBQntt6kU4twNaX0SZZppKFMYjSNG0wPXxPXSMJRqB9S-CUQKxSMfsQk3IlLh7OE/s1600/0403010034a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibVRZyX6JbwOuAwzJwvwfcq1_6HEz7mSTCdDPoy2x8Q0_AXHq1bbkKrfnY2wi5VQC3a6Ad6bCxjbrIBQntt6kU4twNaX0SZZppKFMYjSNG0wPXxPXSMJRqB9S-CUQKxSMfsQk3IlLh7OE/s400/0403010034a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">H & D (and sometimes Jake the dog) got to snuggle, but I was on my own. That is, until Dennis came home. Dennis is Dad's roaming kitty, and he showed up every so often just long enough to say hi, catch 38 winks and run off. He has that little boy kitty body and high, squeaky voice I'm a total sucker for. We bonded. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVJtj_FyuFXJePHtsA1boYXxAfzK5oLQppqroYnne936cTUsAQ7kI-BFXkDdCJypMAoTsOk41YO79C306-nh5-YJf-x2GJ_AYxtC8FjDDeprk3GTXM8Vs__2v_7D4M18idngtE0j634s/s1600/0403010955.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEVJtj_FyuFXJePHtsA1boYXxAfzK5oLQppqroYnne936cTUsAQ7kI-BFXkDdCJypMAoTsOk41YO79C306-nh5-YJf-x2GJ_AYxtC8FjDDeprk3GTXM8Vs__2v_7D4M18idngtE0j634s/s400/0403010955.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I made breakfast. This is a baked French toast dish to which I added blueberries after consulting with my foodie buddy Chris back in Fargo. (HI, CHRIS!) We decided that berries would hold up to the heat and brown sugar. Holy cow, was I ever glad we thought it would work because it. Was. AWESOME. (I should tell you Chris is a blueberry <s>whore</s> fan the likes of which you have never seen. It would not surprise me at all to learn he's got a blueberry burger in development. He's like that.)</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8CSpUmfpLeCq73lbAfllWiYx2LouBgSBXMxX3HZO_mCLNm2nP9CnElSexk1pdw0NmGMDGHPs2HBJOSHC4T6woN_TveweCb7eBZVMZWpoT0g6HLD5uct8-h9N91hCn1xGu29IA73e9V4o/s1600/0403011702.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8CSpUmfpLeCq73lbAfllWiYx2LouBgSBXMxX3HZO_mCLNm2nP9CnElSexk1pdw0NmGMDGHPs2HBJOSHC4T6woN_TveweCb7eBZVMZWpoT0g6HLD5uct8-h9N91hCn1xGu29IA73e9V4o/s400/0403011702.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Two days in, Kitty Daddy and I decided to bring the BoyRD out. I needed one of my boys with me, and it made the most sense to send out the RD. Even under the circumstances, it was some of the best time I've ever spent with my son. To pick up the RD at the airport in 'Vegas, we had to cross the Colorado River, formerly over Hoover Dam. But guess what? The bridge is done! Here is the one shot I got of it. (It rained later in the trip, ruining more chances for photography that trip.) I have no idea who those people are. I say we refer to them as Larry, Mo and Curly. Hey, Curly? Nice wedgie, dude. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqzNrahKt6jRMCRW7XJC0sNTvOBw1thyJopBrWK1DqxJaLxnX_CT1o90j-DlIuCkLEmFhZI654Rw3hBV-bXhzT5E04nf8XkJ5YsyChA4yB8dZRK5PGhuqo1vDJgil0d6CUtup9fExM2dk/s1600/0405011454a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqzNrahKt6jRMCRW7XJC0sNTvOBw1thyJopBrWK1DqxJaLxnX_CT1o90j-DlIuCkLEmFhZI654Rw3hBV-bXhzT5E04nf8XkJ5YsyChA4yB8dZRK5PGhuqo1vDJgil0d6CUtup9fExM2dk/s400/0405011454a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Somewhere during the week, I realized the RD is an adult! Needless to say, that meant he bought a lottery ticket and scratched his way to ... nothin'. I'm assuming he learned his gambling-related lesson. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijUuLiBrK7kH-LSAcd5Pj542HjCvCP_5ZEeHWHC2IsEzlMfktOPMiBdgF71RSJ9KHgwh-LnMshCjdNF3DfiI8jbNG1BWSCVFfNKFkQsZh2NNYlddqepbhoOp6ig1n_3WwzxIXC9K9oPnI/s1600/0406011217.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijUuLiBrK7kH-LSAcd5Pj542HjCvCP_5ZEeHWHC2IsEzlMfktOPMiBdgF71RSJ9KHgwh-LnMshCjdNF3DfiI8jbNG1BWSCVFfNKFkQsZh2NNYlddqepbhoOp6ig1n_3WwzxIXC9K9oPnI/s400/0406011217.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Being in Kingman, AZ, I figured I was in for culinary blech for a full week. Much to my delight, my childhood friend, Theresa, brought us to a sweet little coffee shop downtown that had carrot/ginger soup! Talk about feeling like I was back in civilization. (HI, THERESA!)</span></td></tr>
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</div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzB14rqshfP5Sd-bMCkPN1MLPVVJ_6HaTWdJDxosnx34vEF2nSmP_z5AaRVWyWTyDCmNs-Cjcr7ieoamGV3EnP28mrojXlOs21XRwaete1u1RbegeRUETyNLBSGrQr40MKrSh8AhD0CWY/s1600/0405011544.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzB14rqshfP5Sd-bMCkPN1MLPVVJ_6HaTWdJDxosnx34vEF2nSmP_z5AaRVWyWTyDCmNs-Cjcr7ieoamGV3EnP28mrojXlOs21XRwaete1u1RbegeRUETyNLBSGrQr40MKrSh8AhD0CWY/s400/0405011544.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">One day, the RD and I drove up to the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hualapai_Mountains">Hualapai Mountains</a>. It was a lovely afternoon, but we'll save the pictures from that trip for another day. </span></td></tr>
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</div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOSi3IsAlR6W0YGTBYmTdZtx2Pr8hYonjojalV_KE9P5FK-yofML7NQ0DSAU5deFfbflFYzAnqYQDhM_3zVoFEm1mJ8W04MX0Glfupx3-dQJjoX40ugff1VeT-8HqecAbPxV72DnpA9s/s1600/0405011742.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlOSi3IsAlR6W0YGTBYmTdZtx2Pr8hYonjojalV_KE9P5FK-yofML7NQ0DSAU5deFfbflFYzAnqYQDhM_3zVoFEm1mJ8W04MX0Glfupx3-dQJjoX40ugff1VeT-8HqecAbPxV72DnpA9s/s400/0405011742.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Shucks, we missed it!</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXK2MCldcs1wChrRRBlTNyJCtgI62Q_JfOHT9D1q9YSm2lO1Q9mMnUM5JOb3Z0YeVpj4TJNtBbWZJj6pcRDAXlzdNjX90acah_2gos3uHPgWwp9ZC46txHEdH7u8wM53Wbf_58au4iIc/s1600/0404012129.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXK2MCldcs1wChrRRBlTNyJCtgI62Q_JfOHT9D1q9YSm2lO1Q9mMnUM5JOb3Z0YeVpj4TJNtBbWZJj6pcRDAXlzdNjX90acah_2gos3uHPgWwp9ZC46txHEdH7u8wM53Wbf_58au4iIc/s400/0404012129.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I was able to take my son places I used to hang out as a teenager. Many an evening hour was spent solving the world's problems on this beach as a teenager. I went on to work at this hotel/casino in Laughlin when the RD was a small boy, and the poignancy of being there with him wasn't lost. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8NpWa1V3YI3oXCotU7JpaLPt_WQmpWnK-_Xp0F091Oa6m4a9_POpAxzArj_P9hiwxAvgrTqXiJuO7Q7GZVSxgU1cSLJk5jbzMJanxF98AQ2kWdeDt7Yuy7jVv5CWO-NDUC2OXF8ha0Q/s1600/0404012144a.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8NpWa1V3YI3oXCotU7JpaLPt_WQmpWnK-_Xp0F091Oa6m4a9_POpAxzArj_P9hiwxAvgrTqXiJuO7Q7GZVSxgU1cSLJk5jbzMJanxF98AQ2kWdeDt7Yuy7jVv5CWO-NDUC2OXF8ha0Q/s400/0404012144a.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">THIS is where Kitty Daddy and I met. No, really -- that exact spot. </span></td></tr>
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoHbr7hJDx6alZAHv5pMI7SAySaYpvtq3Y8GRkFE0mGvi2Rnniv5YIpbChOo4uLpKHaNqOGcVrKvmbCWoRjGDlQ3uK5pw5bDNyjhanAilAE3tKVoojnwKbamh-QfpGJESRoLq7zayh4w/s1600/0404012226.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFoHbr7hJDx6alZAHv5pMI7SAySaYpvtq3Y8GRkFE0mGvi2Rnniv5YIpbChOo4uLpKHaNqOGcVrKvmbCWoRjGDlQ3uK5pw5bDNyjhanAilAE3tKVoojnwKbamh-QfpGJESRoLq7zayh4w/s400/0404012226.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And when we all lived together, this is the apartment complex pool we used to go swimming in. Boy RD was about four years old and he would beg Kitty Daddy to "go slimmin'?" </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpkfe9u8Wvx8lmlWhlwPV-JkAnSFoEq1KRBRyPQU82ta6q1wImgkfNJoevQ96APrLvdhs_ydojwdjWZV3c1xvm-6z7UYbhuDoEVzX0a5164ueG0_-YMmy6OKeGUFH0L_Me85vMpv2YpI/s1600/0401011627.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLpkfe9u8Wvx8lmlWhlwPV-JkAnSFoEq1KRBRyPQU82ta6q1wImgkfNJoevQ96APrLvdhs_ydojwdjWZV3c1xvm-6z7UYbhuDoEVzX0a5164ueG0_-YMmy6OKeGUFH0L_Me85vMpv2YpI/s400/0401011627.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I did have one afternoon to myself out there. Needless to say, I took my butt straight to a Sonic. Ahhh, cherry limeade. I love you like no other. </span></td></tr>
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XsexSs6KO5riQcnAKqdbbgrw9TjLxI2o5H9eZkXHPnknb0_DOIjaGo1UZGj_w92Dsb6Jne3XkC4MxLD0IKWyA76TUH-runZl5kq6S082XTkN2CvvPOsx_r1EnUlmbvfLoWxgUJbpj3o/s1600/0408011831.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3XsexSs6KO5riQcnAKqdbbgrw9TjLxI2o5H9eZkXHPnknb0_DOIjaGo1UZGj_w92Dsb6Jne3XkC4MxLD0IKWyA76TUH-runZl5kq6S082XTkN2CvvPOsx_r1EnUlmbvfLoWxgUJbpj3o/s400/0408011831.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As the RD and I were driving back to 'Vegas to head for Fargo, I took this cloud break to mean the storm was over.<br />
<br />
<br />
</span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Thus concludes the mobile phone photo tour. I'll show you what we came home to in the coming days. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Wherever you are, be glad of it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Whomever you're with, make the most of it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Time is short, life is fleeting. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Live it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Glad to be here with you, </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Mama Laura</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span></div></td></tr>
</tbody></table></div></div><div style="margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: CENTER;"><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-28478870011725855392011-05-05T14:10:00.002-05:002011-09-26T21:07:47.046-05:00GO BLOBS!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjFTfBHYuo1sWasVQDUAvt5fLI-VA7FfB3t22Du7lcuFAYYDp9nbBqIeBxKXgRy2o_C-Ls4Z0KnE6HUBL-etXwegwyUYOlacgT0tq7omPFS6YvyQMuXaKlNigzw9Hi0hPr76tS1mlBGWS/" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVjFTfBHYuo1sWasVQDUAvt5fLI-VA7FfB3t22Du7lcuFAYYDp9nbBqIeBxKXgRy2o_C-Ls4Z0KnE6HUBL-etXwegwyUYOlacgT0tq7omPFS6YvyQMuXaKlNigzw9Hi0hPr76tS1mlBGWS/" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">I have been honored to know quite a few folks who have taken part in the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure events all across the country. It touches me. It inspires me. And it reminds me of a story: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">My older sister, J, had her own car then and didn’t need rides to school in the morning, but the baby of the family, H, and I were still in need. Mom would drive and H would sit in my lap, both of us sharing a single seat belt. (What? Like you never took a road trip lollygagging in a wheel-well or in the back window of your Dad’s car in your childhood? Puh-lease.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I in sixth or seventh grade, and H in kindergarten or first grade made us both old enough to get ourselves ready in the morning, but Mom still ran down the check list to make sure nothing was overlooked. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">One morning, as we backed away from the house, Mom started the checklist:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
“Teeth brushed? Deodorant? Homework? Locked the door? Refrigerator is closed?” and the like sang out in call and answer fashion, my sister and I dueting on each “yes ma’am!” answer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">This morning, though, Mom must have wanted to keep us on our toes. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Front door locked?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes ma’am!” we cried out cheerily. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Shoes tied?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Yes ma’am!”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Bras in place?”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Silence met her query as I swiveled my head to see if I’d heard right. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With a sly grin, she met my shocked gaze and we both erupted into laughter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Little H, however. Did not. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">With great concentration, she was held open the front of her own shirt, surveying things.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“No bra,” she said very matter-of-factly, “I don’t have boobs. I just have blobs.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Please visit the Race for Life to donate, volunteer or enter your own race. GO BLOBS!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The folks at Susan G Komen do not know who I am. Nobody is giving me so much as a pink ribbon to post this. It's just that, as it turns out, I have boobs. And I hope to for the rest of my life. I hope you do, too. Rock on. </i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-20151448940669634912011-04-22T00:18:00.001-05:002011-09-26T21:08:04.205-05:00THAT Is What I'm Talkin' 'Bout!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">I just stumbled across these folks while checking out <a href="http://frozenmusicstudios.com/">Frozen Music Studios'</a> Facebook page. <br />
<br />
Their mission moves me.<br />
<br />
Please, go check them out and spread the word!<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://tanyakayphoto.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/Unseen.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://tanyakayphoto.com/blog/wp-content/uploads/2011/04/Unseen.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><a href="http://www.unseenministries.net/">http://www.unseenministries.net/</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
<div><br />
<div style="text-align: justify;"><i>Frozen Music Studios isn't payin' me. She probably has no clue I called her out right here in public. Unseen Ministries has no clue who I am ... yet. Y'all keep yer panties unwadded; ain't no consideration bein' handed over by nobody, no how. Word.</i></div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-46674596844080638862011-04-19T21:27:00.000-05:002011-04-19T21:27:48.850-05:00Unexpected Beauty<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Heather over at <a href="http://www.blogger.com/"><span id="goog_1758942803"></span>Dooce<span id="goog_1758942804"></span></a> raved about this, and I thought she was maybe on the loony juice, but alas—I stand corrected. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sheer beauty.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><object height="311" width="499"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/C9jghLeYufQ?fs=1&hl=en_US"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube-nocookie.com/v/C9jghLeYufQ?fs=1&hl=en_US" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="499" height="311"></embed></object></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That sigh you just heard was me, because by the end of the clip, I realized I was holding my breath. And that hug at the end? That was a REAL hug; none of this bro-hug bullshit. Gorgeous. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go dance to something beautiful and unexpected.</div><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">(Heather? Since I so presumptuously used your first name here, you are welcome to just unceremoniously start using MY first name should we ever meet.) </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div><o:p><br />
</o:p></div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-11696566824765470382011-04-15T22:44:00.002-05:002011-09-26T21:08:25.469-05:00It's A Small World, After All<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">A recent conversation with a friend examined what we decided is the outright coolness of being alive in this time and space. (HI, CHRIS!) </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He described having a moment of realization as he simultaneously ordered coffee from Africa, ate a banana from South America and talked, delay free, with a friend thousands of miles away on a device smaller than his hand. He said that moment struck him as amazing and thinking about how effortless it is now, what the founding fathers would think.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I’d have to concur. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I just had a moment of my own. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></div><br />
Sitting in my recliner, I was struck with a craving for apple crumble. Never having made something like this, it used to be I’d spend at least an hour combing through my recipe book collection before following a reasonable candidate word-for-word.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The web has changed that, though. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I can’t remember the last time I cracked open a book for cooking advice. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Now, I visit <a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/tasty-kitchen/">P'Dub's Tasty Kitchen</a> and <a href="http://allrecipes.com/">All Recipes</a> online, search for their two or three highest-rated offerings, scan the reviews and tweaks readers have submitted, and in ten minutes I’m in the kitchen—creating an amalgamation of ideas from around the world right here in Fargo, ND. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The apple crumble turned into an apple-blueberry crumble, and next time we’ll use more flour and less butter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite these needed adjustments, though, I think even Martha Washington would have asked for seconds. </div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-13156659757311509502011-04-11T17:57:00.002-05:002011-09-26T21:11:00.660-05:00Back In Black<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">Thankfully, I’m not actually wearing black. It’s just the song that popped to mind when I reached around for a post title indicating my return to the flooded upper Midwest.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Dad is better. Lots better, in fact. He’s home now and improving daily. I won’t tell you anymore; because he’d be mortified to find out I’m talking about him to anyone, much less in a public forum online. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Thank you for your thoughts, prayers and love over the last ten days. I encountered so much of these that at times I was overwhelmed. I know darned good and well there are people I didn’t get back to who wrote notes, email and texted, but I have to tell you …. I practically needed a PBX system to keep up. I apologize if you’re one of the un-returned. I can’t thank everyone enough. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Re-entry into “real” life has been odd. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
I spent ten days at the hospital in the desert, at my father’s house and showing the BoyRD around one of the towns I grew up in.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">At one point, I realized he and I were having lunch in the very same restaurant in which I first met the folks I almost gave him up to for adoption. I probably looked like I got hit with a 2x4 upside the head. Lord knows I felt like it. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Other ghosts stomped around that town, that county, that part of the world in general. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">All the times I ever drove up to Hoover Dam find solace in its massive concrete presence.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Any of the evenings I spent hanging out on the beach at Harrah’s in Laughlin with friends, solving the world’s problems. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The afternoons spent tromping around the Hualapai Mountains, escaping the heat or just getting closer to God. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hours and hours spent futzing around the wash near our house as an elementary student. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hospital my Dad was in is the same my son was born in. The same <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> father died in. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It was sobering. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Sobering to not only visit the same old places, but to finally put the feelings I had assigned them into order. I didn’t like myself when I lived there so many years ago, and my impression of that area mimicked my memories. The sobering, or clearing of my own mind, allowed me to finally put those things in the past, where they belong.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And like me, those places and things have changed, too.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Hoover now has a giant bridge over it, bypassing the Dam for those who need to get where they’re goin’ instead of braking for pedestrians, or more to the point—saving wear and tear on an extraordinary national monument. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Harrah’s feel has changed, as has the skyline we used to stare at while lying in a beach chair. I don’t know how to describe that one. Maybe it’s just because my perspective has changed. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Hualapai’s aren’t as big as I remembered. And the park I used to drive to is now behind a fence you’ve got to pay to get into. Once I got over my initial shock, I was impressed with what they’ve done with the area. Even the teepees they erected (HA! I said, “erected”) are cool. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">That old wash’s path has changed. The giant bush I used to play inside of (no, really … it had “rooms”) might just be dead. There aren’t as many rocks. There is more debris. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hospital has added on and has an amazing VCICU staff and doctors. I’m still stunned by how impressed I was by them. That’s a thank-you note in the making, I tell ya. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I got to introduce adult BoyRD to folks who were there before I even guessed I’d have an RD to brag about, were there when he was born, and, and even after his birth as I struggled to discover and become Me. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">There were texts from people far away who knew me back when. There were calls and emails from people who only know me from Fargo. All full of love. All like gifts from God himself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">And now I’m back in Fargo. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The snow is gone, replaced instead by floodwaters. Our basement is wet (nothing new; it happens every time the water table gets ridiculously high) and Amos is still a butthead. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The love carries forward, though. And for that, I am forever grateful. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div></div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-75689452008121130552011-04-03T01:12:00.003-05:002011-09-26T21:11:13.413-05:00Proof of His Absence<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="MsoNormal">As the date of Dad's heart surgery approaches, we girls are staying at his home. <o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's beyond odd to be here without him. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The lack of his physical presence is always at the forefront. We’re here because he’s in the hospital; it’s not like it’s something we forget. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Recent days have a hodge-podged, temporary sense of normalcy to them. It’s like my brain seizes upon things from everyday life which run parallel to the happenings of now and clutches them tightly—a link, however tiny or mundane, to it all being okay. I have coffee at home every day, so the sheer act of making coffee every day here in my father’s home, even without him joining me, ensures that all will be well. If I hear a song I know he’d like, I fill in everyone around me, “Dad would love this.” No moment passes where his presence is not somehow inserted. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">It's as though just speaking his name heals his body, strengthening his heart and acting as a substitute until he can be here in person. A reassurance or promise of a return to real normalcy. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Then there are the things that jump out in seemingly innocuous moments, insisting on being noticed: proof of his absence. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The change from his pocket, still lying on his dresser. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkGQfJcPyIAvdpwGSfN-DYPYziS9nSKFhTHN13s38MgYDP05nGq-ezhdZJ_M1VCh1WqC6Pa8rLMSdYS6mr68UpqQgvLeG5WLUREMN2m_YopwKlcvTDi74r7hit38DQG4V720-ybsZ8oE/s1600/coins+on+dresser.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="278" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvkGQfJcPyIAvdpwGSfN-DYPYziS9nSKFhTHN13s38MgYDP05nGq-ezhdZJ_M1VCh1WqC6Pa8rLMSdYS6mr68UpqQgvLeG5WLUREMN2m_YopwKlcvTDi74r7hit38DQG4V720-ybsZ8oE/s400/coins+on+dresser.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">His pipe, cold and singular on the kitchen counter. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAOjzhYCwmmd3DoVZRQV1V8-Fol3QX480eQ-76AZmKkGQiwKR3Wcjj-lWheNcHgrpPMDcZ-xe-vJ2UoY8BcIDKcPaH4DHrM5dc_WLv_XpalU9SteSiS6MonHdglhskEYqlBYi0LfJhzE/s1600/pipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpAOjzhYCwmmd3DoVZRQV1V8-Fol3QX480eQ-76AZmKkGQiwKR3Wcjj-lWheNcHgrpPMDcZ-xe-vJ2UoY8BcIDKcPaH4DHrM5dc_WLv_XpalU9SteSiS6MonHdglhskEYqlBYi0LfJhzE/s400/pipe.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p>T</o:p>he jeans and shirt he would have put on when returning from work.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvjort79Yt8sS3EP4JQgZgKeg9cjK1hLlGCQKlgU14qcE7iul6rpsBIUKDw1bCLNqz5ToitKKcwkX3ft7fAIaLXL2-Barc9AlZhr_ASMiNPc_Ymchl1YD5OiXTkQtQ2q8yRk40EirplE/s1600/jeans+shirt+lr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijvjort79Yt8sS3EP4JQgZgKeg9cjK1hLlGCQKlgU14qcE7iul6rpsBIUKDw1bCLNqz5ToitKKcwkX3ft7fAIaLXL2-Barc9AlZhr_ASMiNPc_Ymchl1YD5OiXTkQtQ2q8yRk40EirplE/s400/jeans+shirt+lr.jpg" width="280" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal">His truck, with his favorite radio station tuned in and waiting, engine cold, devoid of its driver. (My little sister insists I point out the dirt and bugs are NOT how Dad left it; she drove it down to see Mom and is going to return it to the shape Dad insists on keeping it in before she heads home.)</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUY6-ux0hQpbuINSXocufyXgDdBM55M7Zla4ay0L5yYf9uq47ofjdNAdoILtsYD1Oh7B-bqU-BoMlZgZKAXy9KT-m_LuC2uNUr6I7OjjKWXJxJd-2MAH06oC8T6zD6myKrfG-BTU0L6Q0/s1600/truck+lr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUY6-ux0hQpbuINSXocufyXgDdBM55M7Zla4ay0L5yYf9uq47ofjdNAdoILtsYD1Oh7B-bqU-BoMlZgZKAXy9KT-m_LuC2uNUr6I7OjjKWXJxJd-2MAH06oC8T6zD6myKrfG-BTU0L6Q0/s400/truck+lr.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br />
</o:p></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Or George, who just doesn’t understand where Dad could be hiding. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi96R19LZwaTEtDkTJsoavscJmvm5kkVmhfmpJKSv5tIEXhHplCG1WawS9smv1insHZEw16r38aPqNVaT2Auj_7hb-k9pP1JcDgSf_68WCJdm_baa_-SDRP45zpH0mZw8iRRBmQKZ_SYr0/s1600/George+talking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi96R19LZwaTEtDkTJsoavscJmvm5kkVmhfmpJKSv5tIEXhHplCG1WawS9smv1insHZEw16r38aPqNVaT2Auj_7hb-k9pP1JcDgSf_68WCJdm_baa_-SDRP45zpH0mZw8iRRBmQKZ_SYr0/s400/George+talking.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">George has had enough of his Dad being gone, and will tell anyone who listens of his insistence that Dad be returned immediately. So things can return to normal. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>Amen, brother George. Preach on.<br />
<br />
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-10066717995353050682011-03-30T18:53:00.002-05:002011-09-26T21:11:28.548-05:00Be Careful What You Wish For (LANGUAGE WARNING)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Shit.<br />
<br />
Shit. Shit. Shit. Hell. Damn. Shit.<br />
<br />
I've been whining pretty heavily the last few days. About the WEATHER, of all the fucking things in the world to be pissy about.<br />
<br />
It's cold here. There's still a cubic shit-ton of snow on the ground. And I've been complaining about it. Angry, even.<br />
<br />
I've been saying to anyone who would listen in the last 24 hours that I've been looking at cheap flights to just get the hell out of here, to anywhere with sunshine.<br />
<br />
I even was joking with my neighbor when I saw her at the grocery store this afternoon that I'd do pretty much anything to get to somewhere warm. Anywhere.<br />
<br />
As I was putting groceries away, the phone rang.<br />
<br />
It was my Dad's wife.<br />
<br />
Dad had a heart-attack at work, died twice in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, and is now in surgery.<br />
<br />
That's all we know.<br />
<br />
And now I'm booking a flight to get to AZ.<br />
<br />
Shit.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-32899298170438573682011-03-30T13:33:00.001-05:002011-09-03T01:47:57.597-05:00A Short But Heartfelt Love Note<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxiYyLMgGY1Ci1GeWTRbqGaIua0ogZbxlunw4l9xjlZ5bIUM_q0u3ncU8UcjAgKV4KXHUW6CW3UERCStYs33W1GA-M07CyQYLzU-Xp8CTdZVbLT5fAC0yYhq6oaY9M5phQyYp5cN58G4/s1600/coffee_love__by_adrienn_photography.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="208" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMxiYyLMgGY1Ci1GeWTRbqGaIua0ogZbxlunw4l9xjlZ5bIUM_q0u3ncU8UcjAgKV4KXHUW6CW3UERCStYs33W1GA-M07CyQYLzU-Xp8CTdZVbLT5fAC0yYhq6oaY9M5phQyYp5cN58G4/s320/coffee_love__by_adrienn_photography.jpg" width="320" /></a>Dear Dunkin' Donuts,<br />
<br />
Your <a href="http://www.dunkinathome.com/coffees/dunkin-decaf-coffee.aspx">Dunkin' Decaf</a> makes my tongue's toes curl.<br />
<br />
Honestly, until I met you, I had no idea my tongue even HAD toes.<br />
<br />
I'm so glad you came along.<br />
<br />
You warm me. You comfort me. You make me sigh deeply in contentment and promise to do crazy things like laundry, more writing and even (dare I say it?) painting the family room.<br />
<br />
I love you.<br />
Laura<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3571913820178845981.post-63714498937427842542011-03-28T12:35:00.000-05:002011-03-28T12:35:55.608-05:00When Speed Reading Goes Awry<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">They said, "Dipper," I saw "diaper." And was horrified. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Mea culpa.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m_xsTfFaN66l48oqjZ-DIV6H2FcZAFJUflG1DbuuYCCnWHY5mxLpt8heMSa9xEBZ8YFHK_QskXg4_wytKS6MDZrGm8YQX2Ze28rta2de5wJocjkR8hC_IYZUsChYMJJDSQhmu3LsKdQ/s1600/Quiznos.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0m_xsTfFaN66l48oqjZ-DIV6H2FcZAFJUflG1DbuuYCCnWHY5mxLpt8heMSa9xEBZ8YFHK_QskXg4_wytKS6MDZrGm8YQX2Ze28rta2de5wJocjkR8hC_IYZUsChYMJJDSQhmu3LsKdQ/s400/Quiznos.png" width="400" /></a></div><br />
</div>Laura Eglandhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16382577475363417305noreply@blogger.com0