tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49623691857870882002024-03-14T02:50:28.221-07:00Simmered with a dash of surrealismAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.comBlogger151125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-78678063333544082342012-03-16T15:12:00.000-07:002012-03-16T15:12:16.519-07:00Summer TimeI like having fun in the summer, so I made a list of things to do and will be keeping track of everything with subsequent blog posts:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Bike tour in Oregon</li>
<li>Weekend in Vegas</li>
<li>Twilight Concert Series</li>
<li>Sliding Rock</li>
<li>Tube the Provo River</li>
<li>Mona tire swing</li>
<li>Make ice cream (kofe)</li>
<li>Mexican dancing (with my neighbors in Magna)</li>
<li>Bonfire (on the beach or in the canyon)</li>
<li>Spiral jetty</li>
<li>Chemistry love photo shoot</li>
<li>Garden (tomatoes, basil)</li>
<li>Camping (Arches, Goblin Valley)</li>
<li>Make arroz con leche</li>
<li>Sunday dinner with friends</li>
<li>Book club</li>
<li>Crepe night</li>
<li>ice blocking</li>
<li>Triathalon</li>
<li>5k with mom</li>
<li>Bookshelf build</li>
<li>Random acts of kindness for neighbors</li>
<li>Community art (random eyes on objects, colormekatie inspired project)</li>
<li>Temple tour (visit all the temples in Utah)</li>
<li>Eat at roadside taco stand</li>
</ul>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-20981068382965590012012-01-30T16:23:00.000-08:002012-01-30T16:24:49.808-08:00ExpectationsI don't know why I expected him to look different. As if somehow all the changes I had felt would somehow be portrayed in his face, the way he walked, some physical manifestation in him. And as we stood awkwardly positioned between the masses of passing students, I could help but notice his teeth.<br />
<br />
Clean, but still stained a pale yellow with years of soda pop and gatorade, straight with distinct gaps between his top front teeth. I think I had to focus on his teeth to realize that he hadn't change. And to resist the overwhelming urge I had to hug him.<br />
<br />
His laugh was the same, his coat, his smell still wafted temptingly towards me. I had to finger the ring on my left hand to remind myself-- even if he hadn't changed, things had changed.<br />
<br />
"Don't hug him, don't hug him, don't hug him," I had to replay my commitment mentally to get the strength to physically resist.<br />
<br />
Five years is a long time. You don't date that long without having a flood of memories assault you when you see someone after a month of absence. Dark nights, couches, fumbling in the dark. Early mornings, running, leg weights. Exotic flavors mingled with heavy beats keeping you moving on a dance floor. Millions of memories, but necessarily words. And yet his mouth kept moving and I still couldn't pull my eyes away from his teeth.<br />
<br />
His eyes were too dangerous, those eyelashes would get me in a minute, and I knew it. On our first date, when he was still fresh in America and could barely speak English, he spoke with those eyelashes. Years later, when he was "teaching me Spanish" he used them again. Sitting side by side on my living room couch evolved quickly into laying on top of each other as he mesmerized me with those eyelashes. No, I couldn't risk looking at those eyes.<br />
<br />
And I couldn't look down. I couldn't look at his hands. Those hands knew the weak spots around my hips. Those hands which had mapped the contours of my face and body countless times. I knew if I looked at his hands I would be tempted to hold them in mine.<br />
<br />
So instead I fidgeted furiously with my hand again. I don't love him anymore. Yet, I will always love him. I will always have loved him, but now I am in love with someone else. And I was late to class.<br />
<br />
Risking everything, I glanced into his eyes and said goodbye.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-43682840018531070562011-11-17T07:31:00.000-08:002011-11-17T07:31:35.451-08:00Crazy Lazy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyhohoinB1k2F75q8EI6EF7k5szUCv08ChdFV6a8VKIXQaNmB4QF_-UVJBS6TiA6HV8TEofIpy3OGbNzdFFPSkUoDFDR2k8txVLV4QRzEwnUlGcofEzdVbNgzNdq4xFrRimMoWzxBXaY/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCyhohoinB1k2F75q8EI6EF7k5szUCv08ChdFV6a8VKIXQaNmB4QF_-UVJBS6TiA6HV8TEofIpy3OGbNzdFFPSkUoDFDR2k8txVLV4QRzEwnUlGcofEzdVbNgzNdq4xFrRimMoWzxBXaY/s320/photo.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>A secret: Most of the time I don't know the answer. Most of the time all I really want to do is curl up in a ball under my warm covers by myself and never come out. Most of the time I make it about on time. Most of the time I push boundaries. Most of the time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-6497576123626879952011-11-01T15:17:00.000-07:002011-11-01T15:17:54.473-07:00The sweetest most serendipitous avoidanceEmail received from the boy with whom I am in love:<div><br />
</div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUFDoohNW06N___W4NuFmtypUNAIwSUwN90OXAUALOUCb8z80U5AfxvpB9bAlt6IJyXJDv9BUiQWq-PEdVcmkKvEi1TuH7A47TJrSskrU5ffwqUXwcejQ237p8F4PfGdO45nqMVNUshqI/s1600/heart.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUFDoohNW06N___W4NuFmtypUNAIwSUwN90OXAUALOUCb8z80U5AfxvpB9bAlt6IJyXJDv9BUiQWq-PEdVcmkKvEi1TuH7A47TJrSskrU5ffwqUXwcejQ237p8F4PfGdO45nqMVNUshqI/s320/heart.JPG" width="240" /></a>"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">One time my sister Sarah told me a story about when she went to Greece with her husband. One of their visits included a small restaurant in the town that they were staying in. I don't know how little, but it had two floors. I know this because they decided for some reason they didn't want to sit on the first floor and went up to the second floor. They found a seat in the back corner and while walking to it noticed someone who looked familiar. In fact, it was someone that they knew from their stake in Philadelphia, they were pretty good friends. But neither of them knew that they were going to be in Greece at that time and they hadn't really planned to go to that restaurant either. Had my sister and brother-in-law decided to sit on the first floor they probably wouldn't have seen this person and would've never known that they had been there.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I went to your class today but since I was a little over 20 min. late I decided I would wait outside until class was over to greet you. I pulled out a book and started reading. After some time had passed I looked up and everyone was leaving the classroom. I would probably make a pretty bad investigator, I'm obviously no good at stakeouts. But I figured I could still find you so I got up and peered through one of the doors. Someone who looked like they might be you stayed behind for a little bit to talk to someone who looked like they might be a professor. So I kind of stood between the two doors to the classroom hoping that I could catch you and took another look into my book. But that was a bad idea because when I looked again you had disappeared.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">People can meet in random restaurants in Greece without planning it but if I try to intercept you on your way to and from class I can't do it. It's weird how things work (or don't work) like that.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I tried to look for you afterwards but I couldn't find you. I guess the only reason I wanted to see you today is that I wanted to tell you something.</span><br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><br style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;">I love you Rebecca"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Not only does he send cute emails like this, but he lets me paint things on his face while we are at habitat for humanity house builds (without complaining), feeds me raspberries, and carries me around when I'm tired. Who could ask for more?</span><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-56078212390501257192011-10-31T16:04:00.000-07:002011-10-31T16:04:10.559-07:00Hal or you weening?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAzllYs1cj6O7cdWPYl8wv_m36ujNLAgM0glBJRAAB8_D9nO0gnz8FvmRjjL89uhvqxdKKLO_T2QWbj5h4FMzIOqFMIEa4RZQym1jkTaj5dtoFDfr3rrkt-icR3LJVUPNsPDI9d6tNcs/s1600/power.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; display: inline !important; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixAzllYs1cj6O7cdWPYl8wv_m36ujNLAgM0glBJRAAB8_D9nO0gnz8FvmRjjL89uhvqxdKKLO_T2QWbj5h4FMzIOqFMIEa4RZQym1jkTaj5dtoFDfr3rrkt-icR3LJVUPNsPDI9d6tNcs/s200/power.JPG" width="150" /></a>I didn't realize it was Halloween this morning. I didn't realize much this morning actually. The pedal fell off of my bike while riding it to work on Friday (a story in and of itself) and so I am walking to campus until I can get it fixed. So when I was walking to campus in the pitch darkness I didn't really think much about the holiday, but more about being ambushed in the twilight hours.<br />
<br />
I like Halloween though, because you get to see all sorts of fun costumes around campus, giant Bananas searching for their monkey, the testing center gone completely Harry Potter, random dance parties in front of the JFSB and, my favorite, the sexy saxophone man:<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/GaoLU6zKaws" width="560"></iframe><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzOUHtm0IxnHnOQzrV-XLAaY_zobyWnA6EJ5jFwBy4CbgqyIr0P_HV_2trI0gLBA9AuI8_ft6qZlzHnNe9wW1JbjvsedF8D094afAKUGhPBidsiPYKxqal2JrwKElTya7QE3hx24ezHc/s1600/sombrero.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzzOUHtm0IxnHnOQzrV-XLAaY_zobyWnA6EJ5jFwBy4CbgqyIr0P_HV_2trI0gLBA9AuI8_ft6qZlzHnNe9wW1JbjvsedF8D094afAKUGhPBidsiPYKxqal2JrwKElTya7QE3hx24ezHc/s200/sombrero.JPG" width="150" /></a><br />
I also have my own sexy something man, I realized though while looking through some of the costumes we've donned that he seems to have a favorite pose.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-11491208813544831802011-09-04T12:55:00.000-07:002011-09-04T12:55:22.744-07:00We're just links in the chain or The Missionary Countdown Excerpt from my missionary collection of "Rebecca's Observations"<br />
<br />
It started out as a joke. I suppose some of the longest lived traditions had similar beginnings.<br />
The <span style="color: #6aa84f;">m</span><span style="color: #f1c232;">u</span>l<span style="color: #cc0000;">t</span>i-<span style="color: blue;">c</span><span style="color: #38761d;">o</span><span style="color: #e06666;">l</span><span style="color: orange;">o</span><span style="color: #c27ba0;">r</span><span style="color: #134f5c;">e</span><span style="color: lime;">d</span> chain links seemed to span <span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">eternity </span>in the significance of each paper folded piece and it was a constant reminder of just how much<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> time</span> I had left until I would return back to <i>my</i> home, <i>my</i> family, <i>my</i> life filled with <i>non</i>-Korean, <i>non</i>-missionary like tasks. <br />
<br />
But yet as each chain link is broken it provides a reminder of just how <span style="color: #d5a6bd;"> </span><i style="color: #d5a6bd;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">tangible</span></i> time is, how short even the longest second is and how it goes<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-left: 40px;">moving always <span style="font-size: large;">consistently</span><br />
</div><div style="margin-left: 80px;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">stampeding</span></b>, <span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">crawling</span>, <i style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">rushing</i>,<br />
</div><div style="margin-left: 120px;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">unfeeling</span>, <span style="font-size: large;">regardless</span> of our<br />
</div><div style="margin-left: 160px;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; font-size: x-small;">desires to change</span>, it is<br />
</div><div style="margin-left: 200px;"><b><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: large;">immovable</span></b> in its <span style="color: #38761d;">flippancy</span>.<br />
</div><br />
The links between <span style="color: #cc0000; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">now</span> and my <span style="color: #351c75; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">future</span> fate. The cord connecting now with what has gone before and the <span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace; font-size: small;"><i>eternal potential</i></span> of tomorrow.<br />
And it's an ethereal reality- a <span style="color: #6fa8dc; font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;">dream</span> waiting to be lived since childhood which came all too quickly and what you thought was standing on your doorstep is now walking around your house, remodeling, re-painting, tearing out cupboards, cleaning out closets and you know it will leave before you are ready.<br />
It seems all too much like a dream to be real, but the pinches and pokes, jabs, sneers, rejection, and tears let you know you're awake. And then one day you really wake up and there are no more links in the chain, it's over, and your time is up. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "Helvetica Neue",Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">Time to start all over.</span></span></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-91385150667261894272011-08-18T10:20:00.000-07:002011-08-18T10:20:00.849-07:00Bike me back to San Francisco<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00SPCNwLx-RSh1yIP4t1DTxEDnVlrQosbdZBIKUJbjaBweMPsefejopTAB8ldf4XIi_9QMY55U4bYeLZDySuTaEH6At7HCtvjOhHhMLk9NrNy9jIVoIVz2i1g5N6_5maWDBNKmUX-Yng/s1600/safeman.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi00SPCNwLx-RSh1yIP4t1DTxEDnVlrQosbdZBIKUJbjaBweMPsefejopTAB8ldf4XIi_9QMY55U4bYeLZDySuTaEH6At7HCtvjOhHhMLk9NrNy9jIVoIVz2i1g5N6_5maWDBNKmUX-Yng/s320/safeman.JPG" width="239" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I've been working on the <a href="http://bikeprovo.org/">Provo Bike Committee</a> for the past little while, and I really love it. I love bikes. I love a sense of community. I love meetings. What could be better? Anna and I helped to sell neat water bottles with bikes on them at an outdoor concert. And I decided to start a bike education class, which will be GREAT. Or so is my hope. I have to get more information together and finally put together my power point, figure out who my audience is, and other such things.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">In honor of bikes I decided to record some of my favorite biking memories.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue; font-size: large;">As easy as ABC, 123</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">You might think with such an avid love of riding bikes that I learned early in life, but to be honest, I never honestly rode by myself until I was about 12. We had lots of bikes at our house, there was no shortage on rusty bikes, mostly provided by my Grandpa who would collect them from junk heaps and store them in the garage for years with a firm resolve to get around to fixing them one day. Eventually they would fall behind on his never ending list of projects and be buried by dust and good intentions. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">But as far as working bikes were concerned, they were limited and almost always occupied by an older sibling. Considering all my friends were either across the street or too far away to even think of getting there on anything not motorized, I never had much motivation to learn. One day though I was invited to go on a bike ride with some friends and I was so embarrassed to admit my ignorance that I decided to learn.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">So I approached my grandpa and asked him for a bike and lessons. He willingly agreed and explained how to mount, how to balance, and the basics of peddling. Or as much as one can explain it without using words so much as stories of his childhood. And then we were off.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">My neighborhood in Kentucky is known for it's home-town feeling, quaint accents, and beautiful rolling hills-- the last of these became terrifying to my ten year old self looking down them from my bike seat. However, with my grandpa by my side and his comforting hand the back of my bike seat to guide me, I faced it with courage. One thing you should probably know about my grandpa, though, is that he is not fast. So after the first couple of steps he let go of my seat and I went careening down the hill. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The wind in my hair, the free fall feeling in my stomach, it was pure freedom. I closed my eyes and for a split second I could feel that this was where I belonged in life. Then I opened my eyes to the fast approaching base of the hill, the cross roads with an approaching car, and I realized I had missed a quintessential part of my training-- how to stop. I quickly veered into one of the deep ditches next to the road and came to an abrupt stop that included a stylish dismount over my handlebars and crumpling into a heap face first.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A few minutes later my grandpa came huffing and puffing up to me and apologized for letting me go. He related a story about his first (and last) time riding a motor bike and how after his accident he had sworn to never ride another one. He assured me that I could do the same if I wanted to and I wouldn't have to feel bad about never touching another bike again.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Thankfully, I discarded this loving advice and just learned how to use the brakes.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO27xBKwjo-x0KFb9gJUEL4AiFUEVNxoCgyfkJO7WC07kuVqsRioH4KFtOZzlaZM65VQff6vO6-przKiq12hpbod6hGaOHt1khuy-zJpXwrcqpAx8AyvTfgw-mWg6Xb1mlZVH2Pc0F4QA/s1600/bike.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO27xBKwjo-x0KFb9gJUEL4AiFUEVNxoCgyfkJO7WC07kuVqsRioH4KFtOZzlaZM65VQff6vO6-przKiq12hpbod6hGaOHt1khuy-zJpXwrcqpAx8AyvTfgw-mWg6Xb1mlZVH2Pc0F4QA/s400/bike.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I'</div><br />
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-79876757470731995282011-07-30T15:21:00.000-07:002011-07-30T15:21:48.476-07:00Tri- a little harderI'm not sure what happened actually.<br />
<br />
If you would have asked me a year ago if I would ever run a race of any kind, I probably would have just laughed. I'm just not that kind of gal. I don't run. I don't race. I don't pay do things that I can easily do for free (like put on shoes or ride a bike). <br />
<br />
While I was in Korea though I realized something: I can do hard things. I remember feeling this when I would wake up in the morning and wish more than anything to go home, to go back to the United States and back to the people and things that I knew and loved. I wanted so badly for things to be easy again, to fit in and to not just struggle and make it through the day, but to do things that I knew I could do well. I would pray every morning for the energy and the faith to get through another day. I could never look farther than that. <br />
<br />
"Dear Heavenly Father," I'd plead, "help me to get through the day. I promise I will do the best I can today, but just send me home tomorrow."<br />
<br />
And then about half way through I realized that I could do it. I looked back at all the days that had gone by and realized that there were fewer in front than behind. I realized that I had made it to the top of my mountain and the rest was possible. <br />
<br />
I can do hard things.<br />
<br />
This has become my mantra in life. I bike to and from work most days and every time I have this horrible hill to get over. It wouldn't be so bad if I had a bike that works and could actually climb any sort of an incline without breaking out of gear and causing my chain to jump. However, since I don't right now, I just grit my teeth, pedal a little harder, and mutter "I can do hard things, I can do hard things."<br />
<br />
And that's how it started. <br />
<br />
I began to start running in my seventh transfer, early last summer when I first was companions with Lee Kyung Ran. I remember that she would struggle out of bed every morning, not because she wanted to, but just because she wanted to be obedient. I didn't tell her that this was actually the first time I ran every morning with my companion. Every day I would set a new goal, one more lap, slightly faster, fewer stops, and on and on it went. Even in the winter we would wake up and watch as the warm air from our lungs would illuminate our path. <br />
<br />
One of our investigators ran marathons. We went running with her and her parents one evening and I realized that although it was still beyong my capacity, it was not beyond my dreams. I could dream and plan and I could do it. So as soon as I got home I started my training schedule and in a little more than a month I have a marathon planned. <br />
<br />
I was told though that more enjoyable than marathons are triathalons. So when I heard abou the free one happening this Saturday I immeadiately went online and signed up me and my younger brother and sister. And I did it. I even swam the entire 24 laps without a break and without getting water up my nose (a first in my life). <br />
<br />
How does it feel? <br />
<br />
Refreshing.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-59075404215231213752011-07-01T07:39:00.000-07:002011-07-01T07:40:09.239-07:00Removing the subtitlesWe all love the commentary, the sarcasm, the one who adds flavor and meaning and their own spin to things. I think that's why we love the news. We could get the same information in a much less flashy, must less biased manner, but then it wouldn't be news. Instead it would just be congress, talking of another bill, another imperfect man doing his best to lead a country, crimes from a moment of passion instead of the crime of a century.<br />
<br />
But I've been trying to improve my language abilities, so I've decided to go without subtitles. At first it was confusing and I wondered if I was really catching everything. Could I really understand everything? Didn't I need other people to interpret and scrutinize? It requires a little more concentration, a little more astuteness, but once you don't have to watch the words you can begin to watch their faces. You pick up the subtle nuances of voice inflection, the turn of a head, you can begin to see if for yourself instead of through a lens.<br />
<br />
So I decided to put it to the test, not only would it be for my Korean dramas, but I'd try it in real life. Not put words in people's mouths, not spend my time figuring out what I wanted them to be or mean or say. Instead I would spend less time analyzing and more time observing. More time really listening instead of mentally summarizing and compartmentalizing.<br />
<br />
And although I can't say I'm a native, I'm definitely more fluent.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-1463239445365695882011-06-29T14:01:00.001-07:002011-06-29T14:01:26.744-07:00What I think about biking in the rain and falling and scrapping my arm<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbHIr3z1I6RWO6FZxhuQS0A-ffGV0y6wHMAOjuFEcVVOqeNeSHF61IA-kV1lWP9_SV4Hsqt5k09483vV41B-015JIfgG-c6YccdIxNkKd-m511QN0vwovWnW04_-vZJm-uTrol8LUJn0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTbHIr3z1I6RWO6FZxhuQS0A-ffGV0y6wHMAOjuFEcVVOqeNeSHF61IA-kV1lWP9_SV4Hsqt5k09483vV41B-015JIfgG-c6YccdIxNkKd-m511QN0vwovWnW04_-vZJm-uTrol8LUJn0/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-57926469945627385462011-06-28T19:29:00.000-07:002011-06-28T19:29:25.502-07:00Popular Mechanics for LoversIt's one of those books.<br />
<br />
You know. The kind that you don't need. The one that you have so thoroughly mastered that you don't even have interest in it. The title is intriguing, but certainly not something that you would bother with, unless...<br />
<br />
<br />
She is one of my best friends and the library is free, so I checked it out. I'll give it a quick look over at least.<br />
<br />
And the more pages that I read the more I feel the desire to change. The desire to fix myself before trying to find the one who is out there waiting for me. I'm not a mess. But I'm not perfect either. And so I continue reading, mesmerized by the truthfulness of every page and the encouraged by the thought that maybe, somewhere out there, my soul mate is waiting for me. Waiting for me to realize it.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-22892216799652521012011-06-24T11:33:00.000-07:002011-06-24T11:33:34.827-07:00G00613 voiceI love Google, I recently found out that Google Voice will listen to your voice messages, transcribe them to text, and give you the best laugh you could have expected. I have my favorites, of course, but today I got one that really gave me a belly laugh:<br />
<br />
"Yes, I was trying to reach Chris, I'm trying to get a message to the Y innately easy as a contact. My name is Lisa, my number is ***-***-****, and I was thinking to return my call if you could give him that message. Thank you. Hello Hello. Cash express the place hum a happy."<br />
<br />
Thanks Lisa, I'll make sure to relay the message.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-53062416724497325792011-06-15T12:44:00.000-07:002011-06-15T12:44:33.979-07:00Discovering the Cure for CancerFreedom comes with a price and it's own sense of dependence. Free to sit at home. Free to wonder if I did the right thing. Free to hang out with friends and spend the night with Carin spur of the moment.<br />
<br />
And yet a sudden dependence on my bike and my sister to take me places.<br />
<br />
Anna and I went to visit Orem last night. Except after about five minutes her oil temperature gauge went off the charts. We prayed that we could make it safely there and back when suddenly the gas light went on and we pulled off into a gas station.<br />
<br />
It was fortunate that we did, as soon as we came to a stop we realized that the engine was smoking. I jumped out, scared that any minute there would be a large explosion and only a little of me left. I crouched down to peer under the car and exerting my full expanse of car expertise announced, "We're leaking!"<br />
<br />
There was a green trail that had followed us up the hill and as Anna and I sat contemplating what would have happened had we been so brave and silly to actually make it to Orem, God sent his messenger to give us some advice. Except this messenger was wearing an oversized Simpson's t-shirt, had shaggy unkempt hair and I wonder if he had ever seen a dentist... in his life...<br />
<br />
"Stand back," he warned, "I've seen those things explode before." Needing no prompt, Anna and I both leaped backwards a good ten feet and allowed the homeless angel to open our hood and proclaim that it was the worst case he had ever seen, but our anti-freeze had boiled over and was dangerously low. As he opened our anti-freeze container and advised us to "wait it out", both Anna and I began to thank the heavens for this fortunate turn of events that lead us to <br />
1. not dieing<br />
2. not being stuck on the side of the road<br />
<br />
As we waited I pulled out the never-been-read-before user's manual and began flipping through. After laughing as some of the inane signals that were found there, I nudged Anna, <br />
"Look, this says that if the engine over heats then all these other symptoms may become evident as saftey mechanism."<br />
Anna looked at the pages in shocked amazement, "this is wonderful, I'll go get my car fixed tomorrow and what I thought was a million problems is really just one problem. Becca, this is like finding the cure for cancer"<br />
<br />
"Except," I reminded her "we haven't found the cure, just the cause." Ignoring my comment she blissfully began repeating "We've found the cure for cancer! We've found the cure for cancer!" And I couldn't help but smile and laugh at my wonderful, crazy little sister.<br />
<br />
So if you pray for help, don't think God's not listening just because it doesn't turn out the way you want. We can learn a lot from break ups and break downs and breaking apart and God is always helping us out.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-24961171941575627482011-06-08T07:13:00.000-07:002011-06-08T07:13:25.477-07:00Looking Back<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">Do you ever wonder if maybe you have too many good options. For a girl who can't say no, it can be hard. I had a dream about a boy who I haven't seen in at least ten years. He came over, and it was odd, he was married, I was still dating someone else, but he came over. He was trepid and then he told me, he told me that he still felt bad about that week, the week when it was over. That he could still remember my broken hearted face and that he was sorry.<br />
<br />
I laughed. I had overcome it so long ago that it almost seemed inane to remember it. I assured him that I had recovered and that it was best to have happened, because now we were both happy in our separate lives and I had been able to grow so much from this experience. I had gone on a mission and lived out on my own, I had grown and learned and become. There was no need to apologize.<br />
<br />
And I hoped that it was a message for me. I woke up feeling okay again. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-80375470391905175722011-05-16T07:02:00.000-07:002011-05-16T07:02:40.629-07:00Hollah for some Challah<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgHOT9N5TCp6aCxp1GKLrfi3VSoeC2U97-lSTSkG7ps_k3Fx-DiX81fO2363Q6tN6Ch-7T0xiyQS5W8M4mRmLzQRC5Iy6ArXieabJAZLiSmBfQrIHgy7CFxxsWJjsrWJ_zjLvk4KeI0w/s1600/photo%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdgHOT9N5TCp6aCxp1GKLrfi3VSoeC2U97-lSTSkG7ps_k3Fx-DiX81fO2363Q6tN6Ch-7T0xiyQS5W8M4mRmLzQRC5Iy6ArXieabJAZLiSmBfQrIHgy7CFxxsWJjsrWJ_zjLvk4KeI0w/s320/photo%25282%2529.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>Recently I remembered my ever deep love of the free Macey's Little Theater classes and I attended one on bread-making which was hands on and I got to even take home my own dough to make it later. I have never been very good at making dough, but I think because of the neat braided effect and the artisan looking sesame seeds on top that people enjoyed it although it was not too difficult nor necessarily a taste that would blow anyone away.<br />
<br />
Hallah:<br />
<ul><li>3-4 cups flour</li>
<li>1-3 t salt</li>
<li>1-2 eggs</li>
<li>2-7 T honey (depends on how sweet you like it)</li>
<li>2 T yeast</li>
<li>1-2 T olive oil</li>
<li>2-3 cu water</li>
<li>raisins/nuts to your liking</li>
</ul><ol><li>Mix yeast with 1/2 c lukewarm water, let sit for 5 min or so, stir to dissolve</li>
<li>Pour flour on your work surface, make a well for adding other ingredients. Add salt, eggs, olive oil, honey and the yeast water to the well (also nuts/raisins if desired go in here)</li>
<li>Gradually stir in flour from the sides to make a soft dough. Knead until dough is elastic and ready to rise.</li>
<li>Divide dough into 3 balls and let rise until double in size. (about 1 hour)</li>
<li>Roll each ball into a long strand, and braid strands (just like you'd braid hair)</li>
<li>Place the braided loaf on a baking sheet (sprinkle baking sheet with olive oil/flour/cornmeal to prevent sticking) let proof until doubled in size. (about 1 hour)</li>
<li>Preheat oven to 375 F</li>
<li>Brush loaf with egg wash and sprinkle with poppy/sesame seeds</li>
<li>Bake until golden brown and cooked through (30-50 min)</li>
<li>Remove from oven, let cool, enjoy.</li>
</ol>Challah is a traditional Jewish braided bread that has many different variations The ingredients are typically the same, but the amounts vary by a wide degree depending on which recipe you follow.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-68801923949409433412011-03-30T11:54:00.000-07:002011-03-30T11:54:51.970-07:00BogglingIt was the return that was shocking. I had planned for 21 years to go on a mission and so although there were challenges and many things to over come, a language to learn, a culture to immerse myself in, a people to teach and a slough of other things to take care of, it all came and was taken care of.<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRsCfkE0ZYvmWmc_jw8TtWp8tNCjHSS84w7SuPPisHuKC-pwQmvmDq5FxtQOxVy43uU7IasoTcYB_bOhZJHbDraIqjYH2BByCEy2QXR0cwR2XdJkwcppVZ7X0mM38RJJgaY5zCn5y4bw/s1600/CIMG9126.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJRsCfkE0ZYvmWmc_jw8TtWp8tNCjHSS84w7SuPPisHuKC-pwQmvmDq5FxtQOxVy43uU7IasoTcYB_bOhZJHbDraIqjYH2BByCEy2QXR0cwR2XdJkwcppVZ7X0mM38RJJgaY5zCn5y4bw/s320/CIMG9126.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div>But being back was a different story. Who had prepared me for this? For the yearnings of Korean food and no one understanding me when I spoke and no one being as excited to see me as they should have been. No one really even seemed to care that I had just spent the past year and a half in another country changing myself.</div><div><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2ILF-zt0T-lQWdefls8no-0AoDmDBlxHasjHUWDJqeMxTXJLek-UM9Fs7FEqmP7eoZX8Zc-4oss8d7JWijXYzbWRrckdcpnRTDwioRoZY17zTQBKMhAJXgNZXvzlJ8_xQpKMK8MheF0/s1600/CIMG9124.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge2ILF-zt0T-lQWdefls8no-0AoDmDBlxHasjHUWDJqeMxTXJLek-UM9Fs7FEqmP7eoZX8Zc-4oss8d7JWijXYzbWRrckdcpnRTDwioRoZY17zTQBKMhAJXgNZXvzlJ8_xQpKMK8MheF0/s320/CIMG9124.JPG" width="240" /></a>But as I sat down with some of my favorite people to play one of my favorite games I remembered how much I really do love my family, even if they aren't Korean (yet). I remembered that there is always time to go back and visit Korea. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-87337437560023491412009-09-17T08:02:00.000-07:002009-09-17T08:35:51.970-07:00Take a hikeOn Labor Day my mom decided we should all go on a hike up Stewart Falls, which leads to a beautiful waterfall. Unfortunately, everyone else had the exact same idea, so parking was limited and the hike to the trailhead added an extra twenty minutes or so. Even though some of us decided not to go the entire way I got a couple pictures of my family.<div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6wX8oU6whp4R-mC0FRUK-kq6iO0RDR_BIK6lV8HJpr3bfbDA7nUpkdresUVFIYc4tuL-fFoMbN65LfI-YOMyctR7xhnKg1fcAPUuaIpsyXIOHTqUqXIG7eSydKutcoEXftS1PxJ1x61k/s1600-h/CIMG2426.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6wX8oU6whp4R-mC0FRUK-kq6iO0RDR_BIK6lV8HJpr3bfbDA7nUpkdresUVFIYc4tuL-fFoMbN65LfI-YOMyctR7xhnKg1fcAPUuaIpsyXIOHTqUqXIG7eSydKutcoEXftS1PxJ1x61k/s320/CIMG2426.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381713214576191090" border="0" /></a></div><div><div style="text-align: center;">My step-dad, Terry</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9KjQswyQkxDBJFBNUVFfrLNbKwYUFvGjLeGCM-ROtPPSGieC_26EFvuqj4vvfmW4zUBDs2zlxw-nA-VR34qfQ3EzvrBkgI-Kl5F_M9xFtbyhqJy9mF7bPku8X5IS10bDmXBJKK_1ZaU/s1600-h/CIMG2425.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix9KjQswyQkxDBJFBNUVFfrLNbKwYUFvGjLeGCM-ROtPPSGieC_26EFvuqj4vvfmW4zUBDs2zlxw-nA-VR34qfQ3EzvrBkgI-Kl5F_M9xFtbyhqJy9mF7bPku8X5IS10bDmXBJKK_1ZaU/s320/CIMG2425.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381713202604645074" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Little brother Louis</div><div><br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLJXAKmIvZADdouxgBjpoCOgn7JOEhgixUTZxV9pzQ8XVSMm5uzIivUdYmygGf_goeIXhI5qWraZS46TYGgZ_c6iG-obNnfajS9Xnn6R1-m3VXj5mDae1Wy7Rtj1zFO1FCMumYIztf5I/s1600-h/CIMG2424.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxLJXAKmIvZADdouxgBjpoCOgn7JOEhgixUTZxV9pzQ8XVSMm5uzIivUdYmygGf_goeIXhI5qWraZS46TYGgZ_c6iG-obNnfajS9Xnn6R1-m3VXj5mDae1Wy7Rtj1zFO1FCMumYIztf5I/s320/CIMG2424.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381711305444116354" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">cutie pie sister, Anna</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwoXe0n1JQRhTdKT1t5Gg-NgldpUMI3hY5hIkUEyZhoiWLfV9xQECH7WxyoNkay2FrDMh3NjCIu40LEwJ1iKT-vw-Nl9L12XMLO5ZyDx3A3sSZhwcQh8FDklBKQA8bRDFCUskrZpswsOA/s1600-h/CIMG2423.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwoXe0n1JQRhTdKT1t5Gg-NgldpUMI3hY5hIkUEyZhoiWLfV9xQECH7WxyoNkay2FrDMh3NjCIu40LEwJ1iKT-vw-Nl9L12XMLO5ZyDx3A3sSZhwcQh8FDklBKQA8bRDFCUskrZpswsOA/s320/CIMG2423.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381711296112596818" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">scientist brother, Josh</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXRxn7uDnBRpnTgbZhLrRRh0-2ayl_2WMTbdz8hQmWOrD3uqnltSRSUb6kZi9p3me96W2PwtSiLwr3GCvdiAOhj0x4D7mh1mSJCQ7vV0SwCtu1KBuc0UmJU9GOpUWtKTs28lz9hvZdYw/s1600-h/CIMG2419.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrXRxn7uDnBRpnTgbZhLrRRh0-2ayl_2WMTbdz8hQmWOrD3uqnltSRSUb6kZi9p3me96W2PwtSiLwr3GCvdiAOhj0x4D7mh1mSJCQ7vV0SwCtu1KBuc0UmJU9GOpUWtKTs28lz9hvZdYw/s320/CIMG2419.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381711286778847058" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">And it wouldn't be complete without cutie cakes Kevin</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-72934575432594152692009-09-16T07:40:00.000-07:002009-09-16T07:40:00.180-07:00Flying high<div>One of the great things about being back in Kentucky was getting to visit with my half siblings. I was exhausted by them at every turn, but in the end I realized that hey, they're just kids and they deserve some time to be rowdy, crazy, and a little insane, because in a few years they wont be able to go back.</div><div><br /></div><div>One morning, when I woke up Ilya came rambling into my room. Ilya is a splendid little fellow and I love to play with him. I remember going to Europe with him last fall and some mornings we would wake up early and go running. He was only 5 at the time and so his little legs couldn't really keep up, but he tried and I slowed down. It was a great way to explore, especially since things are so much more exciting when seen through the eyes of a 5 year old.</div><div><br /></div><div>This time when Ilya rambled into my room I grabbed him up and read to him on the bed for a few minutes. I then had this great idea and below are the results.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwTT7HQOJjS1yvjfNaeu4efp9IMet0ASZlcHvPdzzrWcxDj7Bg92DMCArKoLYAWrbmuB-RT3ZGgi2S6Dfbnrl5DGPUYnnEoXR7Up33g096rYu_P6HR-0Q5AL7VQUyNtF7F3ftxD-TZMvI/s1600-h/CIMG2377.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwTT7HQOJjS1yvjfNaeu4efp9IMet0ASZlcHvPdzzrWcxDj7Bg92DMCArKoLYAWrbmuB-RT3ZGgi2S6Dfbnrl5DGPUYnnEoXR7Up33g096rYu_P6HR-0Q5AL7VQUyNtF7F3ftxD-TZMvI/s320/CIMG2377.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381709643286674882" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43iiDtULiJpy7bvnxEyU7afL7lE31WBo86aWbqjkVfuY7jT9wnLng20Rx2K9KZLzlWPToocJ8xIeIfTbYQ6AInyLGJrsXJd05-u59BFDReUYNqPcjVHolVVTppmUsCPd80oINxSmvwxk/s1600-h/CIMG2369.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj43iiDtULiJpy7bvnxEyU7afL7lE31WBo86aWbqjkVfuY7jT9wnLng20Rx2K9KZLzlWPToocJ8xIeIfTbYQ6AInyLGJrsXJd05-u59BFDReUYNqPcjVHolVVTppmUsCPd80oINxSmvwxk/s320/CIMG2369.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381709634816621170" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkljBBPpi4qk8rex-OpvbokVxqQNuNObN2f9qIh0AzA_ZjDcE3V4tn36c_eM0lZJNkFNgRx9BFmpL2C7IVUf6KeZR37JLLIDwZL4inO1_8vY8xl1PQ0OA4XUDzOdb4UXi3t42lJhCPX4/s1600-h/CIMG2375.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggkljBBPpi4qk8rex-OpvbokVxqQNuNObN2f9qIh0AzA_ZjDcE3V4tn36c_eM0lZJNkFNgRx9BFmpL2C7IVUf6KeZR37JLLIDwZL4inO1_8vY8xl1PQ0OA4XUDzOdb4UXi3t42lJhCPX4/s320/CIMG2375.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381709626148078978" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSzLs_1ayQTqoDTz7ba9GpHdslTeakka3I6SLzv4AfcMNDpUBonTQ8esX2rVVva099buVAy1h9FvgcLVnz-5lVC1BWmVo-hhofb0nomh1dPNOPy4kkTdSp0kEUVr6mBrlnEEcjKUBV2w/s1600-h/CIMG2366.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNSzLs_1ayQTqoDTz7ba9GpHdslTeakka3I6SLzv4AfcMNDpUBonTQ8esX2rVVva099buVAy1h9FvgcLVnz-5lVC1BWmVo-hhofb0nomh1dPNOPy4kkTdSp0kEUVr6mBrlnEEcjKUBV2w/s320/CIMG2366.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381709613778468146" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-9605500561959388672009-09-15T06:04:00.000-07:002009-09-15T06:30:18.768-07:00Put the cheese in the cake<div style="text-align: left;">For my farewell and to double as a birthday cake, I made myself a cheesecake on Sunday. It was my sister's recipe and another sister's springform pan, but ultimately my masterpeice and completely delicious.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitTEKdV19yl3MWb9xdgw2SNQzZEAOyvxq8SWJinQOEPCWukmTFbLddd4NFIpd8EwbPZAjbcaBxqKwkE5pC7ly_hFvnR8L_0nQnvWHetdmNBYaLtKgsi-jejl1JPdqT3nTg-GSiFN9aEl0/s320/CIMG2455.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381680580164164514" /><div><br /></div><div><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmyDy0kVL6rLqMxZ6cjOSCMV2Dhk7KgEMa0g2ShiA-887T7y9u_0z5_dVu5mHEVfSZ-nFyHQonVvpEoEaiB1umQTv1VESSXiw7jvUK1b-0ZEZad9aB6HdTyqFnt1GZb4SGksjNLCO91h8/s320/CIMG2457.JPG" style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381680569794113890" /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-90531339870824633152009-09-12T16:23:00.000-07:002009-09-12T16:34:06.745-07:00Birthday BluesMy eyes are kind of itchy. Sometimes that happens when I cry a lot.<br /><br />My mom and I listened to a talk on tape about marriage the other day and this guy was explaining about how we need to communicate better. A family had hired him to come observe their family to see if there was any way they could communicate better and while he was sitting at dinner with them he noticed the grandpa. What this guy would do when he wanted something, instead of asking for it, was to just stare at it until someone noticed. When asked why he replied "it means more when you don't have to ask," or basically the equivalent. The speaker went on to discuss how this notion is way off base and we can't expect others to read our minds.<br /><br />Most of the time, I understand that. Sometimes I deviate.<br /><br />Like my birthday.<br /><br />For most days of the year I am happy to give and to receive and to not get upset over stupid things. On my birthday I always expect people to say "Happy Birthday" without being prompted. I want to be pampered and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">princessed</span> and remembered, but I don't feel like I should expect these things. So instead I wait for someone to say something, or, like this morning, if no one says anything after a few hours then I will say "mom, guess what day it is today!"<br /><br />Then instead of saying "I'd rather not go on your errands, I have a headache and I really just want to sleep in" I say "sure I'll go with you" and then I am cranky while I am dragged all over <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">tar nation</span> so that my mom can pick up some random herb and return some dinky telephone device. And then when I feel like nothing is going how I had wanted, I cry. <br /><br />Continuing my example, sometimes I just need to take matters into my own hands and plan things. Kev asked "what would you like to do for your birthday?" to which I replied that it didn't matter too much just so long as I was with him. I did, however, mention that I love going out to plays, museums, musical concerts, operas, and eating dinner out. I suppose what I should have explained is that it doesn't matter so much what we do so long as we do something and so long as I feel like it was planned in advance because then I feel like people care about me and remember me. I suppose instead of saying that I was fine with him taking a test what I should have said was that I knew he needed to, but it would mean a lot if he could make it up before or around noon, instead of 6pm. I suppose what I should have said is that I go crazy by myself.<br /><br />Or something like that.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-28209493841600317852009-09-09T08:49:00.001-07:002009-09-09T19:28:34.900-07:00Doing just peachyOne of my favorite things about late summer is peaches. I love the way they look and smell and most of all the way they taste. I love the way that a ripe peach can just dissolve in your mouth leaving you with a desire for more.<br /><br /><br /><br />This week when I was out exploring with Anna and Kevin we chanced upon a small local grown produce stand. It had splendid melons, peaches, apples, pears, etc. We arrive and the lady at the stand says to us "just wait one moment, I have to run around to the back and get some apples. I am wheeling and dealing this morning."<br /><br />While we are waiting some other customers arrive and I overhear the following conversation:<br />lady 1: I wonder when this fruit was picked<br />lady 2: It says it was picked fresh daily, but considering daily is misspelled I'm not sure if you can trust it<br /><br />I looked at the signs and realized that about every 5th word was misspelled, however, at a local fruit stand I wouldn't assume this as an immediate sign of discountability. Instead we waited patiently for the lady and Anna asked:<br />"I have $4, how much can I get?"<br />fruit lady: "2 each. 2 apples and 2 peaches or 2 apples and 2 pears"<br />Anna: "uh... " *thinking* $1 for a fruit! Outrageous<br />fruit lady: "they are 50 cents each"<br />Anna: "So doesn't that mean I can get 8?"<br />fruit lady: "No, because... oh, yeah"<br />Anna: "okay, thanks"<br /><br />So we start to peruse the fruit and as we gently are picking them up and straight away putting them in our bags the lady looks straight at us and says:<br />"No... no... no pinching. No, no, pinching. You know, no squuuuuueezing." At this she makes squeezing hand motions and I choke on my laughter telling myself it's not polite to laugh in people's faces. Instead I nodded, turned around and bit my cheek as hard as I could and ushered Anna to hurry.<br /><br />As we quickly finished choosing our fruit and went to pay the lady apologized for her being "out of it" by explaining:<br />"I've been the only one here all day and I've been up since zero dark."<br /><br />Anna handed the lady the money as I had disappeared to the car to release a nice hearty laugh. And it is people like this that keep me sane, people who make me laugh.<br /><br />Thank you peach lady. And maybe next time you wont have to wake up at zero dark.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-45439896979825075492009-09-05T10:37:00.000-07:002009-09-05T10:43:10.972-07:00Taking Care of BusinessI have been in Kentucky for a few days now and I go home tomorrow evening. Was it worth it? Well, let's take a look at a few of my personal goals for this visit:<div><ul><li>See my siblings Ilya, Maria, and Julianna and Natasha my step-mom</li><li>See my grandparents and record an interview with them concerning their life</li><li>See MaryAnn Hack</li><li>Go to the temple (either Nashville or St. Louis)</li><li>Bring back something memorable</li></ul><div>What I have done?</div><div><ul><li>Saw and played with and took care of and carted around and buckled up and pushed on the swingset Ilya and Maria while also getting to carry around the happiest baby on earth</li><li>Sat and talked with my grandparents for hours, although I didn't have any sort of recording device</li><li>Saw MaryAnn and helped her make a quilt, also ended up picking fruit with her like I used to. Also got to see John Hack and Lea Adams and JD Hack because I was with Mary Ann. While doing this I got lots of nice muskadines which I can take back to Utah<br /></li><li>Went to the temple in Nashville this morning with my dad which also allowed me to talk to him for four hours about life, his marriage with my mother and his advice on marriage, finances, life and health insurance, his various opinions, etc.</li><li>Found a four leaf clover! </li></ul><div>All in all, I would say it has been a success. </div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-77085643880806226932009-09-04T04:32:00.000-07:002009-09-04T04:53:54.452-07:00Some things never changeAlthough my Old Kentucky Home is a little bit older and there are a few more crayon marks on the walls, there are some things that never change.<ul><li>Trees are everywhere.</li><li>The people are just as friendly as ever. </li><li>The people are just as prejudiced as ever.</li><li>There are run down houses and barns and stores more than there are ones in good condition.</li><li>Everyone asks about how your family is, everyone wants you to make sure that you done tell your Mama that they done said hi<br /></li><li>"Yes ma'am" and "no ma'am" and, "Mama, you better slow down" sound just as polite and in place as they ever did<br /></li><li>There is no real politically correct Kentuckian, however, they love you no matter what they call you (especially the little downs boy across the street)</li><li>There is a cloud of cigarette smoke at every public area (churches, stores, restaurants, gas stations, you name it)</li><li>Gas prices are 60 cents cheaper than Utah</li><li>It takes at least 20 minutes to drive anywhere you want to go</li><li>Everyone owns/drives a 4-wheeler</li><li>Girls dye their hair blonde, visit the tanning beds, wear skimpy dresses and put on 3 layers of make up to attract men who wear wife beaters, camouflage, and who talk dirty behind their backs</li><li>The weather is unpredictable</li><li>Everyone knows about everyone else's business<br /></li></ul>But boy howdy, look at how pretty it all is.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JB1KBT_zWJl9vFH-ydSas7LGI1Kg-DHsUGpwABzOUjjQ5BnZGhhWRRZObnkJq2d-56InBkH3K8dXmPouC2g7yscOg09kYM6d99DSpZSAZTMcj4NQctBmgg_m2tOj_DOVAW17erM2mr8/s1600-h/CIMG2286.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0JB1KBT_zWJl9vFH-ydSas7LGI1Kg-DHsUGpwABzOUjjQ5BnZGhhWRRZObnkJq2d-56InBkH3K8dXmPouC2g7yscOg09kYM6d99DSpZSAZTMcj4NQctBmgg_m2tOj_DOVAW17erM2mr8/s320/CIMG2286.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377392557183305650" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuP___ora-Iljctnf4DqykIOE8AZ-wcUW1-aepW_Is1LyxVb1WwVKQ5ZZ5pts3KZlRAB9clYDzDQlFA0OglgNHHqWVjOhKef4OlD9Rv6Bq8HjEqMXQmNgC8PMvyGtcr1hSLZqWA1S9Dqw/s1600-h/CIMG2203.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 189px; height: 252px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuP___ora-Iljctnf4DqykIOE8AZ-wcUW1-aepW_Is1LyxVb1WwVKQ5ZZ5pts3KZlRAB9clYDzDQlFA0OglgNHHqWVjOhKef4OlD9Rv6Bq8HjEqMXQmNgC8PMvyGtcr1hSLZqWA1S9Dqw/s320/CIMG2203.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377392542397153378" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf7NI8ndSyvNQk0gYRS54253M6XLTtZVIyUQRZsJyBm41cK0FnmgY9TK0CoXHZloug4V-aQ2EbTHzae9D6nT1LZuOPBkt-TtcuXgfWfGo354uwbKf2F1_jG1Ol0ceqxx_09mDQcg3egxQ/s1600-h/CIMG2210.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 274px; height: 206px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf7NI8ndSyvNQk0gYRS54253M6XLTtZVIyUQRZsJyBm41cK0FnmgY9TK0CoXHZloug4V-aQ2EbTHzae9D6nT1LZuOPBkt-TtcuXgfWfGo354uwbKf2F1_jG1Ol0ceqxx_09mDQcg3egxQ/s320/CIMG2210.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377392554211080882" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Some of my favorite MaryAnn sayings include<br /><ul><li>Lea, you're sweating like a nigger telling the truth</li><li>Becky, do you believe the Lord loves your Mama? I do, I believe the Lord loves you Mama. One year we done planted twelve DEAD tomater plants at your place and she done got them to sprout up and grow tomaters like they were prize winning plants. But this year we planted 90 nice plants here and not a one of em produced.</li><li>*Retelling a story about her childhood* They called me Runt, I done forgot what they called t'other ones.</li><li>I reckon I done spoiled him *her son JD* but I can't help it, can I?</li></ul>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-49488509248265730832009-09-02T19:03:00.000-07:002009-09-04T05:31:57.640-07:00Past memories gleaned from othersThis week I am spending in Kentucky. It is odd though, because it is not the Kentucky I grew up in. Everything has aged, become run down, or else completely morphed. The friends who were my contemporaries are all but gone and I have been spending most of my time with people over 50.<br /><br />I sat with <span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#660000;">my grandparents</span></span></span> for hours. I have never really had a conversation with them, but I tried. I asked them about how they met (both of them worked in a Dime store). I asked my Grandpa about his war experiences and he told me a little about all of the neat places he had gone, including Manila, Okinawa, Iwo Jima, Shanghai, and much more. Memories that I had never been able to glean from them before.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNTvMXp87SfukXHyXw4Sf2kHcyTCSpW8Z7KvVwszthCyIIL5hcPiwHlQ8_nRbgOtEyEy-r-fR_mL7mWqp7TQK8LE01eK2V-FxYGOj6IH8OCnHb-uGjoNUArFcZHz10UTrpZizA7EvG_U/s1600-h/CIMG2296.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNNTvMXp87SfukXHyXw4Sf2kHcyTCSpW8Z7KvVwszthCyIIL5hcPiwHlQ8_nRbgOtEyEy-r-fR_mL7mWqp7TQK8LE01eK2V-FxYGOj6IH8OCnHb-uGjoNUArFcZHz10UTrpZizA7EvG_U/s320/CIMG2296.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377383347151298226" border="0" /></a><br />I visited <span><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#333300;"><b>Mary Ann Hack</b></span></span></span></span> who used to babysit me and who I spent more time with than anyone else in this world. I would spend entire summers over at her house, picking berries, grapes, vegetables, figs, and catching frogs. She's just as fun as ever. She needed to type up some stories of her brother and I wrote about her childhood as she retold it to me in the car.<br /><br />I looked through hundreds of pictures belonging to <span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51);font-family:trebuchet ms;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">John Hack</span></b></span> that reflected his time on board a Navy ship in World War II, recent pictures, and everything in between. For hours he told me about one thing or another until I thought my ears would fall off from listening.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXh6AN39_61AwFYIsYRC4vb1oan6xs8b2TFBYiLfcbJmHhuEFZrEzWkQHue-y7bQqsp_oOp5Jixv8Ye5vcWhDGHtIYCoxnnbcjP9JDGsMcl54HIs6V8e014LRsT_CCK0KMt_ld1LJ8pps/s1600-h/CIMG2317.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 245px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXh6AN39_61AwFYIsYRC4vb1oan6xs8b2TFBYiLfcbJmHhuEFZrEzWkQHue-y7bQqsp_oOp5Jixv8Ye5vcWhDGHtIYCoxnnbcjP9JDGsMcl54HIs6V8e014LRsT_CCK0KMt_ld1LJ8pps/s320/CIMG2317.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377383362790504002" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 0);font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;">Lea Adams</span>, the Korean lady who lives in Metropolis, was a special treat to visit. She showed us her garden and told us about stories of her son and then when I took down her pictures she expounded on all of her siblings and herself. She even tried to teach me some Korean, but it was slow going as she has had trouble writing and reading and moving ever since her stroke and her head injury years ago.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRcmettpuZjTUdylNPZ_I24NJXC3wswmrsUIMnblXTUCQ3KMvuLdhwumXzUK7hYLW5Q_r62Sf6q5LaYCj3q2HBaNWQhWmTk7-2tBhf_TjMQ894y13XqzZ2tcwAf5HqkHBBoKwPx7NL1c/s1600-h/CIMG2278.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 223px; height: 167px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigRcmettpuZjTUdylNPZ_I24NJXC3wswmrsUIMnblXTUCQ3KMvuLdhwumXzUK7hYLW5Q_r62Sf6q5LaYCj3q2HBaNWQhWmTk7-2tBhf_TjMQ894y13XqzZ2tcwAf5HqkHBBoKwPx7NL1c/s320/CIMG2278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377383352673122706" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-family:verdana;"><b>Joy Lawrence</b></span>, Mary Ann's best friend who is more like a sister than a friend, sat with me and told me about her children and grandchild. All this, of course, while we worked to make a baby quilt and she offered me water (at least seven times).<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHgZ-uN2ObVsyMxLrBQTVeWP-89Vp6l_-bwzdt976ZRs3Yr4ayPMIouCkrO__eqv0JqtkDLEJ9ANx6YtYkc7ooYuH3Bnt-cBvcM_Qn27bInTgO4cwO07wotoGt15CJnEEZ9tz34-t3_w/s1600-h/CIMG2318.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHgZ-uN2ObVsyMxLrBQTVeWP-89Vp6l_-bwzdt976ZRs3Yr4ayPMIouCkrO__eqv0JqtkDLEJ9ANx6YtYkc7ooYuH3Bnt-cBvcM_Qn27bInTgO4cwO07wotoGt15CJnEEZ9tz34-t3_w/s320/CIMG2318.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5377381638059123954" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I also learned quite a bit about myself when I was younger, which is always a treat, as I don't remember most of it. My grandmother reminisced about how I would always steal people's purses and run behind the couch. Mary Ann told me the story about how she befriended our family.<br /><br />"I saw you," she said, "and you were just about the shiest thing I'd ever seen. You'd cling to your Mama and hide between her skirts and under her coat. When I saw that Cecilia done got pregnant again, I said to myself 'Now Mary Ann, you gotta make sure that this next child isn't like that. This next baby is going to be so full of spunk and brightness and joy that she aint ever going to meet a stranger'. And she just about turned out that way, didn't she?"<br /><br />Mary Ann then told me all about how she spoiled Anna right to death. Everything had to be perfect when Anna came over and Anna was even named after Mary Ann. Anna was her special child and when all of us grew up, she didn't much know how to take it. Last winter Mary Ann was in the mental hospital as she had a mental break down and her husband has never treated her very kindly. Since then she has recovered for the most part, but you can tell that she has to keep a bright outlook and stay busy making baby quilts or else she gets awful sober.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4962369185787088200.post-16800378158586672412009-09-01T19:11:00.000-07:002009-09-01T19:53:29.517-07:00Happy Birthday JoshMonday was my brother Josh's birthday and so I decided to make him his favorite cake-- German chocolate with some almonds. Love that sort of thing.<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ircyJaKRJubKFyEDDV6V1SHS0SyrVdzeuZMYhMvfvX9qgWpnm5fj2KdEqMlMkuDnlkTWmUq-mG2WONFpUPNUupajDIwfhAF5hQWzWYadoTmQM0a3k-IulXZMx5l9jCjRFs1RLxcUVfw/s1600-h/CIMG2173.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7ircyJaKRJubKFyEDDV6V1SHS0SyrVdzeuZMYhMvfvX9qgWpnm5fj2KdEqMlMkuDnlkTWmUq-mG2WONFpUPNUupajDIwfhAF5hQWzWYadoTmQM0a3k-IulXZMx5l9jCjRFs1RLxcUVfw/s320/CIMG2173.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376697402203202642" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLljHX1I7QRldI4Voki_bzyCC9Gr7TMYOA0sABZ_ChowAayK8GnZ0JgvjYzAo6nAJ53sqejZphyun4sX0rgZ2Lv9GdcxoOEO67wfqEwEj6WRA7SrROvyM3B2LG7oAnXmiCvVTItjnM7G0/s1600-h/CIMG2171.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLljHX1I7QRldI4Voki_bzyCC9Gr7TMYOA0sABZ_ChowAayK8GnZ0JgvjYzAo6nAJ53sqejZphyun4sX0rgZ2Lv9GdcxoOEO67wfqEwEj6WRA7SrROvyM3B2LG7oAnXmiCvVTItjnM7G0/s320/CIMG2171.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376697388814996370" /></a><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12906380123345078192noreply@blogger.com1