I thought these might be a perfect entry for this challenge. Not me, but my granddaughter and friends when they were children. Before makeup and boys and drama.
Almost the definition of why it’s great to be a kid.
I thought these might be a perfect entry for this challenge. Not me, but my granddaughter and friends when they were children. Before makeup and boys and drama.
Almost the definition of why it’s great to be a kid.
Unlike my fictional character Harold (Soup and Sandwich), who I have brought by for a few visits, I’m not particularly well-organized. I wish my apartment could be as neat and clean as the one I attribute to the Commander of Clean, Director of Dishes and Lord of the Laundry. Instead I am King of Clutter. No matter how hard I fight, I am losing the battle against my possessions.
Even so, I try to effectively allocate my time. Certain times should be assigned to particular activities. Work and commuting take a big chunk of life. While I ride back and forth in my General Motors car which has miraculously escaped recall, I think about ways to fill the other hours including the topics I should let loose on Word Press. What adventure, or misadventure Harold should have next.
When I sat down at the computer to coördinate all the thoughts running around in my head, I got a message on Skype.
It was a guy I’d never met in person, but had talked to often.
He lives in the middle east. I’d met him on the language learning site, Livemocha, when it was also a social site. Its members helped others learn the language they already knew by correcting exercises and chatting in text and voice.
During the past two years, we’ve become friends. Our talks have covered a wide range of topics. If you think you have it tough, talk with someone who lives where the power goes off each day at 6 am and stays off until 2 pm. Obviously, there is not enough power to go around in his homeland.
The differences of our personal circumstances is offset by the similarities of our ideas and concerns. We both can see futures we would like to have. It seems that when you have a computer and some power, no matter how fleeting, you can dream as big as cyberspace itself.
So instead of spending my Saturday evening creating great thoughts for this site, I spent more than two hours helping my friend study for his English competency exam. He sent me pages of text to read and questions to ask. He sent audio passages to go with the text. He reported to me in his timed responses what the text and audio where telling us. We moved past grammar, on to reading comprehension, then conversation. He has a week until his exam. That week contains his hopes of moving on as a language student.
Why would I give up my Saturday evening for this? Why would I spend hours reading passages and questions out loud to this young man? He is a nice person and I have enjoyed our talks, but I’ve never met him, maybe never will. And I really wanted to do something else. My mind was set on a particular activity, and it was not English grammar.
Yet, he is a friend. He reaches across cyberspace to ask me to lend a hand. Nice to know I can contribute to someone’s education. Education is the most valuable thing we can ever have. Even if you win the lottery tomorrow, your knowledge will remain your most precious possession.
If my friend benefited at all from the few intense English sessions we had recently, I think I got the better of the deal. He showed me what life is like in a culture different from mine. I am patient as he goes through his exercises. He is patient with me as I ask questions about his life. Some of my questions are no doubt naïve, but I’ve learned so much by asking them.
If he’s successful and becomes a language student, I hope we get to meet. He has taught me an enormous amount by asking me to read aloud and pose questions from an English textbook.
So, how did you spend your Saturday evening?
What is the one word or phrase that immediately cheers you up when you hear it?
“Friends are coming to visit!”
That does it every time. Since I’ve been out of the hospital, now more than a month, visits from friends and family have totaled zero. Lots of promises, but I haven’t seen anyone in the flesh. No smiles or hugs except electronically. A few phone calls, a handful of emails, a couple of cards.
I guess everyone is busy.
If anyone out there feels like dropping by, hey, I’d love to see a smile on a face I love!
We can’t be friends because you won’t like me. Really. Count on it.
Even if I like you, more than likely won’t return the feeling. I talk too much. My tongue is sharp. If you say dumb things, I will snort derisively. I will not take you seriously if you don’t know any history and don’t read books.
If you take photographs with trash cans in the background, I will not admire them, even if the subject is your most beloved grandchild. She/he would look better — guaranteed — without the trash cans. Unless you are making some kind of artistic statement about grandchildren and trash and I sincerely hope you are not.
I am not everyone’s cuppa tea. Sometimes, I’m not even my own cuppa tea. Actually, I’m not all that fond of tea, except for green tea ordered with Japanese food.
This probably makes me a bad person. Screw it.
Friends are here and today we shall emerge and go forth to enjoy! It turns out that Colonial Williamsburg doesn’t exactly have an entrance fee. There are things in there that if you want to see them, have entry fees, but it’s free to go to the town and just enjoy it. Which hopefully is what we’ll do today.
Adding Yorktown and Jamestown costs very little. For the historical stuff, time is more the issue than is money. We have to pace ourselves, see as much as we can without getting exhausted. Young at heart? Yes, absolutely. But our bones know the truth and we can’t ignore them.
Tomorrow will be some combination of fun activities … and I’m betting it will be Busch Gardens.
Pricey, but they have all those roller coasters and I am simply NOT going to pass up the opportunity. I’m not going to miss it.
I didn’t drive all these miles to say “Oops, can’t afford it.” That’s stupid. So I’m doing it, and that it. Even if I have to pay more than I imagined in my nightmares I would need to pay!
The hotel which isn’t a hotel, but a condo time share, is MUCH nicer than I expected.
Aside from our quarters being huge and very nicely appointed, there are many more activities and I expected and just overall, a really lovely place.
The balcony off the living room has a peaceful view of the woods and trails. Which is what we see out our windows at home, but it’s a big improvement from the many views of parking lots I’ve had over the years from where I was staying!
If only it weren’t so godawful far away from home!
We’re pretty much recovered from the drive and now, I WANT TO HAVE SOME FUN!!!
Tune in for updates!
Editor’s Note: The above was originally posted August 5, 2012. In the next two days you will get more from this trip.
Friends come in many sizes and shapes. Horses, dogs, cats and other warm fuzzy creatures give our lives texture and joy … and old things holding memories of other times and places … these too become friends, holding our memories and reminding us of the lives we have lived and things we have done.
Old Number 2 is one of Uxbridge‘s oldest fire trucks. Long out of service, he still has his own place, standing through the years and seasons in a field across from the post office. He’s become my old friend, put out to pasture but like me, remembering his glory days.
Horses in the pasture, friendly and hoping for snack, an apple or a carrot maybe …
Many of our fur children have gone to the bridge, but they are never forgotten. More of them on other days, I promise.
One autumn day, in a rare family project, we made a couple of friends of our own … classic New England symbols of Autumn and the harvest. We made them from yard sale clothing, two bales of hay, and their painted faces on old pillow cases were created by Kaity and Stefania … at that brief period as they were transitioning from girls to young women.
Finally, we meet the farmer’s old truck. He stands in a field around the corner, behind the fire station … an old friend put out to pasture, holding too many fond memories to send him to a junk yard. Instead, he stands ever waiting if he should be called back to duty.
Just this, no more, all within a mile of home. It IS home.
Tell us the origin story of your best friend. How did you become friends? What is it that keeps your friendship rockin’ after all these years?
- – - – -
We knew each other from across a room. She had dreamed of me. I recognized her. We were friends pretty much instantly. Through 40 years, our lives, even when we were out of touch and on different continents, have followed parallel paths. Our husbands are friends and sometimes similar enough to be startling. We wear the same size clothing, even the same size shoes. Like most of the same music, movies, books.
Yet we come from completely different backgrounds — ethnically, religiously, culturally. It has never mattered. Not way back when we met or now.
We have seen each other through so many crises, so many rough times and we’ve always managed to be there and banish the gloom. I think the thing we have most in common is a weird, ironic humor … a sense that the only real power we have over a malign fate is our laughter.
Friendships that last a lifetime and remain active and alive, not “memories” of what were, are rare. That two lives could follow such similar paths for so long is almost unheard of, but it happened for us and all I can say is how grateful I am. It is a saving grace when the world is unkind. I know there is one person who can make me laugh no matter how horribly wrong everything is going.
I meant to write a little something on stats when my followers passed the 2000 mark and certainly when the number of posts exceeded 2000. I meant to, but I forgot. There’s been a lot of stuff going on lately. So much so that by Tuesday of this week, I thought it was Friday. Busy, busy, busy. My best month ever was November 2012 with a total of 12,067 views. Between hurricane Sandy and the presidential election, the Internet was a very exciting place. The most hits I’ve ever gotten on a single post was The FBI can’t do a simple Google search? on which I got 10,143 hits. I wrote it during the commercial break.
The posts in second through fifth place in my best-ever list are an old Internet joke and three re-blogs.
I have personally answered nearly all 20,000+ comments. If I didn’t answer yours, it was because I missed it (it happens occasionally) or I ran out of levels to continue the conversation. I am a compulsive comment answerer.
After a lot of careful consideration, the secret to success — such as it is — is to write a lot of stuff people want to read. And publish good photographs. With a few notable exceptions, hits on my pictures exceed hits on my writing.
Size matters. No matter what anyone says, if you post more good stuff, whether you write it yourself, reblog it, have guest bloggers or share the spotlight other writers and/or artists, publishing more gets more hits. There’s a direct correlation between the number of posts and bigger hit counts.
I don’t know. I stopped obsessing over statistics. These days, I take a look when I think of it. I like to see how my best work does in “the ratings.” Sometimes stuff I like best does well and I’m pleased.
If a good post (in my opinion) gets overlooked, I scheduled it to for republication. I re-post photos, rework writing. I rerun favorite posts, but I will republish anything. I don’t reblog because I don’t like the way it looks and most people don’t like having to jump link to read the rest of the story.
None of us needs to apologize or explain why we republish our own work. If NBC can do it, so can Serendipity. And so can you.
With more than 2000 published posts, it’s too much material to not reuse at least some of it. There are, of course, posts I’d just as soon forget I ever wrote in the first place — a subject for another day.
Often, an under-appreciated post finds its audience the second or third time around. If you’re prolific, you can be sure not all your readers read every post the first time it was published. And if they did? Well I watch reruns of NCIS often enough to do dialogue with them. Reruns make the world go round.
Friends. So many of you have become my friends. You are loyal, caring and I love you. You have been kind, supportive, encouraging … all the things that friends are supposed to be. I cannot begin to thank you. So … thank you. All of you. You make my world a better place every single day.
When we moved to this town, Garry was the first person of color, and I was as far as I know, the first (only?) Jew. People said stuff like “Gee, I’ve never known a Jewish person before.” Garry just got stares. Hard to tell if they were staring because they’d seen him on TV or because he’s brown. Both?
Our situation was complicated by our neighbor Ned. A big guy. Rode a Harley. I love Harleys, but there are Harleys and then there are Harleys. This one was chopped and really loud. When Ned started his bike, the vibration alone could knock me out of bed. Ned was massive. Tattooed. He hung with a bunch of skin-head friends. They had raucous parties with lots of beer. We didn’t expect to be invited, nor did these seem to be our kind of party.
Ned flew a Confederate flag over his house. Prominently. We learned he’d always done this. It was part of some family roots thing tying him to his original home state of Georgia. Me? I think it’s time the south moved on. The war ended a more than a century ago. Time to get over it. But I’m from New York so I probably don’t understand.
It was ironic that our neighbor’s house was the only one in the Valley flying a confederate flag. We were the only mixed-race couple in town. It made us twitch. We were a poster couple for hate groups — an ex-New Yorker man of color who worked in media, married to a white Jewish woman, also from New York.
Garry is pragmatic. And feisty. He didn’t survive 40-years as a reporter without having grit. One fine summer’s day, music blaring from Ned’s boombox, Garry looked at me and murmured his fighting words: “This is ridiculous!”
He marched down the driveway, through the woods joining our two houses, to Ned’s front door. Garry knocked. Loudly. When Ned finally answered, Garry said: “Hi. I’m your neighbor. Garry Armstrong. Do we have a problem?”
Shortly the flag disappeared along with a noxious black jockey statue. Turned out, Ned was a plumber. He fixed our bathroom pipes. The whole skinhead thing dissolved in the face of a brown-skinned guy who did news on Boston TV. Seemed it was less important who Ned was than who Ned, with a little help from friends, was willing to become.
Eventually Ned got into drugs or something. We were never sure what. His wife left. His life fell apart. One day, he vanished. Fortunately, he returned our extension ladder before going.
New folks live there now. They are neither friendly nor actively hostile. They object to our dogs barking so much. Hard to argue with that. I also wish they’d shut up. But hey, they’ve got big dogs who do their own share of barking.
I miss Ned. No one fixed pipes like Ned and he always gave us a huge discount. He turned out to be a funny guy and a pretty good neighbor. Who’d have thunk it.
As far as Ralph was concerned this was the worst winter ever. There were years with more snow, that’s for sure. There were years that brought colder days. There was never a winter that brought one snow after another followed by one arctic blast after another. Memory had no recollection of this many days below zero. There were several days pipes were frozen at Ralph’s house, leaving him without water to the kitchen. After that, every sub-zero day meant water would be left running to prevent from freezing. Towels and throw rugs were tossed against the bottoms of exterior doors to prevent drafts. Humidifiers were used to make the house more comfortable and the gas bill… Well, Ralph did not want to think about that.
While he hated every day of it, the neighbors might have thought otherwise. Ralph was always out shoveling the snow that fell or that drifted across the sidewalk in high winds. Even when the temperature fell below zero, he was out doing something for a little while. For some years, there were teenagers to be bribed, but this year there were none around so Ralph was resigned to doing the work himself. When he finished the walks, he would shovel around his car and brush the snow from the windows. Sometimes a snow plow would push a ridge of snow against the car and then it was time to dig some more. This winter, Ralph was a busy man.
After he finished the work by his house, he frequently walked down the street about 5 houses and shoveled around an old brown Pontiac. Some days, he could not do it due to subzero temperature, but when he could he went down there. No one else on the block seemed to know whose car it was that got so much attention. Now and then it was moved and parked back in the same area, but when the brutal weather hit, it just stayed put.
And yet, Ralph walked down and cleaned it off, just in case. It was not Ralph’s car. He never drove it in his life. A few on the block might have wondered why he shoveled around the car and cleaned it with great regularity. It was just something that Ralph felt inside he had to do.
Certainly there were some that felt that a man of Ralph’s age should not be out shoveling snow in such extreme weather. It was winters like this that made Ralph understand why people retired and moved to Florida or Arizona. As a matter of fact, Ralph might have retired and moved to Florida on his last birthday when he turned 62, but the pension he paid into for decades lost most of its value 6 years earlier. It was reduced to 25 per cent of what he had. He knew he would never make that up in the short time left before he would have to retire. He just hoped when he did, the meager pension and meager social security would be enough to live on. It certainly would not be enough to send him to Florida.
One particularly frosty day, Ralph arrived home to some fresh snow on the ground, took his usual parking spot and went right to work. When he finished his walkways and parking area, he was tempted to go in, but decided to walk down to the brown Pontiac anyway. It was weeks since the car last moved and no one had seen the driver. Nevertheless, Ralph was on the job, cleaning off the car and all around it. By the time he was satisfied with his work, his fingers and toes were numb and almost in pain. As he started to walk away he noticed an old man come carefully down the stairs of a brick 2 flat house and walk toward the Pontiac. He had a decidedly puzzled look upon his face. Ralph tossed his brush and shovel aside.
“Hello, Mr. Schuman,” Ralph called out. “How are you today?”
“Cold,” Mr. Schuman replied with an odd smile that he had acquired whenever he was unsure of what was going on. “And who are you again, young man?”
“It’s Ralphie, sir. Ralphie Combs. I had you for Economics in Senior Year at the high school.”
“Oh,” Schuman said. “What year was that?”
“I guess it was quite a few years ago, but I remember it well,” Ralphie beamed, as he recalled his senior year.
“Were you one of those boys that I put in the front of the class so I could keep an eye on you? You look like one of those boys,” Mr. Schuman said with a suspicious glance.
Ralphie laughed. “Yes, sir. That was me, sir” At that Mr. Schuman laughed too.
“Well I was expecting a lot of work on the car today, but all the snow is gone. I am certain it was piled on there earlier when I looked out the window.”
“It must have been the winds, Mr. Schuman, sir. The wind was very strong this afternoon and has blown a lot of it down the street.”
“It’s a good thing, because I have to run some errands and shoveling snow is too much for me. I guess I was pretty lucky with that wind.”
“Yes, sir, I think you were.”
“Well, I have to go young man, it is too cold to stand and chat. Now you be good.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Schuman. I will be good.”
The old teacher got in the old car and drove away. That few minutes of conversation was the warmest Ralphie felt all winter.
It started when, the other day, I reached for my sandwich and discovered a frozen sirloin steak. On my desk. Next to my sandwich. I picked up the solidly frozen beef (it must have been recently taken out of the freezer) and carried it back to the kitchen. I showed it to Garry.
“Why,” I asked him, “Do your think I might have brought a frozen steak to my office?”
“I have no idea,” he said, “But it sounds like a great post.”
I’m still puzzled about the steak. Usually if I bring something odd to some place even odder, it’s because I meant to grab one thing but instead grabbed the other. However, in this case, I also had brought my drink and my sandwich, so I had brought an extra thing, the frozen sirloin. I put it in the fridge to defrost. The mystery remains unsolved.
Tomorrow, we are going away for a few days to visit friends, a long overdue visit to which we are looking forward. In preparation, I needed to do some sorting. Among the many things I’m taking with us — the gifts I bought for them that needed to be wrapped — I’m giving my buddy my oldest, favorite camera, the Olympus PEN PL-1. It was the first of my mirrorless cameras and I love it. It’s been replaced by newer Olympus PENs — the PM2 and E-P3, both of which are faster but not necessarily better. The PL-1 is the camera on which I took many of my favorite pictures. It came with a great little lens and handles beautifully. It also produces the best color balance of all my cameras.
That’s just background information. Here is where it starts getting complicated. Try to follow along.
On Black Friday or Cyber Monday or maybe during one of the gazillion sales events of the past month, I bought two very fast SD 8 GB memory chips for my cameras, replacing the older slower chips. The camera I’m giving Cherrie has a good, premium chip in it, but when I took the older slower chip out of my camera and put the new one in, I was left with one more chip than I had places or containers to store it. (Are you still with me? Good.) I thought “Okay, I’ll give the chip to Cherrie as a spare since I don’t need it anyhow. It’s not super fast, but neither is the PL-1.”
I put the chip down on my desk in front of the monitor and proceeded to search my I-don’t-know-how-many camera bags to see if I had any of those little plastic cases to put the chip in. All chips used to come with a little case, but not anymore. Now you have to buy them — talk about a rip-off. I mean really, how much do they save by not giving you a case? Anyhow, at some point, I found a couple of empty chip cases. I turned around to get the chip to put into one of the cases, then realized I needed to take cases out of the bag. I wheeled my chair around again, but couldn’t remember in which bag I’d found the empty cases. I looked where I thought I’d seen them, but they weren’t there. I rotated again. The chip was gone.
During this exercise, my butt never left my desk chair. I never stood up. But I had lost (again) the cases and somehow misplaced the chip too. On one level, it solved a problem. I didn’t need the case anymore because I had no chip to put in it.
Someday, somehow, I’m sure that chip will show up. And maybe so will the cases because they are in one of the bags. But what about the frozen steak?
Back in college, my housemate Micki had a tall boyfriend and a VW bug. Her boyfriend’s best friend had rich parents and a hunting lodge on a lake in the Adirondacks. One Friday evening, Micki and her beau grabbed me and said “We’re going to the lake. Come on.”
I didn’t have any plans, so we climbed into the bug and headed north. No one had any money. I don’t mean we didn’t have a lot of money. We didn’t have any money. I didn’t own a wallet or a driver’s license. Or an official ID. You didn’t need it in those days. Hard to believe, but it was normal to walk around with no money or ID. No cell phones (what’s a cell phone?). I suppose some women carried makeup and stuff, but not me.
Odd girl out, I sat in the back behind the very tall driver folded like a pretzel. Along the way, we got hungry but lacking money, we didn’t eat. It was a long drive from Long Island to the top of the Adirondacks. The car got hungry too and unlike people, it couldn’t wait. So we saved fuel by coasting down mountains, restarting the engine to go uphill.
We got to the house on the lake just after dawn. It was beautiful, mist rising on the lake. We were exhausted. So was the bug having made the journey on fumes. No rest for the weary. The sun was up. We had to be sociable.
It was some house. Huge, more like a hotel. I wondered what their regular house looked like. Wooden steps led down to a dock and boat. I met Micki’s boyfriend’s friend. We sort of hung out. He made a half-hearted attempt to neck with me, but my disinterest was obvious and he gave up.
After sex was taken off our dance card, he walked me to the lake for a swim. I had borrowed someone’s bathing suit. He dove off the dock. When he surfaced, I called to him. “How is it?”
“Not bad,” he said. So I dove in too and my heart almost stopped. That water was as close to ice as I’ve ever experienced. I thought I was going to die, and porpoise-like leapt back onto the dock, a feat I’ve never matched since.
“What do you mean by ‘not bad’” I squawked.
“It can be a lot colder,” he assured me. We sat for a while on the dock. There were a lot of round holes in the wood.
“What are those holes?”
“Bullet holes,” he said.
“I shoot the spiders,” he said. “With the rifle.” I hadn’t noticed it, but there it was. Probably for target shooting. But … shoot at spiders? That’s when the biggest spider I’ve ever seen ambled onto the dock. It was the size of my hand … maybe bigger. Black. Furry.
He grabbed the rifle and shot it.
That did it for me. I found Micki, told her to saddle up. We were going home. The two of us begged and borrowed gasoline money and leaving her boyfriend at the lake, headed home. We hadn’t slept in days. I didn’t drive, but Micki was okay as long as I kept poking her to keep her awake.
It was most spontaneous life would ever be for me. Living with Micki was full of surprises. She was a terrible roomie. Never had the rent, ate all my food, borrowed my stuff, never returned anything. And she was the most fun of anyone with whom I ever shared space.
If I knew I was about to eat my last meal, that after this would come nothingness — maybe the void or perhaps that place wherein our souls finally rest. It would not matter to me what (if anything) was on my plate. No favorite dessert would have any importance, nor the finest confections of the greatest chefs.
What matters is who I’d dine with. The faces I see around me, the love I feel towards and from the people with whom I’m sharing what would have to be the ultimate special moment.
A banquet? Or a trip to some fast food joint? Why would it matter?
Gather to me the friends and family of a lifetime. Fit us tightly together, body-to-body so we can feel each others’ warmth. I want to share the breath of my friends, feel their touch, the beating of each and every heart. If the world and I are going to end, let me be with people I love.
Dawn Hosking, a woman who hasn’t let fibromyalgia (ouch!) stop her … or even more than slightly slow … her hurtling passage through cyber-space, has honored me with a brand new award created by the lovely Jenny at My Fibrotastic LIfe.
How can I not admire Dawn’s site? It looks a bit like mine, after all. It is one of the few blogs I can visit that has sufficient white space. I can read it and stay awhile without getting a headache. Too many of us clutter our sites with every widget and badge until there’s no place to rest your eyes. Fine if that’s what you want, but I appreciate white space. Probably that’s a remnant of my life in the world of books. But I digress.
She deals with her physical issues without whining. That’s not easy. Sometimes, I feel extremely whiney. Snivelly and whiny and miserable and scared and all I want is to go online and beg people to send love and cash (or checks or money orders). Usually I resort to humor to keep from humiliating myself, but she does it with just enough humor to keep from being — what’s that word? Oh, I got it. — dull. That’s what she isn’t, just in case you got lost in my Byzantine sentence structure. She keeps us reading and wanting more. To really spice it up, she includes information that is accurate, useful and can be passed on the medical professionals who rule our lives.
And speaking of writing, Dawn can. Write, I mean. She can tell a story. Whether it’s about herself, or something imagined, or just talking about “stuff” going on in the world, on WordPress, or whatever. She expresses herself simply, cleanly, without excessive embellishment or convolutions. Like the white space on her page, it’s refreshing and easy on the brain cells.
About THE IMAGINE AWARD:
“The Imagine Award” is an award created by Jenn Mulherin (who is the writer of the blog “My Fibrotastic Life!”) in October of 2013. This award was made in order to recognize the bloggers who express their passion and dedication towards their blogs through their creativity.”
How is creativity found in a blog?
There are many ways by which bloggers can express their creativity. Creativity can be displayed through:
Why is creativity so important?
Creativity is one quality in a blog that not only draws readers, but shows how much a blogger cares about his or her (or their) blog. Taking care of a blog is like taking care of a plant. To keep it healthy and growing, you feed the blog with your ideas and give it a lot of love. And time. (I dream about mine!)
Here’s what you need to do to accept the Imagine Award:
In a post dedicated to this award:
Should you prefer to decline The Imagine Award, that’s okay, but please — pass the award to a blog you find really creative. If it inspires you, even better.
Now, back to that envelope. Since Dawn has already given this to a couple of people who’d be on my list … well … you beat me to it. Great minds think alike and if this isn’t proof, I don’t know what is. I’m giving this to people who actually inspire me. I refuse to be responsible for what they do about it after I give it to them. I give the awards. You will have to deal with them :-) Just play nice and say thank you Marilyn (all together now: THANK YOU MARILYN!)
LASERS, MONSTERS AND BARBARIANS OH MY! is a totally bizarre blog that makes me laugh. Half the time I haven’t any idea what he is talking about. Creative language skills and effective integration of graphics media — including video — has made this one a keeper, even though I wind up scratching my head and saying “huh?”
ALIENORAJT - Creative, sensual and blunt writing from Ali’s pen… And so it is! What she doesn’t mention is she is funny, sensitive, kind, bawdy, bizarre and a master (mistress?) of words. They fall from her virtual pen like a tidal wave of wit and unique imagery. Sometimes, imagery so intense I can’t escape it for hours … or at all. Ever. Like a haunting (annoying?) little song, it just goes round and round. Whatever else, call this woman creative. Fantastically, magically creative. In every way. Her response is here..
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO SWISS is one of the most eclectic and amusing sites I know. She writes (very well) about anything and everything, from family life to cooking and politics. Her humor is wry and ironic. She employs subtle wit and honesty as a rapier. I never miss one of her posts and reading her stories and anecdotes gets me thinking about what I am going to write. Great work!
I’M JUST SUPER SAIYAN is pretty new, but she’s a pistol of creativity. It’s worth a visit just for the hand-drawn cartoons. And she’s funny, witty, and so far … prodigiously productive. Being a grandmother, it’s fun for me to plug into a younger world and see what they’re doing, saying. The new words used in an old way, the old words used in a new way. For graphic creativity and humor, this young woman absolutely deserves The Imagine Award.
DRALIMAN ON LIFE - Because sometimes life just makes you stop and think. Not only does he make me stop and think, he makes me stop and laugh, makes me admire his very cute cartoons. Are they cartoons or doodles? Droodles? Whatever. I didn’t know physicists had a sense of humor. Go figure, right? He’s also … gasp … a shockingly talented writer, both of fiction and oddball posts about anything and everything. I worked as a tech writer for a very long time … and to find someone who’s a scientist or engineer who’s funny and can write too? Wow. I mean, that’s like discovering a new species of something cute and furry, or a star cluster or well something anyhow. Check him out. You will like him, I absolutely guarantee it. Or your money back. Has anyone ever gotten their money back? Just asking.
Dolls I've known and loved.
The odds and sods of everyday life.
I shoot crazy!
Chronicles, Stories & Books by a French-American Writer
Humor for the frustrated reader and writer
Random musings of a godless heathen
Movie reviews - because everyone is entitled to my opinion
Photography ventures and views shared.
The place to be yourself and express your views relevant topics.
Because why not?
Marilyn Armstrong - Seeking Intelligent Life on Earth
DLJordan - The Full Stories
Inside the Mind of a History Professor
Human Relationships, Marriage Relationships, Children/Parents Relationships, Work Relationships, Friendships, Love, Abuse, Addiction, Support
Mostly unfinished stories primarily produced as a direct result of my association with the OC Writers Guild
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