tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58762209731067990452024-03-13T15:00:39.391-07:00The Occasional MisanthropeSheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-79175375962575891292018-03-26T17:56:00.009-07:002018-03-26T17:56:40.584-07:00تعلم الألوان مع تايو حافلة صغيرة والعجلات على حافلة أغاني أغاني القافية ...<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wSXtuea3EK4" width="480"></iframe>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-31984379222069608292018-03-26T17:56:00.007-07:002018-03-26T17:56:39.722-07:00تعلم الألوان مع تايو حافلة صغيرة والعجلات على حافلة أغاني أغاني القافية ...<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wSXtuea3EK4" width="480"></iframe>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-36380207570160074552018-03-26T17:56:00.005-07:002018-03-26T17:56:38.491-07:00تعلم الألوان مع تايو حافلة صغيرة والعجلات على حافلة أغاني أغاني القافية ...<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wSXtuea3EK4" width="480"></iframe>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-84194695274277519632018-03-26T17:56:00.003-07:002018-03-26T17:56:37.759-07:00تعلم الألوان مع تايو حافلة صغيرة والعجلات على حافلة أغاني أغاني القافية ...<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wSXtuea3EK4" width="480"></iframe>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-43277128667556162372018-03-26T17:56:00.001-07:002018-03-26T17:56:36.931-07:00تعلم الألوان مع تايو حافلة صغيرة والعجلات على حافلة أغاني أغاني القافية ...<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/wSXtuea3EK4" width="480"></iframe>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-68668866456183299392014-02-27T15:41:00.000-08:002014-02-27T15:41:20.028-08:00Internetting and HummusPeople ask me what I do. It's a basic question, right? Most people have a ready response like "sales" or "marketing" or "teaching" or something along those lines. I don't, because I don't have a paying job. Basically I taxi kids around, make meals, do laundry, pick up toys, and what-have-you. I also like to internet (as I call it) and I love, love, love being in my kitchen and making food. So in between prime taxi hours, I like to mess around in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
I've been working on a hummus recipe for more than a year now. It's delicious and super-nutritious. Usually it takes me about 10 minutes from start to finish, but today I added an extra step that made it perfection! It took me an extra fifty minutes to take the skin off the garbanzo beans, and to be honest, I was hoping that it wouldn't be a noticeable difference. Welp, it made a HUGE difference. So while my recipe went from 10 minutes to prepare to a little over an hour, it was well worth it. Recipe: perfected.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nUKE-nO8AOE/Uw_MdpDEVEI/AAAAAAAAAaY/X_V92Vi336M/s1600/hum2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nUKE-nO8AOE/Uw_MdpDEVEI/AAAAAAAAAaY/X_V92Vi336M/s1600/hum2.jpg" height="318" width="320" /></a></div>
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Here's what you'll need:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>A food processor. If you don't have one, then I don't know what to tell you. Get one? I wouldn't know how to make this without a food processor.</li>
<li>2 cans of garbanzo beans. Skin or don't, it's up to you. It will taste pretty much the same either way, but the texture you'll get when you skin them is crazy good. Better than store bought.</li>
<li>4 cloves of fresh garlic</li>
<li>The juice of 3 lemons.... FRESHLY SQUEEZED.... none of that bottled garbage </li>
<li>1 tablespoon ground cumin</li>
<li>2 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil</li>
<li>1 small jar of roasted red bell peppers (totally optional). I always add them, but I have to admit that it alters the smooth consistency a little bit. Since you add them last, try the hummus first, and then add the roasted peppers.</li>
<li>OH! Normally I use a 1/4 cup of tahini, but today I didn't because I'm trying to cut fat. I actually discovered that I prefer it without the tahini. It's up to your taste buds.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tfz3XNpSeB8/Uw_MjpcxI5I/AAAAAAAAAag/p_oybrtKTio/s1600/hum1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Tfz3XNpSeB8/Uw_MjpcxI5I/AAAAAAAAAag/p_oybrtKTio/s1600/hum1.jpg" height="318" width="320" /></a></div>
</li>
</ul>
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Here's what you'll do:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
<ul>
<li>Throw everything into the food processor, one ingredient at a time. Give each ingredient several minutes before adding the next. Start with the garlic, then add the lemon juice, next the garbanzo beans, next add the olive oil, then the cumin, and lastly, the roasted red peppers. Once all of your ingredients are in, let it mix for a few more minutes. IT'S SO EASY!!!</li>
</ul>
<div>
We all love it, kids included. It's great with some Stacy's Sea-Salt Pita chips, pita bread (or naan), or as a veggie dip. Today I threw some on a piece of flatbread and added shredded carrots, sliced bell pepper and chopped kalamata olives to make a Mediterranean veggie burrito. It was really, really delicious.</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
NUTRITIONAL FACTS for this particular recipe:</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This recipe makes 3 cups of hummus. One serving size is 1/3 cup.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
One serving = 140 calories, 22g carbohydrates, 4g fat, 5g protein, 1g sugar</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Everything in this recipe is good for you. All of the fats and carbs are the GOOD kind.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
And that is all. I've never posted a recipe before, but this one compelled me :)</div>
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<br />Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-85273294324701154422014-01-29T11:27:00.002-08:002014-01-29T14:30:42.232-08:00In Response to "A new place to call home"In response to: "A new place to call home."<br />
<br />
I read an article this morning, and I felt a guttural need to respond. I'm using my personal blog to do so, because I'm not sure how else to share it. I fully understand that while some people may agree with my opinion, many will not. That is okay with me. To view the original article, you'll have to view the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Dixon-Tribune/191440726067" target="_blank">Dixon Tribune's FB page.</a><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning I came across an article that had been
published in my hometown’s newspaper. I
wouldn’t have seen it except that some Facebook friends had shared it, along
with some pretty harsh and scathing opinions.
The article was titled “A new place to call home,” and it was about a
new apartment complex that has been built to accommodate farm laborers and
their families. When I read the article,
I was immediately brought back to my youth.
Images and memories flooded my brain, and I’d like to share some of them
with you.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grew up on our family’s farm on the outskirts of
Dixon. We farmed thousands of
acres spanning through Dixon, Davis and Winters. We grew nearly every vegetable, grain and
melon you can think of. I started
working when I was eight years old, and knew how to drive a tractor before I
ever sat behind the wheel of a car.
Farming is not for the faint of heart; the days, hours, weeks, months
and years seem endless, and the physical labor is something that’s unfathomable
to those who have never done it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you haven’t read the article I’m talking about, I highly
urge you to do so before continuing on with what I’m about to say. I’m somewhat at a loss for where to begin,
because this is a topic that has gotten people heated and impassioned since
long before my parents were even born. The
blaming and criticizing of migrant farm workers for California’s economical duress
can be seen at a microcosmic level dating back to the Great Depression. It truly baffles me when I hear people say
things like, “they’re taking all of our jobs,” or “no wonder our state has no
money when <i>those people</i> keep having
babies.” In the comments of the article
and on peoples’ Facebook pages, I read some really hateful and ignorant
opinions. What saddens me most is that
the majority of people won’t even take the time to educate themselves, and so
these feelings of animosity and hatred will just continue to trickle down
through future generations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The article touched on the idea that the farm laborers and
their families are, for the first time, being given access to livable housing
that they can be proud of. The apartments
are new, they are clean, and they are affordable to people that make <b><i>very</i></b>
little money. A couple of facts for you: The California Agricultural Industry makes
nearly 20 billion dollars in revenue each year.
Our country relies heavily on the agriculture that we produce in our
beautiful state. Farmers rely heavily on
the hard, back breaking work that the Hispanic population provides, because let’s
face it, the rest of the population isn’t willing to do that sort of work. Even if we were willing to do it, you can bet
your ass that we’d demand more than $6 per hour. We’d also demand health insurance, because
let’s face it, farm labor is hard work and it’s dangerous! I’d bet the farm that most people complaining
about this subject have absolutely NO IDEA what these laborers and their
families go through on a daily basis. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I’m starting to get angry again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The average agriculture labor worker earns approximately
$11,000 per year. Think about that for a
second. Imagine that the bread winner in
your family makes a whopping $917 per month.
With that sort of income, where will you live? What will you eat? What sort of transportation will you
use? How will you visit the doctor? How will you pay your electricity bill? I can hear the arguments already: our taxes
pay for these people! That’s why our
state’s deficit is so huge! Ok, so let’s
pretend for a minute that the laborers don’t exist. <b>Who is
doing the work</b>? Who is physically
keeping our Ag industry going so that our state can make 20 billion dollars in
revenue each year? I guarantee you that
the people saying “maybe I should just become a Mexican farm worker so that I
can live cheaply like them,” are not willing to do that work.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m about to share a dark secret with you from my childhood,
about what it feels like to own a farm and to employ Hispanic workers; all the
while going to school with their children, being friends with their children,
and seeing the squalor that most of them live in. Here is a memory that still haunts me to this
day:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking the country bus home from elementary school, one of
the stops along the way was to what I can only call a migrant camp. These giant tracts of housing where my
schoolmates were being dropped off were old and they were falling apart. Each unit connected to the other was a single
room in which entire families lived.
There was no grass, no flowers, no parks, only dry dusty dirt. Their parents worked hard (I know because
they worked for our family), and this was the best they could afford. I felt guilty because I know their parents
are working just as hard as mine, but they had nothing to show for it. I felt ashamed because I know they are embarrassed
to be dropped off at their “houses” in front of their schoolmates. As one of the kids on the country buses, you
were either the child of a farm owner, or the child of a farm laborer. The dichotomy of this situation if you stop
to think about it, is incredible.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What bothers me most about this topic is the lack of empathy
that people feel for their fellow human beings and neighbors. We are all here on this planet together. Someone was excited when each of us was
born. Each of us feels happiness,
sadness, joy and despair. Each of us has
worries about money and about providing for our children. It doesn’t matter what language we speak or
where our ancestors are from: we are all humans doing the best we can in this
world, and in our lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
For those of you who think that farm laborers are being
given a handout and ultimately taking something away from you, I urge you to
seek out the truth before getting angry.
I remind you that your children are friends in school, that you are
sitting next to these “free-loaders” at church, and that they (like you) are
just doing the best they can. Because of
these new apartments, a handful of families have the opportunity to be proud of
where they live, and finally have something to show for all of the hard work
they’ve been doing; and you have the opportunity to be proud of treating your
neighbors and fellow-citizens with the dignity they deserve as human beings.<o:p></o:p></div>
Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0Dixon, CA 95620, USA38.4454641 -121.8232957999999838.3459596 -121.98465729999998 38.544968600000004 -121.66193429999998tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-66855426912452309292013-11-07T09:59:00.001-08:002013-11-07T10:05:07.472-08:00Waterproof Bandaids<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1UrPuxRnyvE/UnvUeus0LmI/AAAAAAAAAXg/wVOLBrjTouI/s1600/10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1UrPuxRnyvE/UnvUeus0LmI/AAAAAAAAAXg/wVOLBrjTouI/s320/10.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It was the summertime of my tenth year. I had long tangled blonde hair, bleached to a
slimy green hue from the excessive exposure to pool chlorine. I had always loved swimming, but never quite
as much as I did that summer. It was hot
and dry in the valley, with average temperatures hovering around 105 degrees,
so naturally I spent my days in any swimming pool I could find. Occasionally my brother and I would swim in
the filthy canals that surrounded the fields on our farm. We were warned about rats, but we never did
see any. My skin was almost as dark as my chocolate
brown eyes, so much so that I could have passed for a Mexican. Moms didn’t fuss with sunscreen back then the
way they do now, or at least mine didn’t.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was a strong swimmer, and the water offered me a different
kind of safe haven that year, more than it had ever done before. I can still hear the utter silence as I
jumped off the diving board, head first into my grandfather’s pool. We were hosting a wake that day, for my
twenty-one year old aunt who had committed suicide. There were over a hundred people there, and
the low buzzing of quiet chatter seemed deafeningly loud. I felt guilty, walking through the house in
my swimsuit, while others were dressed in black suits and stiff dresses,
clutching snotty, wet handkerchiefs in their tense hands; but I was ten and it
was hot, and the pool was quiet. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dozens of people stood around the pool, forcing false grins which
stretched across their skin as I mounted the diving board and curled my toes
over the edge. Within a moment I was
fully submerged in the safety of the pool, and all of the noise
disappeared. I was encompassed by the
kind of silence that can only be found inside of a child’s innocent mind. Surprisingly, for the first time I found
myself scared in the water. I could feel
my favorite, dead aunt’s presence, as though she were swimming after me, and so
I made my way to the surface as quickly as possible, and the noise returned. I found myself in a quandary. Should I get out and surround myself with
grief, or should I stay in the water and listen to the deafening silence? I stayed in the pool, swimming just below the
surface from one end to the other for an hour, holding my breath as long as I
could. I could still feel her following
me, just about to grasp the ends of my toes, and so I swam harder to remain out
of her reach. I could feel it all summer
long, every single time I got into a pool.
I craved the silence that could only be found beneath the surface, yet I
feared that I was being chased by a dead woman.
I would learn to live with it.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My kelly green swimsuit was my second skin that summer. I took it off only occasionally to take a
shower, and who needed a shower when they were in a pool all day? Even when my mom forced me to take a shower
and to use the soap, I rarely took the suit off. One afternoon, after she insisted that I
bathe, I walked down the hallway and noticed a cabinet, half open, which stored
the Band-Aids. Old enough to feel the
pain of losing a beloved family member in such a tragic way, and young enough
to still believe that Band-Aids still had the capacity to heal wounds, I
grabbed three beige bandages and took them into the bathroom. Without being asked, I peeled off my
swimsuit, and carefully placed the bandages over my left breast in a pathetic
attempt to heal my pain. Realizing that
it didn’t work, I sobbed in acknowledgment of my broken, ten-year-old
heart. I pulled my swimsuit back over my
tiny, hairless body and pedaled my bike to the city pool rather than taking a
shower. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
I swam that day with a bandaged heart, knowing that she was
right behind me.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-85142208030769353442013-04-17T10:16:00.003-07:002013-04-19T09:42:36.867-07:00The Mixed Tape Of My Life<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure what the catalyst for this venture was, but
lately I’ve been compiling a list of songs in my head that make up the “mixed
tape” for my life so far. Upon listening
to each song, I am immediately taken back to a very specific time; whether it’s
a first concert, a first love, a loss, cruising with my best friends, moments
with my babies, and so on. Obviously
there are hundreds of songs that I’d like to add to the list, but I’ve limited
myself to twenty-five…. I don’t think more than twenty-five would fit on a
mixed tape. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m having a hard time thinking of songs from the past five
years, but someday I’ll hear a song and know it belongs on this list for this
time in my life; but for now, I’d say this is pretty accurate. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In consecutive order:<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->1.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XkSmLh2Hbi0" target="_blank">My BestFriend’s Girl</a>,</b> by The Cars <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
When asked in 3<sup>rd</sup> grade who my favorite
band was, this was my answer…. Everyone laughed at me. I didn’t care. I loved The Cars. And as it turns out, this would also be one
of my favorite songs in High School. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->2.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3-hY-hlhBg" target="_blank">How WillI Know</a></b>, by Whitney Houston <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
My first crush: Eric Melton (or was it Ian Hall?) Second grade.... but seriously, how WILL I know if he really loves me? ;)<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->3.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IivGqwQvdCI" target="_blank">Only in my Dreams</a></b>, by Debbie Gibson <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
My first concert. Totally obsessed. Official member of the Debbie Gibson fan
club. Proud owner and wearer of Debbie
Gibson’s perfume: Electric Youth.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->4.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2r2nDhTzO4" target="_blank">EveryRose Has It’s Thorn</a></b>, by Poison <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2r2nDhTzO4">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j2r2nDhTzO4</a><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
The first genre of music my parents didn’t
understand. Thank you Sarah Moore. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->5.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c9ZMDPf9hZw" target="_blank">WindBeneath My Wings</a></b>, by Bette Midler <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
My aunt Nancy died. She was 21 and beautiful. I still can’t listen to this song without
crying.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->6.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhr5UBZh1rY" target="_blank">Nuthin’But A “G” Thang</a></b>, by Dr. Dre <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Introduced to an album (which is still one
of my favorites) by Frank Mendez and Robert Mayorga. We drank Mad Dog 50/50 out
of a water bottle…. 7<sup>th</sup> grade.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->7.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFx-5PGLgb4" target="_blank">
</a></span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iFx-5PGLgb4" target="_blank">Close ToYou</a></b>, by The Carpenters <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
PJ Wilson used to sing it to me. It was pretty sweet. I sing this song to my kids now.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->8.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zAtWJ8J1DeA" target="_blank">Mockingbird</a></b>,
by Carly Simon & James Taylor <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Robyn and I KILLED at singing this song,
duet style, cruising the Ford Fiesta around Dixon.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->9.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qAqLNznfJM4" target="_blank">Here comethe Bastards</a></b>, by Primus <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Saw Primus with Tool each year with PJ,
Dan, and others I can’t remember. Also,
when I hear my kids wake up in the morning on the weekends, this song comes to
mind immediately.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->10.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hXCKLJGLENs" target="_blank">Love Song</a></b>,
by The Cure <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Introduced to me when I was about 16 by a much
older neighbor who had the hots for me.
More importantly, I think this song perfectly encapsulates that feeling of when you first fall in love with someone.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->11.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TrpiM2oKTLI" target="_blank">Plateau</a></b>,
by Nirvana <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
I don’t know why this one means so much to
me…. It just does. I listened to it a
lot.<br />
<br />
12. <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sHQ_aTjXObs" target="_blank">Simple Man</a></b>, Leonard Skynard<br />
Just really great advice for a simple and happy life.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->13.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pPOKJikcYMk" target="_blank">The Joker</a></b>,
by Steve Miller Band <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Drinking beers with my friends at The
Airstrip and Thistle Road: my favorite thing to do in Dixon… also the ONLY
thing to do in Dixon.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->14.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WP0S2J4_Q94" target="_blank">Don’t Rock My Boat</a></b>, Bob Marley & Lee Perry <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Hanging out at Jeremiah Smith’s house. Seriously crushing on AJ Bernhardt. Also
reminds me of Robyn and her amazing dad, Alex… who had the sickest collection
of classic reggae albums.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->15.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-NSMQOdg8-Q" target="_blank">I Want It</a></b>,
by 7 Year Bitch <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
17 years old. Also enjoyed frequently in
Robyn’s car. Saw them in SF with Kristen
Ball and Volpi. We got lost on BART on
the way home, and ended up getting an escort from a police man.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->16.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UPU9az11si0" target="_blank">LoveBites</a></b>, by Def Leppard <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Summer anthem. Melissa Graham. Tanglewood.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->17.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m0338JndLwo" target="_blank">Walk Away</a></b>,
by Ben Harper <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Seriously broken heart. I thought he was "the one." Turns out, he wasn't; and I am so thankful for that lesson.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->18.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TGObF2q63Ew" target="_blank">ScarTissue</a></b>, Chilli Peppers <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
This album was on repeat that year with a
friend I miss often, Bobby Atkinson<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]-->19.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LRxYg_20oPg" target="_blank">YourHouse</a></b>, Steel Pulse <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Fell madly in love with Kevin (we’ll be
married 10 years this October). This
song is our song. Retrospectively, it's pretty awesome that I felt song #19 so intensely, and then this song shortly thereafter. You couldn't pay me to be 20 again.<br />
<br />
20. <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cwZ1y5WxtOk" target="_blank">First Cut Is The Deepest</a></b>, by Cat Stevens<br />
Working at The Shadowbrook, Terry and Terry would sing this song on Thursdays and Saturdays. Became an instant favorite.<br />
<br />
21. <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j8seN9XowpA" target="_blank">Your Love Gets Sweeter Everyday</a></b>, Finley Quay<br />
Dancing with the Douglass roommates atop furniture at Douglass....Julie and Nicole. Anthem for my relationship with Kevin.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
22.<span style="font-size: 7pt;">
</span><!--[endif]--><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YjS1vK5F76U" target="_blank">Pimpass Paradise</a></b>, Damian Marley <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle">
Seemed to be my theme song for a bit, and
now it isn’t. Still love this song.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
23. <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_GPxe91hWE" target="_blank">Nutshell</a></b>, by Alice in Chains<br />
Lyrics that chill me to the bone. Someone else gets it.<br />
<br />
24. <b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7a5nmO1P5lo" target="_blank">The Blower's Daughter</a></b>, by Damien Rice<b> </b><br />
I love my babies. This song makes me think of all of the tiny moments I've looked at them and fallen more deeply in love with them. Nothing else matters in this world. Nothing.<br />
<br />
25.<span style="font-size: 7pt;"> <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WBWov6nd6E" target="_blank">
</a></span><b><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4WBWov6nd6E" target="_blank">American Girl</a></b>, by Tom Petty </div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast">
This is, and has been, my favorite song for
about 15 years now. Tom Petty is my
favorite performer and song writer. I
can’t listen to a Tom Petty song without thinking of my oldest friend, Courtney
Rae.<o:p></o:p></div>
Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-28992395182770040232012-07-01T10:57:00.002-07:002012-07-01T10:57:19.744-07:00Rollerblades and a Banana Phone!<div style="text-align: center;">
This blog post pretty much consists of a photo. Who has the time or the desire to read about my family today anyway? I was taking this picture of Haley as she set out to roller blade. She was looking pretty cute in her helmet, pads and blades. Sam comes out of know where, decides he needs to be in the picture and yells "Banana Phone!"</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KiwhxNhPNpk/T_CPUX9xKCI/AAAAAAAAAPY/ryL6mRv2dZM/s1600/Banana+Phone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KiwhxNhPNpk/T_CPUX9xKCI/AAAAAAAAAPY/ryL6mRv2dZM/s320/Banana+Phone.jpg" width="243" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
So happy Sunday people....make it a banana phone kinda day! xo</div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-76519284905874580162012-06-30T13:43:00.001-07:002012-06-30T13:43:59.247-07:00Today my husband, and dedicated father to our children, is taking Haley (almost 7) to learn how to surf. She's got ocean swimming, boogie boarding and body surfing locked down, and so now the natural progression is to surf, on a real board, standing up. This is precisely what motivated our family to move back to Santa Cruz four years ago.<br />
<br />
You'd think I'd be out there, snapping hundreds of photographs of this milestone in her life, but I am not. Surely I will have some regrets a little later, but for now, I just need everyone to exit the house. "Go, go! Have fun, Haley. Tear it up! Just remember, if you don't stand up on your first try, you'll get it next time! Ok, off you go! Have fun; and Kevin, guard her with your life!"<br />
<br />
Finally, the peace and quiet I've been waiting for, but more importantly, it is my sneaky time! I've got a pint of Hagen Daaz Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream in my freezer that is calling my name. I think it feels neglected that it had to sit in my freezer for a full twelve hours before receiving the attention it deserved. So the family is finally out of the house and I grab the pint, like I'm some kind of junkie. I remove the lid, and then that little plastic wrapping, and dig my spoon into the glorious cup of frozen chocolate until I hit a frozen mound of peanut butter. SUCCESS!<br />
<br />
So, in short, I hope that my darling Haley has memories of today that will last a lifetime. In fact I know she will. As for me, I polished off my pint of Hagen Daas, and will retreat to my comfortable bed to read a book, sleep or whatever else I feel like doing. After all, it is June 30th, and that is what June 30th is all about right? Right??<br />
<br />
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<br />Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-18193305529914802852012-06-28T08:34:00.000-07:002012-07-01T09:06:38.318-07:00<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>It’s not me, it’s you: Breaking up with Facebook</b><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What once began as a small blogging site restricted for use
by Harvard students has grown into a wildly successful conglomerate with a
staggering 500 million registered users.
Facebook (formerly known as Facemash) is utilized for countless reasons,
some of which include keeping in contact with friends and family, promoting
businesses, a tool for employers to learn about prospective employees, and the
list goes on. I literally could not begin
to list the reasons people use Facebook.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My personal use of the website began a bit late. I used to be one of those people who initially
rejected new forms of technology and social media forums. I suppose my reasoning was that I didn’t want to
be accessible to anyone at any time. If
I needed to get ahold of someone I could call them on my house phone. I didn’t want people tracking me down where
ever I was, night and day. Of course
that changed over the years. I was the
last of my friends to get a cell phone, the last to sign up for Myspace,
Facebook, and Twitter. I vehemently rejected
the Smartphone until I received the latest and greatest for my birthday, and
wouldn’t you know it, I can’t put the darn thing down. In summary, I tend to reject technology and
then at some point I give in, and am addicted shortly thereafter.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Facebook is <i>constantly</i>
changing. They are SMART. Just the other day I logged in and a giant
picture appeared with a swimsuit I’d been admiring a few days before on the
Nordstrom website. Spooky. That is <b>not </b>the reason I decided to
deactivate my Facebook account though.
My account had become my personal yet public venting arena. It had become my children’s photo album and baby book. It had become my work space. It had become the place where my entire life
took place behind a computer screen, rather than with face to face
interactions. I checked it at least ten
times a day (probably more, but telling you would just be embarrassing). Lastly, and most importantly, it became the
place where people could say whatever came to mind without having a filter- the
computer screen had become the filter and that inanimate object cannot relay humor, sarcasm, or spite efficiently. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So what? I’ve broken
up with Facebook….again. I’ve done it
before and I’ll probably do it again; but for now I think I will go out and
have some real life, face to face interactions.
If someone is being sarcastic, it will be clear. If someone is being kind, it will be
clear. If someone wants to invite me to
a party, they can send me an invitation or call me on the phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So Facebook, I am breaking up with you; and just so you
know, it’s you...not me.<o:p></o:p></div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-13940772307614181592012-02-09T16:46:00.000-08:002012-02-09T16:46:38.830-08:00A Little Bit Of Red Lipstick Goes A Long Way. . .A little bit of red lipstick goes a long way...that and a new haircut!<br />
<br />
All of us girls have felt this way at one time or another: maybe a little dull, tired out, and frumpy to the point of hiding at home for a while. (If you have never felt that way, I'm going to have to call you out as a liar). Looks certainly are only the shell of who we are, but you have to concede that when you aren't feeling confident, you don't come off as confident.<br />
<br />
I was going through one of these little periods, and it lasted a little longer than normal. I was sick of my stupid hair style and color, I'd gained a few (fifteen) holiday pounds, I wasn't working, and well, I just felt like hiding away. Let's face it: I'm in my thirties, I have two (awesome) children, and I've been married for eight years; do I even need to look pretty anymore!?!? I say, YES! <br />
<br />
I had bought myself a tube of true <a href="http://www.chanel.com/en_GB/fragrance-beauty/Makeup-Lipsticks-ROUGE-ALLURE-95968" target="_blank">red lipstick</a> from my beloved Chanel counter, and it sat in my "tackle-box" for weeks before I took it back out again. Red lipstick is not for the faint of heart. One afternoon, when I'd simply had enough, I called my <a href="http://ampusstyling.com/Hair_Styling/Home.html" target="_blank">hair stylist</a> and she booked an appointment for me the following weekend. She knew that she had a tough job ahead of her, so she booked me from two p.m. until close. That's a lot of time. One more week passed, and I wore my baggy sweats, my darkest shades, always a beanie, and I avoided public interaction as much as possible. And then, Saturday arrived.<br />
<br />
I walked in and told Kim, "Shave it all off, I honestly don't care. I'm sick of it." For the next five hours she worked her magic, as only someone that's been in the business for over 25 years can do. I looked like a radio antenna with foils covering my head, and was relieved to finally...FINALLY....see a color that I loved. Much like a psychiatrist, we talked about why I wanted to grow my hair out. 'Did I really? Why? Who likes it long? Not you?' Turns out I DID want to chop it. <br />
<br />
So, long story short, (not really...it turned out quite long, didn't it!?) I have this new style that makes it fun to go out again. Pair it with some Chanel Red lipstick, and I can't help choose something cute to wear over the ole' sweatpants. Thank you <a href="http://www.411.com/business/campus-styling-aptos-ca" target="_blank">Kim </a>and Chanel!<br />
<br />
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<br />Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-80838941583832506422012-02-01T17:26:00.000-08:002012-02-01T17:26:58.879-08:00Stuff that nightmares are made of:<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GsDeWT_uy98/TynmIWsM96I/AAAAAAAAAMc/VskkvUhF1EE/s1600/Photo1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="253" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GsDeWT_uy98/TynmIWsM96I/AAAAAAAAAMc/VskkvUhF1EE/s320/Photo1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Today the unthinkable happened: an event that I have <i>literally </i>had nightmares about for years. Before I go into greater detail, let me explain a couple of things. I genuinely believe that living simply is the only way to go through life. "Things" do not sum up to happiness. Now adding to the equation that I am human, I cannot help but fall prey to the occasional materialistic indulgence. In fact, my last blog entry was about a few of the items that I enjoy having in my everyday life. With that said, I do make a conscious effort to focus on things like love, health, happiness and good will; and I try not to get overly concerned with material possessions.<br />
<br />
About six years ago I was Christmas shopping, when low and behold, I found the perfect gift.....for myself. I was at <a href="http://www.urbanoutfitters.com/urban/index.jsp" target="_blank">Urban Outfitters</a>, (which is essentially The Goodwill but with crazy expensive price tags), when I spotted a coffee mug that I couldn't live without. There was something about it. What first caught my eye was the art that decorated the cup. It looked just like the San Francisco skyline, but drawn in a way that looked like a sketch or a doodle. Lots of pretty colors. Very simple. Unlike everything else in the store, the mug was marked at an affordable fourteen dollars. Like I said, I had to have it. It called my name and spoke to my heart.<br />
<br />
In the seventy-three months that I've owned it, I can honestly say that I have used it nearly every day (with the exception of out-of-town trips). That's almost 2,220 times. Even if every other cup in the house was clean, and that one alone was dirty, I would make the effort to wash and dry it....because simply put, no other cup compared. It was lightweight. The diameter was just perfect. The rim of the cup was not too thin, nor too thick. I never got tired of looking at the drawing, and it often reminded me of the time I lived in SF. I <b>loved </b>this stupid mug. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I've had recurring nightmares of this silly mug breaking. Many, many times I have woken up in a panic. I've even gone as far as to look for a "back-up" online for the inevitable day that it would break.<br />
<br />
Today, as I sat in the living room with my son, I heard a crash and knew immediately what had happened. You hear about twin siblings describe how they knew the moment something bad happened to their twin? Today I felt the same. (I just re-read that sentence, and I hang my head in embarrassment). I knew that fateful crash was that of my beloved <a href="http://juliarothman.com/" target="_blank">Julia Rothman</a> mug. I didn't even bother getting up. My poor little six year-old daughter walked in, eyes filled with tears, and could barely make out the words, "Mama, I broke your favorite cup." I was disappointed of course, but told her, "It's okay honey. It's only a dish. You didn't get hurt did you?" After all, it <i>was </i>only a cup. (A cup I'd give my left pinky toe to have back in one piece).<br />
<br />
Today I lost a friend. A constant companion. My "blankie." Why on earth did this silly little token mean so much to me!?!? I feel like I live pretty simply on a daily basis, but today, I feel quite materialistic; and that's okay... I will allow myself to grieve. :) Rest in peace, my simplest pleasure.<br />
<br />Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-68543242293912954922012-01-23T19:00:00.000-08:002012-01-23T19:00:47.213-08:00Livin' in the 21st Century<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3LGCPWW807E/Tx4euU1LVjI/AAAAAAAAALw/do3BXCe3DRI/s1600/things.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3LGCPWW807E/Tx4euU1LVjI/AAAAAAAAALw/do3BXCe3DRI/s1600/things.jpg" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
Sometimes I wonder what it must have been like to live in the "olden days," when life was so much simpler. When salt and pepper were considered a delicacy. When you had to speak with the telephone operator to place a call; or better yet, communicate by telegram. When kids could play outside from dawn to dusk, without having to worry about "stranger danger." I'm a big fan of simplicity, but honestly, it's doubtful I'd last a full day. There are some products of the 20th and 21st century that give me the warm and fuzzies. Here is a short list:<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
*<a href="http://shop.usa.canon.com/webapp/wcs/stores/servlet/product_10051_10051_275685_-1">Digital cameras</a>, (and good old 35mm cameras too, for that matter).</div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.mrclean.com/en_US/magic-eraser.do">Mr. Clean Magic Erasers</a>. These things are made of pure magic, and are a godsend to parents of toddlers.</div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.pandora.com/#!/stations/play/520574771074565001">Pandora</a></div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.chanel.com/en_US/fragrance-beauty/Makeup-Lipstick-ROUGE-ALLURE-88903">Red Lipstick</a></div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.facebook.com/">Facebook</a>. (I'm beyond help at this point. Straight up addicted).</div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.raleys.com/www/">The Supermarket</a>! I think it's pretty awesome that I can get everything I need to feed my family and clean my house in one store. I do prefer to buy all of my fruits n' veggies at the local fruit stand, but everything else...one stop shopping!</div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.webmd.com/">Web MD</a></div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.capncrunch.com/">Peanut Butter Cap'n Cruch</a></div>
<div>
*The Debit Card. How did people function without this?!?! Not sure, just glad I don't have to.</div>
<div>
*<a href="http://www.apple.com/iphone/">My iPhone</a>... I flat out rejected cell phones until last month, when the Hubby bought me this ridiculous gadget. I didn't like the idea of people calling me whenever they felt like it. I would misplace it for days at a time, occasionally even weeks, and it didn't bother me one bit. However for the last month, my phone and I have been inseperable. FB anytime? <a href="http://chrome.angrybirds.com/">Angry Birds</a>? <a href="http://www.wordswithfriends.com/">Words With Friends</a>? Facetime!?! <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Siri_(software)">Siri</a>! Brilliant!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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Obviously, nothing on this list is a necessity. I would live a long and healthy life if any one of these things were taken away from me, but thankfully, trying that out isn't necessary! What are a few of <i>your </i>favorite must-haves? </div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-36826018544033900122012-01-20T11:17:00.000-08:002012-01-20T11:22:03.613-08:00Hope is the thing with feathers<br />
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When I was sixteen I found a very old book of poetry that belonged to my great-grandmother, Doris Eklund. She was also a published poet, and a very intriguing woman. It was a quiet and rainy day, so I took the book into bed with me, and dove right in. I think that this was the day that my love affair with poetry, literature, and collecting texts began. It was a gift that my long-deceased great-grandmother Doris gave me; and one of the greatest gifts I have ever received.<br />
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This is the poem that started it all for me:<br />
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"Hope" is the thing with feathers --<br />
That perches in the soul --<br />
And sings the tune without the words --<br />
And never stops -- at all --<br />
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And sweetest -- in the Gale -- is heard --<br />
And sore must be the storm --<br />
That could abash the little Bird<br />
That kept so many warm --<br />
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I've heard it in the chillest land --<br />
And on the strangest Sea --<br />
Yet, never, in Extremity,<br />
It asked a crumb -- of Me.<br />
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<pre style="background-color: white; font-family: verdana, arial, 'lucida sans', helvetica, geneva, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"></pre>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-65828999273091620842012-01-19T16:55:00.000-08:002012-01-19T16:55:55.857-08:00Fifth Grade Camp<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">After following a very, very long road, I was so excited to see this sign.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Old Dining Hall- home to our epic food fight.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The new dining hall- they hope to get funding to refurbish the original.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The stage where we performed our skits.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where we sat around the campfire- so much smaller than I remember.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My Cabin. The un-lucky #13.</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I dropped Haley off at school this morning, I couldn't help but notice the throngs of fifth graders huddled around the flagpole, with their sleeping bags at their feet. There was an obvious excitement in the air, but if you looked hard enough, you could also see the nervous tension beneath their little smiles. They were finally getting to go off to fifth grade camp, just as they had watched all of the other "big kids" do in the years before. The fact that it was thirty-two degrees outside likely did not phase them; but it definitely got me to thinking: how exciting that adventure was! First time away from home for more than a day or two. All of your friends are with you. The idea of "roughing it" for a week, meaning that Mom or Dad wasn't going to be there to bug you about taking a stupid shower.</div>
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I remember the morning we all squeezed into the auditorium. We brought our sleeping bags, a pillow, and a small duffle bag with all of the necessities (and likely not enough clean underwear). Ah, the taste of independence! Our mothers kissed us goodbye, swearing they didn't know what they'd do without us for five days; when in retrospect, it was probably the beginning of an ever-so-needed vacation for each of them. We all wore our handmade <a href="http://lomamar.ymcaeastbay.org/">Camp Loma Mar</a> sweatshirts, and sat excitedly next to our partner on those smelly and humid yellow buses. We stopped in the East Bay for a sack lunch, and marveled at the goofy <a href="http://www.roadsideamerica.com/tip/6231">Junipero Serra statue</a>. Before finally arriving at camp, we got to run around<a href="http://www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=527"> Bean Hollow Beach</a> in <a href="http://www.pescadero-california.com/">Pescadero </a>(at least I think that was the beach after driving past it today).</div>
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I recall bits and pieces of that week. I was in cabin 13, which I was told was <i>very </i>bad luck. Someone had been killed in there before! Rumors spread about so-and-so, who wet their bed on the first night there. We sang Kumbaya around the campfire, and performed little skits with our cabin mates. We fell in love for the first time, with the dreamy Matt Fisher...remember him ladies?!? He couldn't have been more than sixteen years old, but at the time, he was a real man! We foraged for banana slugs, and ate handmade "hobo-bundles," (potatoes, carrots, and who knows what else)- wrapped in tin foil and cooked over the fire. We started a food fight in the dining hall.... and it was totally worth it. We visited the little store where we could buy granola bars, candy and postcards...if our parents were generous enough to send us with cash. The most awkward portion of camp......wait for it.......shower time. Oh, dread! We, ten year old girls, actually put on our swimsuits to go take showers. God forbid we see each other naked!!! The camp counselors had shed their girlish modesty years before, and all of us little prepubescent girls must have been <i>quite </i>the site: staring, with jaws dropped, at the real, live boobs. (I had already gotten my first training-bra at this point, but let's be honest, it was only because my mom felt bad for me).</div>
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All of these memories, hiding somewhere in the back of my mind for the last twenty years; set free as I dropped of my daughter at school today. I had an open schedule for the afternoon, and decided to drive up the coast with my camera. I found Camp Loma Mar, only thirty miles North; and as I walked along the dirt path toward the camp, it was pretty surreal. The old dining hall was still there, although closed. Cabin thirteen was the first cabin on the right, and I could see little sleeping bags through the rectangular windows. I walked through some of the old trees at <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz_photos/cY26RRjnlHwvaS8ARV5NHw?select=mv20zsqmNwsesgt0gv4ZRw">Memorial Park</a>, and I sat down for a minute on the wooden benches that surrounded the fire pit. It was so tiny! I remember it being so much larger! Little voices screamed with excitement in the background, and it made me think of all of my friends, many of whom I'm still friends with today; and how twenty years has gone by so very quickly. Haley will be going to fifth grade camp in four years....what a trip!</div>
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A silly little rant, I know; but it was pretty fun to relive such a fun memory from my childhood in such a tangible way. I have a suggestion for all of you class reunion planners....I say we get together up in the redwoods. Forget Bud's! Let's bring our tents, our Kumba-ya's, and make some hobo-bundles. Maybe even a case of Natty-Lights, just for old times sake. Agreed?</div>
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What do you remember from your fifth grade camp? Something you'd rather forget? Let's hear it! :)</div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-42475946314457183452011-11-11T07:10:00.000-08:002011-11-11T07:53:10.715-08:00Operation: Normalcy<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zozBpFx7sdM/Tr1EOCFeq1I/AAAAAAAAAIs/nQbHqOv1HKI/s1600/022.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zozBpFx7sdM/Tr1EOCFeq1I/AAAAAAAAAIs/nQbHqOv1HKI/s400/022.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673766113425402706" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><u><br /></u></span></div><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>It dawned on me recently that as a mother, I have made it past the "survival mode" period. Sleep and I have become great friends again. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=glC9_8Ijt9k">"Reunited and it feels so goo-ood."</a> If the kids want or need something (there is a difference), they can use their words and we communicate. We are out of those wretched diapers, although I still wipe a bum now and then. I no longer think to myself, <i>how am I going to make it through this day with my sanity intact? </i>I am in the clear, as long as I don't have another baby, (an entirely different beast I've been grappling with lately... I am thinking it's <a href="http://scienceblogs.com/zooillogix/2008/03/miniature_pigs_pets_of_the_fut.php">time for a pet</a>).<div><br /></div><div>With the exception of the inevitable communicative virus and the occasional nightmare, I'm sleeping again, which makes me a pretty normal functioning human being. The times of waking six times per night and getting three short hours of interrupted sleep are over. . . Hallelujah! </div><div><br /></div><div>Phase one: complete.</div><div><br /></div><div>Phase two: Enjoy.</div><div><br /></div><div>The ages of three and six are pretty darn enjoyable. The boy is cuddly, compassionate and he sure does love his mama! Big sister is still completely innocent, but on the cusp of becoming a "big kid." Sure, they fight like cats and dogs (I literally just stepped away from the keyboard to break up a kitty-puppy fight), but deep down it is clear that they enjoy each other's company. Life is pretty swell in the Robertson household. (I think I may have just jinxed myself).</div><div><br /></div><div>There was a frightening period when the husband and I would attempt to go on a date, and all we seemed to be able to talk about was the kids. That was <i>terribly </i>scary. Had we become <i>those </i>people? I am happy to say, no, we hadn't. Just like every other stage of parenting, that too was just a phase. I seem to have regained my self-identity, and am not only a mother. He never really lost his. . . he's solid like that.</div><div><br /></div><div>The kids are working on a puzzle, and I have a little bit of time to type out my thoughts on my attentive keyboard. Today will be busy: auction meeting to raise money for Haley's school at ten, and a play date with a new friend at noon. I may get to go to the gym for an hour or two before we the sitter arrives so that we can go celebrate a friend's birthday at the wine bar. We'll be home by eight, at which time I'll crawl into bed with a book before dozing off for the night. It's not exactly what I envisioned for myself before we had children, but honestly, if I had something else envisioned I do not remember it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's smooth sailing from here. . . or at least until we hit the tweens; something I'd rather not think about at all until I am absolutely forced to.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-84172452792818644132011-11-08T07:42:00.000-08:002011-11-08T07:45:53.286-08:00i am a little teapotmy contents are on the edge of boiling<div>i hum softly- blending in with the sounds</div><div>the pressure builds too fast</div><div>and so loudly, without warning, i scream</div><div><br /></div><div>there are no words</div><div>to take the place of the water</div><div>which has gotten so hot</div><div>that it changes form</div><div><br /></div><div>i need a new form.</div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-64369015548152315882011-10-25T16:36:00.000-07:002011-10-25T16:50:43.404-07:00I am thinking of....I am thinking of changing the title of my blog, although I have always thought it would be a clever title. I don't want to be a misanthrope-- not even occasionally. I think that for someone to lack faith in humanity as a whole, they must have a lot of hurt buried deep in their hearts. I don't want to be that person.<div><br /></div><div>This will be a short post, but to the point. I wonder if it's possible to just let it all go. Let go of all the hurt, pain and memories that have caused me to be an occasional misanthrope. "They" say that you can forgive, but you can never forget and I wholeheartedly believe that. The problem is: I have a ridiculously good memory, and there are some things that just need forgetting.</div><div><br /></div><div>For me, this week has been one of the toughest and one of the most enlightening; and today I am going to try to let go of it all. I thought I had coined a new term when I came up with "debilitating nostalgia;" --memories that flat out knock me down and out, refusing to let me move forward. A smell, a sight, any trigger--and I was overcome. Then I read an essay by Freud on Melancholia. <i>My </i>term has already been coined- and by Freud himself. I am not an absolute Freudian. I disagree with many of his theories; but when I read this essay, I think he really hit the nail on the head. Anyway, my point is that there is a lot of hurt, and it is so insanely deep. I have lost something and I don't know what. I don't want to feel that way anymore--so I am letting it all go. I think that many people feel similar feelings, otherwise I wouldn't share such a personal story. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.<br /><div><br /></div></div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-65630228465772228872011-09-30T13:22:00.000-07:002011-09-30T14:07:18.045-07:00A life without moderationThis September our children turned six and three years old, respectively. I tend to get carried away when planning birthday parties, (a subject that deserves it's own blog post), so this year I made a conscious effort to keep things simple. In some ways I succeeded, and in some I failed. I wanted to celebrate their <i>lives</i>, rather than getting caught up in all of the hoopla that accompanies a child's birthday party.<div><br /></div><div>Haley's favorite pastime is hanging out at the beach. Toss some friends into the mix, add a bonfire, throw in the ingredients for s'mores and you've got Haley's utopia. I didn't bother with a BBQ, because that would have been a lot of work. Instead we played games, danced to some awful (oops, I mean fun, music), and hung around the fire roasting marshmallows with our closest family and friends. It sounds simple enough, but it was enough to give me an anxiety attack.....so many little details involved in making her birthday just right. We didn't go overboard with gifts, for once. We stuck to our guns and got her one nice gift, rather than many gifts.</div><div><br /></div><div>Same thing for Sam. He got to plan his own party this year. His specific requests were: family only, mac'n'cheese, watermelon and a sword-fight. We stuck to his plan, and it was honestly the best party ever. He got to do all of the things a three-year old boy likes to do, and I didn't have the stress of supervising a bunch of kids or entertaining their parents. We also bought Sam a few of his favorite things for his gift: two matchbox cars, a few bags of marbles, and some plastic dinosaurs and bugs. We kept his gift under $30 total, and he didn't know the difference. More isn't always better.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is so nice of everyone to get the kids thoughtful gifts, but this year it was a little out of control. They received so much <i>stuff </i>that they couldn't even keep track of who got them what. I am not complaining about people's generosity and thoughtfulness at all; but what I <i>am </i>saying is that maybe tons of gifts aren't necessary. On the same tip, were aren't even into October yet, and there is already talk of Santa Claus and more presents. I do not want to raise children who think they need possessions in order to be happy. I want them to appreciate the people who come to their parties more than the gifts that arrive with them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think the overabundance of gifts this year was a good thing in a sense, because it really pushed me to have a talk with Haley about how fortunate she is to have what she does. The day after her birthday, we were laying in bed talking about all of her nice things she got, and I suggested that for Christmas, maybe we should only ask for half of the amount of stuff we normally do- and the other half, we should wish for a less fortunate child to get instead. I really wasn't sure how she'd react; I mean, she is six after all, and what six-year old doesn't like to have lots and lots of new toys??? We discussed the local <a href="http://santacruzcounty.toysfortots.org/local-coordinator-sites/lco-sites/default.asp">Toys For Tots</a> program, the international program "<a href="http://www.smiletrain.org/">Smile Train,</a>" and "<a href="http://www.worldvision.org/content.nsf/pages/sponsor-a-child?open&campaign=1193519&cmp=KNC-1193519">World Vision</a>." Haley decided she wanted her "big gift" this year to be a sponsorship to World Vision, so we decided to look into it further.</div><div><br /></div><div>When we sat down together in front of the computer and looked up World Vision, we got <i>really</i> excited. She got to pick whether she wanted to sponsor a boy or girl, what age, and factor in similar interests between herself and her new friend. She chose a little girl who was born on her birthday, and who likes to draw and do math. She thinks it's amazing that there is a little girl somewhere across the world, with the same interests, same birthday, whose favorite subject is also math! Each profile comes with a description of the child, their family, and their living and health conditions. Researching the children opened up a dialogue about what it means to live in poverty, what those children have to live without, (things we all take for granted everyday), and what our small monthly donation would give them. </div><div><br /></div><div>We noticed that half of the kids from that program don't attend school because it's not available and/or they can't afford it. Many of them do not have clean drinking water. Lots of them have dirt floors in their houses. We live such a cooshy life over here in the U. S. of A.; taking for granted our clean water, never having to listen to hungry tummies, and we are disappointed when the last of our 25 gifts have been opened, and there aren't any more. I am really hoping that Haley, our kind and sweet and empathetic Haley, loves this experience. I hope that as a family we can start to live more moderately, and without the need for more, more, more. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe this is a start.</div><div><br /></div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-47106179484328573902011-09-11T12:35:00.000-07:002011-09-11T12:47:17.406-07:00Sunday BluesDecades of searching, picking up treasures, smelling the flowers and watching them whither. Such a tedious process, seemingly endless. I thought I had figured it all out. Learned how to dance without being too self-conscious, how to chime into a conversation with license behind my words, and how to feel less uncomfortable in my skin. It's funny (not <i>really </i>funny) but painfully odd, how quickly all of that can change. Painfully odd, how self-assured one can feel for such a brief period before shrinking back into nothing.<br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-382026077704498492011-08-29T13:29:00.000-07:002011-08-29T13:56:19.480-07:00Honesty is the Best Policy: Says Who!?!?wait... is this the best idea?<div>
<br /></div><div>When I was a kid, I remember my father's biggest rule was that we never lie. Telling the truth is important! Now, twenty five years, one husband, and two kids later, I wonder about this "truth" and how much we should be following it. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Sure, I want my kids to tell us the truth. Without it, how do we properly gauge a situation and decide what is right or wrong? I guess it all depends on the magnitude of truth. If we demand it, are we sure we are willing to hear it? What about white lies? When are they okay? I think I've used them in the past for the benefit of others. I specifically remember a time when I was fourteen years old. One of my parents asked me a question and assured me that they wouldn't be mad if I told the truth.....so I told the truth. Big mistake. I guess it wasn't the truth they wanted to hear. I guess I should have stuck with an altered truth...a white lie...just enough information so that no one would get hurt.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It's been something I've been grappling with lately. Is the truth always the best route? Why do people tell the truth when they know it is only going to hurt someone else? My logic, and <i>please, please, please</i> tell me if I am wrong, is that people unload the truth on others as to unburden themselves of guilt. This sense of guilt or shame eats away at them, and so in doing the "right" thing and being honest, they tell the truth. So is honesty the best policy, or is it just plain selfish?</div><div>
<br /></div><div>As a self-proclaimed Occasional Misanthrope, I tend to be cynical at times. At this particular time, I am feeling cynical about honesty as well as it's proponents. I mistrust it's motives. What a conundrum. Honesty? A white lie? Lying? Who really benefits from honesty??? A "friend" of mine decided one day to be honest with me. I learned what a terrible person I have always been from her perspective. In being honest, was she doing me a favor? Considering the way I felt afterwards, I would argue against it. Just saying. Honesty-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">shmonesty</span>.</div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-83316190426240722302011-08-24T16:00:00.000-07:002011-08-24T19:05:05.558-07:00And That's When Something Phenomenal Happened<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2bB5vVQdfpA/TlWa2bQTYkI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/QCY6ae2np2g/s1600/072.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span><span></span></span><span><span></span></span><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2bB5vVQdfpA/TlWa2bQTYkI/AAAAAAAAAEQ/QCY6ae2np2g/s400/072.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644587967798534722" /></a>
<br /><img src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" alt="Remove Formatting from selection" border="0" class="gl_clean" /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FA0NUStIeW0/TlWa1_pmQSI/AAAAAAAAAEI/tSvIiGLon4Y/s1600/Graduation%2B015.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FA0NUStIeW0/TlWa1_pmQSI/AAAAAAAAAEI/tSvIiGLon4Y/s400/Graduation%2B015.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5644587960388436258" /></a>
<br />As a kid I remember adults constantly asking, "<a href="http://missingsecrettoparenting.com/grow">what do you want to be when you grow up</a>?" I recall many of my answers, always different depending on the day; but some of them included the professions of dentist, lawyer, doctor, Olympic swimmer, teacher, mermaid, marine biologist and a baker. If I remember correctly, my responses were always met with amusement and followed with the canned answer: "you can be anything you want to be when you grow up!" I don't remember how I felt about that exactly, but it was somewhere in the middle of '<i>that's what people always say'</i> and '<i>of course I can</i>!'<div>
<br /></div><div>I sincerely wonder at which point in my life I stopped believing that I could truly "be" whatever I wanted to "be." I cannot remember. For about the first six years of your life people encourage you to be outgoing, confident, and to chase your dreams. Somewhere soon thereafter the child is encouraged not to think too highly of themselves, because that is arrogant and conceited. I am guessing it is during this transition that children become confused and begin to think that there are restrictions to what they can and cannot accomplish. How very sad.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>After a decade of community college (most of which was half-assed and coerced), and many menial positions as a secretary, file clerk, and coffee brewer; something clicked with me internally. Let me <i>quickly </i>say that I genuinely believe that ALL jobs are important, but those positions were just not fulfilling<i> for me</i>. I felt like I was wasting my life. I felt like I had more to offer than that. I felt a little bit (okay, a lot) of insecurity knowing that most of my peers had their University degrees and I did not. I found myself keeping quiet during conversations when I had something to say, afraid that I lacked the license to contribute my two cents. Alas, I had already gotten married and had children so it was too late to finish college and pursue a career in something I felt passionate about; right? Wrong.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It was shortly after our daughter's third birthday when I had what some might call an epiphany. I was talking with her about what kind of job she thought she'd like to have when she grew up. She said, "I want to make coffee drinks just like you!" It was cute and it was sweet, but she is a tremendously bright girl with the potential to do anything. ANYTHING. It was then and there that I began to wonder why I failed to have enough confidence in myself to pursue my true interests. When I told her "you can be anything you want to be if you work hard for it," I truly meant it. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>And that is when something phenomenal happened.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>In that instant I started to believe it not only for my children, but also for myself....for the first time ever. I knew deep down in my heart that if I wanted my daughter and son to chase their dreams and interests, then I would have to do it myself. More importantly though, I believed for the first time that I deserved it. I started listening to the advice and confidences I offered to my children, and began to offer them to myself as well. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>A month later I re-enrolled at the local community college. Low and behold, I was one (yes one- as in a single) unit away from receiving my Associates Degree, making me eligible for a transfer agreement to UCSC. I knew it would be difficult being a full time student while raising a newborn and a preschooler, all the while maintaining a home (aka, "<a href="http://stars.ucsc.edu/">re-entry student</a>"), but I finally had the drive and determination that I had lacked for so long. More importantly, I finally had the confidence. I listened to to the words I told my children and I applied them to myself. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>I graduated in a year and a half with a <a href="http://literature.ucsc.edu/">Bachelors degree in Literature</a>- a subject I have always loved. The English language lacks the words to describe how amazing I felt when I graduated with three different kinds of honors. I felt even more amazing when I got my dream job two months later as a writer and editor. And now? Every single time that I tell our children that they can be anything they want to be in life, as long as they try their hardest and believe in themselves....well, now I know it is true.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I guess what I am trying to say here, is that when you bestow your children, friends or loved ones with words of encouragement, always know that you are equally deserving of those words.</div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5876220973106799045.post-67416916869179762072011-08-20T08:50:00.000-07:002011-08-20T21:47:56.099-07:00The Best Decision We Ever Made<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DIct9ykqej0/Tk_lv0nfLgI/AAAAAAAAAEA/-KbgLJDtzcU/s1600/the%2Bgang.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DIct9ykqej0/Tk_lv0nfLgI/AAAAAAAAAEA/-KbgLJDtzcU/s320/the%2Bgang.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5642981467859398146" /></a>
<br />I remember so vividly the day Kevin and I decided that we wanted to have a baby. We had been married for about a year and a half, were living in San Francisco and were merely babies ourselves at the tender age of twenty-four. We were on the Geary bus when I nervously brought the subject up, fearful that he'd shoot it down once again. I could barely contain my excitement when he replied without reservation, "O.K., let's do it!" I was excited, nervous, and my palms were sweating as we rode the over-crowded 38 MUNI bus headed towards Ocean Beach. <div>
<br /></div><div>We were young, in love, and our biggest responsibility was taking care of our cat and making sure we got to work on time. We had only lived in San Francisco for a year and couldn't afford much, so we lived in the "Tender-Nob;" definitely not the place you want to raise a child. Although the apartment was nice, the view from the window was, well....colorful. Junkies shooting up, pizza men being chased by pimps (no kidding), fire engines roaring by every three minutes; all highly entertaining to watch at two o'clock in the morning but obviously not the ideal environment for a baby. We decided to move back to our beloved Santa Cruz, where kids rode their bikes to school with their surfboards in tow. Shortly thereafter we had found jobs, and were fortunate enough to live in "the beach house." We were excited and nervous knowing that we were making a HUGE decision that would change our lives forever, as I am sure everyone trying to get pregnant is.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>Many people in our position wait until "the time is right," but we really believed that now was as good of time as any. We talked about how if we waited until we had enough money or owned a home, or any of the other prerequisites that "responsible" adults wait for, we'd be sixty years old before we had a child. Undoubtedly there were naysayers who thought that we were irresponsible for bringing a child into the world before we were "ready," but <i>we </i>were ready. It was sometime in January that we found out we were pregnant, and it was such an exciting time. I loved being pregnant and did everything by the book. I was not scared about the labor and delivery whatsoever; but I was suddenly scared to death about being someone's parent! Having a little person who is completely dependent on me was a daunting thought, but the fright always left as quickly as it came. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Fast forward five years and a second (wonderful surprise) child later: our lives have certainly seen it's share of uncertainty. Living with our parents during a terrible recession, colicky babies, sleepless weeks resulting in a semi-psychotic young mother; it was during these times when we thought, <i>hmm.....maybe we should have waited until we were "ready." </i>And then we<i> </i>come to our senses and remember<i> </i>that<i> </i>even if we'd been more financially prepared or owned a home of our own; having our children was well worth the worry, the mishaps, and even having to live with our (generous and understanding) parents while we got back on our feet. Stressful times to be sure, but an experience that all brought us closer as a family. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>Today is Saturday. It is nine o'clock in the morning, and I've been awake for two hours. The 'pre-children me' would have easily slept in past noon, rolled out of bed for lunch and maybe gone back to sleep to rest up for a Saturday night bar crawl. As I write this, our children are playing a newly discovered game of marbles, Sam is wearing his Halloween costume from last year (it's August), and we are about to walk to the Farmer's Market for some delicious treats and fresh flowers. I am thirty-one years old, and our oldest child will start first grade next week. I am beginning an incredibly exciting job in two days, and my husband has worked his way into a fulfilling career that he loves. Everything has fallen into place despite our unpreparedness. We followed our hearts, ignored the warnings, and today I am grateful for these little people that have made my life worth while.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>I am not sure why I decided to share this. I think that sometimes I am just so overcome with happiness that I can't keep it bottled inside. I am more in love with my husband than the day I married him and today we will watch our little children with amusement, knowing that we made the right decision six years ago. :) </div>Sheridahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02662676613536969607noreply@blogger.com5