tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57384647530434428332024-03-06T02:48:49.321-05:00Scattered JoySharing Perks and PleasuresKarahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-56009850620014765242014-02-01T16:59:00.003-05:002014-02-01T18:02:52.674-05:00Is There Anybody Out there?In a blatant act of self-promotion, (and assuming there is still anyone listening), I'd like to direct you to my new venture.<br />
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You may remember when I retired from Blogging, I wrote a<a href="http://scattered-joy-blog.blogspot.ca/search?updated-max=2013-06-26T13:03:00-04:00&max-results=1&start=1&by-date=false" target="_blank"> post </a>explaining my desire to find new creative ventures. Well... here it is:</div>
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<a href="http://www.jezebelsoaps.com/" target="_blank">Jezebel Soaps</a></h2>
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<a href="http://www.jezebelsoaps.com/" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTzKNngbCtcPddPWGwKUJhT-Wnkw_CzC8Xzb5EyM1qfUosRFxEHnDqYKDx5imKlG9ic-CI9cUVL8-zHJ9OkCnMY4vWCPplIpTbo9uDhZ72TO_Q1ZqUcWy0Nl0zV_Fa3jvph5VywCwJXoFH/s1600/1234.png" height="248" width="320" /></a></div>
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Come and check it out and leave me a message in the comment sention!</div>
Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-60208399283797159532013-06-26T13:03:00.000-04:002013-06-26T13:03:11.790-04:00Brun (la couleur de l'amour) or (roughly translated) "I Love Beer"<br />
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Just in time for Canada Day, I have returned to my blog to share this fun little nugget of Canadiana. <br />
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Enjoy!<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/B61pW6LXAvw?rel=0" width="400"></iframe>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-83305226861871247362012-09-17T11:59:00.001-04:002012-09-17T19:40:27.224-04:00Last PostThis will be my last post as I'm giving up blogging to pursue other creative outlets. Perhaps I'll get serious about that comic caper I've always been wanting to write. Maybe I'll dig out my old manuscript and attempt to make it more palatable for publishers. Or maybe I'll start a career in Graphic Design. Or . . . I might start my own home-made soap business. Or maybe I'll become an organic gardener, and buy a hobby farm and sell 20 different varieties of garlic at the local market. Or maybe I'll buy a loom and some angora goats and weave my own clothing while living in a log cabin in the forest with only a wood stove and a wine fridge. You see, the possibilities are endless...<br />
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So, for my last post, I want to share with you an old poem that occasionally still makes it's rounds on the email circuit so I'm sure you are all familiar with it. Still... I love it and think it's a fitting final piece for a blog that that was all about sharing joys.<br />
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Farewell friends!<br />
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-27645879502421056892012-09-07T08:00:00.001-04:002012-09-07T22:40:45.208-04:00Pearls of Wisdom and Other Such Nonsense<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">After three summers of sailing, I now consider myself an expert, and as I'm sure you are all eager to glean what extensive knowledge I have to offer, I've decided to share with you these following pearls of wisdom:</span><br />
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<b>1. Sailing Skills</b> - Balancing on one tiptoe on a bobbing and bouncing boat deck while trying to loosen a mainsail slug that is jammed 7 feet up the mast is easy - balancing a glass of red wine without spilling a drop while at anchor in a calm harbour is next to impossible.</span><br />
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<b>2. Sailboat Maintenance </b>- That beautiful wax shine that took many weeks of hard manual labour in the spring will be completely gone by summer. Wine stains will last for infinity (or until Nicole Kidman's face cracks - whichever comes first).</span><br />
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<b>3. Sailing and Skincare </b>- A sunblock with a SPF of 5000, gigantic bug-eyed sunglasses and a wide-brimmed Sofia Loren-styled hat will NOT prevent you from getting squinty-eyed wrinkles after spending a summer on the water. And sunburnt nipples are a bitch (or so I've been told).</span><br />
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Now, don't you feel wiser?</span><br />
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-62037475647632077842012-09-03T16:00:00.000-04:002012-09-04T17:10:36.832-04:00Midsummer EveShe knows something we don't. Something was there, <i>is</i> there. She crouches by the chain-link fence and barks with determination at my bed of daylilies which lie sheltered under a sumac tree. <br />
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Her owner shoos her away but she returns immediately to continue her determined barking.<br />
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We've been through this before, just yesterday and the day before - the same persistent barking at the bed of lilies. I showed her then, and I show her again.<br />
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I reach my hand down to brush aside the bladed leaves. I <i>know</i> there is nothing there, yet my breath is tight with fear of jumping toads, slithering snakes, and scurrying mice.<br />
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"Look, Libby," I say as I move aside the leaves, "There's nothing there. See?"<br />
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And there is nothing there. Nothing. There are no toads nor snakes nor birds nor mice. There are no cats, no squirrels, no rabbits nor raccoon. There are no critters what-so-ever, large or small, dead or alive. There is just lilies and soil, soil and lilies. Yet she continues to bark until finally her frustrated owner takes her inside.<br />
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I think she sees something I don't see, senses something I can't sense. I sit on my back porch with a glass of Beaujolais and I ponder the possibilities as I savour my favourite time of day - the blue hour. I watch as the twilight deepens and stars appear in the velvety ink. Fireflies alight and flit across the garden as the dewy evening air draws forth the fragrance of honeysuckle and rose.<br />
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It is a magical evening, ripe with potential. My mind fills with possibilities and my imagination flows from the ordinary to the extraordinary until I am without a doubt certain that I have solved the mystery. I have fairies in my flower bed!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgujeCj7EPsFladgz8KD4XMSUlrdKti5HT0rXDdYxfzWJIWijyUKvfpZjs7jr5MRvAnX4TR37hcF1dJWYOPMMryDYGokcxpVuRJiWbx-rDypzlOLVnOoyyAIEaH0MeDPNwBsImbivri6p_G/s1600/midsummer_eve.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgujeCj7EPsFladgz8KD4XMSUlrdKti5HT0rXDdYxfzWJIWijyUKvfpZjs7jr5MRvAnX4TR37hcF1dJWYOPMMryDYGokcxpVuRJiWbx-rDypzlOLVnOoyyAIEaH0MeDPNwBsImbivri6p_G/s400/midsummer_eve.jpg" width="281" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Midsummer Eve by Edward Robert Hughes</td></tr>
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-70118794319533649692012-08-29T19:16:00.001-04:002012-08-30T12:17:13.345-04:00Missing Puzzle PiecesI was around the age of 8 or 9 when Michael Corsey from down the street cornered me in the playground at school and asked if he could fertilize me. Being thoroughly repulsed, I replied, "Ew! No!" and ran away. I was no dummy - my parents had taught me a thing or two. Fertilizing meant spreading manure!<br />
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I realize now, Michael's parents must had given him "The Facts of Life" talk. I never did get that talk - my mother thought an information pamphlet from the medical clinic would be sufficient. But not to worry, I figured it all out eventually.<br />
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But truthfully, I was never one of those curious kids that pester their parents with questions about how they got here and where babies come from. I knew where I came from - I was a chosen baby. At least, that's how my mother explained it to me when, as a young child, she sat me down on her knee and attempted to explain adoption to me. I was chosen.<br />
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My mom tried to explain it in terms a young child can understand - I was born in a nursing home for unwed mothers and my mother was unable to look after me. My parents wanted another child, so they "chose" me. That sounds straight-forward, right? Except that I knew nursing homes were where old people lived, so for years, whenever other kids asked me why I was adopted, I'd reply, "because my mother was too old." But I eventually figured out the "unwed" part and put two and two together.<br />
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Isn't that an old-fashioned term - "unwed mother"? And here's another - "born out of wedlock". And there's a worse one that springs to mind! I much prefer today's straight-forward approach - "a pregnant teen". My birth mother was a pregnant teen. But times were much different then. An "unwed mother" was someone to be scorned or pitied. Adoption was the common choice made by good, well-intentioned families. It was the correct way to handle the situation, a neat and tidy win-win for everyone involved - except I doubt it was that easy for my birth mother, and I know it wasn't that easy for me.<br />
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You see, being adopted leaves you with missing pieces in the puzzle that makes you whole. No matter how loving their parents are, adoptees always feel a little different, and a little alone. For me, this feeling was most extreme during my adolescence when all girls are struggling to understand themselves. I would search faces in crowds to see if any face resembled my own. I'd wonder over things such as where did I get my love of music, why am I left-handed, and why is no one else in my family shy?<br />
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Well. . . I am filled with joy to announce I have recently reunited with my biological family. The other weekend, I met my maternal grandmother who is 97 and still as quick as can be. She is a warm and loving woman who welcomed me with open arms. Also present was a cousin and an uncle and aunt - all wonderful people. Last weekend, I met with another aunt (another warm-hearted woman) and her family, who took me to visit my birth mother's grave. Since then, the rest of my aunts have befriended me on Facebook and hopefully I'll get to meet with them too. <br />
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Although I hide it better now, I'm still a shy person and am uncomfortable meeting new people. But oddly, I felt right at ease with these people. I think we share similar temperaments, and I know we share a similar sense in humour - we laugh in unison with the same laugh! So finally, after a lifetime of wondering, I've found my missing pieces. It feels wonderful.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabJj0ymxeCcToYEu2jy3fEmFCww2vQmL967s1Q2cqO8sLkhPeNnu5q852uNphhZArZsZ4-KU7vJFBtFMjPjiolGUh63RWsZUdgqqVUHEy5oWjXkBWcfTzj1uZiluNCEULt3NSFyyteKSy/s1600/greig+daughters.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabJj0ymxeCcToYEu2jy3fEmFCww2vQmL967s1Q2cqO8sLkhPeNnu5q852uNphhZArZsZ4-KU7vJFBtFMjPjiolGUh63RWsZUdgqqVUHEy5oWjXkBWcfTzj1uZiluNCEULt3NSFyyteKSy/s320/greig+daughters.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My grandmother & her daughters. My mother is second from left.</td></tr>
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-51774200561623147052012-07-17T11:08:00.001-04:002012-07-17T11:09:15.553-04:00I Shall Return...Eventually<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1HB3kRXKF4vl5ZxwakIxwkEzanSb9L7WQnzO9VyUWFRio8mai2fegwh-tyhbkN-7QeWhYxVebsZh_bubP1ho6oBBKs5a1JsDxTdLyM-qortrR8lAfhEGRRwqW4noBjMFXJYCJOpwftVGT/s1600/gone+sailing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="325" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1HB3kRXKF4vl5ZxwakIxwkEzanSb9L7WQnzO9VyUWFRio8mai2fegwh-tyhbkN-7QeWhYxVebsZh_bubP1ho6oBBKs5a1JsDxTdLyM-qortrR8lAfhEGRRwqW4noBjMFXJYCJOpwftVGT/s400/gone+sailing.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-58808699023283629662012-06-16T10:50:00.000-04:002012-08-20T12:16:58.054-04:00Pin Me To A Map<br />
<i>Ever since my mention of Lady Slipper Orchids in my last post, nostalgia for the area where I grew up has been constantly nudging at the edges of my mind. And my heart.</i><br />
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<i>So, even though this post about my home is a re-worked repeat, I'm feeling a need to share with you again. Please bear with me - I'm sure this fit of nostalgia won't last long.</i><br />
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Today, you get a little geography lesson and in the process learn a bit about Yours Truly - because people are shaped by their geography, don't you think?<br />
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Let me start by saying that I'm one of those people who have a compass in their brain. I can almost always tell you which direction is which, and on the rare occasion when I lose my sense of direction, well....I'm lost.<br />
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So Place is important to me. And I'm a Nosy Parker. When you combine the two, it means I check every new Google Follower's bio to see where they live so I can place them. And I know I'm not alone in this need to link a person to their place because a lot of bloggers - such as <a href="http://www.motherhoodinnyc.com/">Motherhood in NYC</a>, <a href="http://www.sarainlepetitvillage.com/">Sara In Le Petit Village</a> and <a href="http://theossingtonkitchen.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">The Ossington Kitchen</a> - mention their place right in their blog titles.<br />
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Anyway, I've decided I'd help out those who suffer from my affliction by sharing with you some geography about my place. You may consider this a Public Service Announcement. Let's begin.<br />
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I grew up here,<br />
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<iframe frameborder="0" height="350" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" scrolling="no" src="http://maps.google.ca/maps?q=durham+ontario+canada&ie=UTF8&hl=en&hq=&hnear=Durham,+Grey+County,+Ontario&ll=44.176314,-80.818429&spn=109.352412,10.898438&z=2&output=embed" width="425"></iframe></div>
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<small><a href="http://maps.google.ca/maps?q=durham+ontario+canada&ie=UTF8&hl=en&hq=&hnear=Durham,+Grey+County,+Ontario&ll=44.176314,-80.818429&spn=109.352412,10.898438&z=2&source=embed" style="color: blue; text-align: left;">View Larger Map</a></small></div>
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in a little town called Durham in the Great Lakes Basin of Canada on the edge of a geographic region called the Niagara Escarpment. The Niagara Escarpment (which is an UNESCO Biosphere Reserve) is a 725 km long ridge of limestone which, like the Great Lakes themselves, was carved by the last Ice Age. The limestone bedrock doesn't make for good farming, in fact little grows on it but ferns and cedar trees (and rare Lady Slipper Orchids) but it does produce many beautiful waterfalls. Here is one of it's more famous waterfalls. Perhaps you will recognize it:<br />
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<strong>Niagara Falls</strong>
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Here are some waterfalls closer to my home:</div>
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<strong>Eugenia Falls</strong>
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/bobcatnorth/5084725649/" title="Eugenia Falls by Bobcatnorth, on Flickr"><img alt="Eugenia Falls" height="300" src="http://farm5.static.flickr.com/4091/5084725649_9bf24cc8cd.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<b>Inglis Falls</b></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">source: <a href="http://www.trekearth.com/members/elfern/">http://www.trekearth.com/members/elfern/</a>
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<strong>McGowan Falls</strong><br />
<strong>(This one is just blocks from my family's home </strong><br />
<strong>and many summer days were spent playing in this water)</strong></div>
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<b>Here we are on a family backpacking trip along the Escarpment</b>
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Although I still live in the Great Lakes Basin, it's been many years since I lived near the Niagara Escarpment. But it is still My Place. The place that defines me. So now you can place me - Kara of Scattered Joy - in Canada, in the basin of the Great Lakes, amongst the moss covered limestone, the waterfalls, the cedar trees.<br />
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Do you have any special place that you feel connected to? Any place that defines you?<br />
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Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-8004371771823853352012-06-13T14:55:00.002-04:002012-08-23T12:57:01.730-04:00Sweet Scented MemoriesMy earliest memory is of lying on my tummy on the lawn with the yellow sun on my back and the cool green grass underneath me. I was closely studying a clover blossom, entranced by the tiny varicoloured petals that subtly changed from purple to pink to soft white at their tips.<br />
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A clover bouquet for my mother; buttercups, chicory and Queen Anne's Lace in a plastic cup on the kitchen table; my sister and I festooned with dandelion necklaces and daisy chain crowns, our fingers sticky with sap; the heavy perfume of my Granny's shrubbery with its tree swing that glided me up and back through dappled sunlight; and carefully peeling open an enchanting bleeding heart flower to find the tiny glass slippers inside - these are my childhood memories.<br />
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My dad was the gardener in our family. He had a preference for the wild -<br />
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Lady Slipper Orchid</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Heather Drope - Nova Scotia Wild Flora Society nswildflora.ca</td></tr>
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and the exotic -<br />
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Japanese Lanterns</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.vanmeuwen.com/">http://www.vanmeuwen.com</a>
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<i>"See this, Kara? It's a Jack-In-The-Pulpit. Gently lift up the lid, and look - there's Jack!"</i><br />
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He liked to take me for car rides down the country lanes, under the green canopy of ancient maple trees with the crunch of gravel beneath the car tires. Occassionally he would stop the car and get out to gather a bouquet of wildflowers.<br />
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<i>"Here Darling," he'd say, "you give these to your mother." </i><br />
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-40261538702405997882012-05-17T13:52:00.003-04:002012-05-18T08:51:54.927-04:00Poop on Driftwood<i><b><span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Warning: This post may not be suitable for all audiences and includes scenes which some viewers may find disgusting. It is intended for immature audiences whom when told, "Ew! Smell that!" actually smell it. This post may not be appropriate for pregnant women, people with stomach ailments, those who have just eaten cotton candy, two corn dogs and a funnel cake, and collectors of Precious Moments figurines. Viewer discretion is advised.</span></b></i><br />
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Picture this: an early spring day, a clear blue sky, an endless stretch of empty beach, waves breaking on the sand, and Bojangles romping free through the sand grass. It's a pretty image, right? At least, I though so until we came upon the first carcass.<br />
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Yes, that's right, "the first", meaning there was more than one. In fact, animal carcasses were scattered all up and down the beach, foul and fetid carrion in varying stages of decay and decomposition. A malodorous melange of mort. A vile variety of vermin. Seagulls, raccoon, fish, and opossum had all washed up on shore with the ice and were left to molder under the snow until reappearing, ripe and rancid, this spring.<br />
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Now, I am well acquainted with the whole "circle of life" thing, so I can't say I was especially heart-broken to see the dead animals, but I was surely revolted. I mean, who wouldn't be revolted?<br />
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Well... Bojangles, for one. Apparently, what we humans find rank and repulsive has quite the opposite effect on dogs - they find it irresistibly attractive. In fact, Bojangles was carrying on like Homer Simpson at an all-you-can-eat buffet, running from carcass to carcass to stop, drop, and roll in the wretched stench. <br />
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It was absolutely disgusting.<br />
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Then just when I thought he could not get any more revolting, Bojangles stopped at a piece of driftwood, squatted with quivering shanks, and dropped a steaming turd very artfully onto it's weathered top. Poop on driftwood. Yep. My dog's a real charmer.<img src="http://l.yimg.com/g/images/spaceout.gif" /><br />
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<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/stowephotography/4234863003/" title="Pinery Beach by Stowe Photography, on Flickr"><img alt="Pinery Beach" height="300" src="http://farm3.staticflickr.com/2667/4234863003_a8376692ec.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Source: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/stowephotography/">http://www.flickr.com/photos/stowephotography/</a></div>
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(Just in case you're looking, you won't find any poop on this driftwood - it's the right beach, but it's not my photo) </div>
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</div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-28955100242977300572012-05-04T17:28:00.005-04:002012-05-04T20:56:05.244-04:00I am NOT a Crazy Cat Person!Oh My God! My pets are weird. My dog, Bojangles, well...you've all read about him in past posts. But I also have a cat. A strange cat. A cat who tries to talk. A vocal cat. And I am NOT one of those weird cat owners. I do NOT think my cat has a human's persona, or can understand everything I say to him, or communicates telepathically with me, or any of those other weird things that weird cat owners claim. <br />
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But I swear to God, when I call "Kitty kitty" Binx answers with a "Mrow mrow" in the exact same tone as mine when I say, "Coming!" And when I ask him if he's hungry or wants outside, his reply hits the sames notes as my "okay." Exactly.<br />
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Now, I realize I'm putting myself out there by claiming my cat tries to mimic my speech, that I'm practically asking for ridicule, and it may (perhaps) be grounds for placing me in the category of "Crazy Cat Woman" but I swear to God I'm not a crazy cat woman. I'm really not. I swear.<br />
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It's just that my cat is super smart, tries to communicate with me, knows 50 or so words, and understands the nuances in the tone of english dialogue. That's not a weird claim. Is it?<br />
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<br /></div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-64863132447901558632012-04-24T18:04:00.000-04:002012-08-20T12:33:40.666-04:00Delusions of Grandeur and Fancy French Food<span style="font-family: inherit;">The other day, during one of my common delusions of grandeur in which I'm convinced I'm somehow the offspring of Grace Kelly and Martha Stewart, I decided to whip up some fancy french food.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Never one to let an inadequacy in </span>expertise<span style="font-family: inherit;"> inhibit my ambition, I set about making coq au vin. And I'm not talking about the easy chicken-in-a-crockpot-with-a-cup-of-wine sort of coq au vin. No siree Bob. I used an authentic recipe which required </span>marinating<span style="font-family: inherit;"> a whole chicken in an entire bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon with a bouquet garni</span><span style="font-family: inherit;"> before poaching it slowing in said wine with celery, onions and carrots (which are only for flavouring and are tossed before eating, s'il vous plait). And then there was the bacon lardons and mushroom caps to fry, and the pearl onions that needed to be peeled and braised (with a covering of parchment paper). Yes indeed, it was an appropriately snobby french recipe. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">So I tied on an apron and I julienned, I </span>sautéed,<span style="font-family: inherit;"> I braised, and I deglazed. I worked all friggin day at my coq au vin. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">And how did it turn out? Well. . . once you got past the purple chicken, it didn't taste half bad. But the thing was, despite it being fancy french food and my Grace Kelly/Martha Stewart delusions, I just could not get past the fact I had wasted an entire bottle of perfectly good wine. </span>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-67931207578458266752012-04-21T16:24:00.000-04:002012-04-21T16:24:14.818-04:00The Death of CoolCool is no longer cool, or so I've been told. Apparently, it's no longer the staple of the younger generation's vernacular. "Cool" is not cool any more. "Cool" is anti-cool. It's uncool. To the younger generation's ears, "cool" sounds as old-fashioned and outdated as "groovy" once sounded to mine. The only time you'll hear them use the word "cool" is when it's meant to derisively describe something from the older generation. <br />
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So, when you're out shopping with your teenager and she agrees that "yes Mom, those sunglasses do make you look cool", you'd best to set them back on the rack and try on a different pair - at least, if you care about looking "cool" or. . . "not cool" or. . ..arrgh!<br />
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Do you see the dilemma? How can I express the concept of "cool" without using the word "cool"? When I asked my kids what word they use in place of "cool", I was met by blank stares - they have no new word for "cool".<br />
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My daughter explained it this way: "No one cares about 'cool' anymore. No one wants to be 'cool'."<br />
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No one wants to be cool?! Can that be true?! I was raised in a generation that valued "cool" above most everything. It was practically a religion! Back in high school, there was a social ladder that every teen tried to scale, and perched on the very top rung were the "cool" kids. Just watch any Eighty's teen flick and you'll see what I mean as they all had the same theme at their core - the cool kids verses the nerds. Nowadays, I'm hearing rumours that "geeks" are the new "cool", but can it truly be real? Has the concept of "cool", like the very word itself, become out-dated and old-fashioned?<br />
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When I consider my two kids (both in their early twenties), I realize that they have always been far more interested in being authentic to their true individualities than contorting themselves into some cookie cutter ideal of "cool". Both of them are more interested in independent film and music than in the mainstream pop culture. They cringe at the word "trendy" and prefer creative originality over conformity. They are true to themselves.<br />
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So. . . if our younger generation has replaced "cool" with "authenticity" and "individuality", I can live with that. In fact, I think it's kind of cool! <br />
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And now, for a treat, here's the authentically original and hugely talented Jeremy Fisher. Enjoy!<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="301" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/B8hOPs0g2nk?rel=0" width="400"></iframe></div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-38787797750055270172012-04-14T10:13:00.000-04:002012-04-14T19:58:21.956-04:00Scattered Joy Exposed<i>A re-post from 2011-03-28</i><br />
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I never before realized I have a thing for cats with thumbs, but apparently I do as this will be my second - I repeat SECOND - post about cats with thumbs. I mean, I know I like cats and I know I like thumbs...but cats <em>with </em>thumbs? I am absolutely amazed by how much I am learning about myself through writing this blog. Do you see how deep I'm becoming? How authentic and true? I am delving deep into my soul, gazing with unflinching contemplation at my own truth and discovering vast expanses of my being. I have learned to love the genuineness of being me, stripped bare of all pretenses. Finally, I am ready to bare all, to offer myself up naked and exposed before you. I, Kara Muller, writer of the blog Scattered Joy, freely and joyfully admit that I have a thing for cats with thumbs.
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="233" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/h6CcxJQq1x8?rel=0" width="400"></iframe></div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-91385644098231161542012-03-29T11:22:00.000-04:002012-04-14T10:26:28.747-04:00Writer's Block<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yes, the rumours are true - I am sadly afflicted with this horrible disease. Please be patient with me while I'm re-cooperating. Hopefully, if all goes well, I shall make a full recovery. </div>
<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-71294527990171027942012-03-23T17:16:00.000-04:002012-04-14T10:28:44.083-04:00Guilt and a Deep FryerOur son bought us a deep fryer for Christmas, which was a very nice gift, but let's be honest here - it was really for his dad. I mean, after 20+ years of wheedling and persuading on Dan's part, the one and only reason why we didn't <i>already</i> have a deep fryer was because I refused to have one in the house. For health reasons. <br />
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Okay, to be honest, I may be the same person who makes a mean browned butter sauce for cheese ravioli and have been known (on warranted occasions) to devour an entire container of chip dip. But still. I put my foot down. No deep fryer.<br />
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So my son, in a blatant act of Male Comradery, (and showing a sly and devious side which I never even knew existed) gave "us" a deep fryer as a Christmas gift. Mm-hmm.<br />
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Now, I will admit that I've used the deep fryer. I mean . . . it was a gift from my son! Over the years, I've worn a macaroni necklace, a sweatshirt with a kitten appliqué on the front, and a plastic ring from a bubble gum machine - all because they were gifts from my son. So of course I've used the deep fryer!<br />
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After some initial trepidation and a few experiments, tonight I've decided to go all out. Hey, it's Friday and I figured, <i>what the heck</i>, I'm up for some pub grub. Now, I don't know exactly what pub grub might mean in your neck of the woods, but around here, it means chicken wings, sweet potato fries, onion rings, and (just to ease my guilt) crudités and dip. And beer. Of course.<br />
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So. . . if I don't give myself a coronary, I'll be back here on Monday.<br />
Happy weekend, everyone!<br />
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P.S. What's your favourite pub grub?</div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-35547639801869383022012-03-19T13:02:00.000-04:002012-03-23T17:17:46.676-04:00Disgusted, Ashamed and EmbarrassedI'm disgusted, ashamed and embarrassed for my city, for the College, and for all the parents who will recognize their sons or daughters in the following video:<br />
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You can read about it here: <a href="http://news.nationalpost.com/2012/03/19/london-st-patricks-day-riots/">Students Suspended after St. Patrick's Day Riots Rock London, Ontario.</a></div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-66569875881935008862012-03-12T15:15:00.004-04:002012-03-13T21:11:17.626-04:00Introducing BojanglesThis is Bojangles.<br />
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Some of you may remember him as the obsessive compulsive dog in <a href="http://scattered-joy-blog.blogspot.com/2011/04/give-dog-bone.html">Give A Dog A Bone</a>, or the dog with the shameful habit in <a href="http://scattered-joy-blog.blogspot.com/2011/03/i-have-confession-to-make-something.html">My Dirty Little Secret</a>, and I've even talked about his great adventures at sea in <a href="http://scattered-joy-blog.blogspot.com/2011/06/adventures-at-sea.html">Adventures at Sea</a>, but Bojangles has a special, particular talent that I've never mentioned before.</div>
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Besides being a sweet-natured dog with a loving disposition and joyful demeanour, Bojangles is also very fond of music. In fact, he loves music. Whenever I sit down at the piano, or Megan picks up her guitar, he comes running to sit next to us with rapt attention.</div>
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Which has always been cute. Until now.</div>
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You see, on a whim, Dan decided he would like to learn to play the harmonica. I'm not really sure why, but he went out and bought himself a harmonica and began to learn to play it.</div>
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And that's when I discovered Bojangles has a secret talent. Apparently, there is just something about a harmonica which just make his little canine heart sing. Unable to contain himself, he breaks out in chorus whenever Dan gets out his harmonica.</div>
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Yup. My dog can sing!</div>
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</div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com26tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-4325701906541664552012-03-09T17:00:00.000-05:002012-03-09T23:28:42.437-05:00Here's Hoping My Luck Holds OutI live in a very windy village. I'm not sure why it's always windy here, but I'm guessing it's because I live some fifty kilometres of flat farm land from two Great Lakes. Whatever the reason, it's always windy, which is a nuisance if I'm outside gardening and have to always tie my hair back, but a good thing when I'm on my sail boat on Lake Huron.<br />
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Anyway. . . yesterday was windier than most. So when I pulled up into my driveway after work that evening, then walked around to the passenger door to retrieve a six pack of beer and a bottle of wine, the wind was whipping my hair and winter's road sand into my face.<br />
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I had no sooner entered the house and shut the front door behind me when I heard a large BANG. Opening the door, I saw this:<br />
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A few steps down my walkway and I saw this:
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<span style="text-align: -webkit-auto;">On closer inspection I saw this:</span>
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Can you see it? Our basketball net was blown over and missed my Ford Escape by mere millimetres! Millimetres!<br />
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This has definitely been my lucky week! First a diamond ring turns up in our <a href="http://scattered-joy-blog.blogspot.com/2012/03/my-guy-is-indiana-jones.html?utm_source=BP_recent">shop vac</a>, and now our vehicle (not to mention my very person) was spared being squashed, smashed or scratched mere MERE MILLIMETRES!<br />
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And they say things happen in threes. I'm thinking I should buy a lottery ticket. . .<br />
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So, do you have any stories of near misses to share?<br />
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-72313039038901973432012-03-07T13:25:00.001-05:002012-03-07T14:08:51.085-05:00Really Bad Puns II<span style="font-family: inherit;">Man oh man! I am in a mood today! The sun is shining, the birds have returned, and the thermometer is actually reading double digits (that's over 50 degrees for my American friends)! Yes-in-deedy! It is exactly what I was needing to lift my spirits after weeks of drab and dreary days.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22px;">So, I'm thinking it's time for some goofy fun. Forget about the soul-searching, heart-throbbing sap I've been writing lately - I'm in the mood for some silliness. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22px;">And what's more silly than really bad puns? So here, courtesy of</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22px;"> </span><a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/" style="background-color: white; color: #ff00a5; line-height: 22px; text-decoration: none;">I Can Has Cheezburger</a> <span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; line-height: 22px;">are some groan and giggle-inducing puns. Enjoy!</span></span><br />
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And now, my personal favourite - </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6thPc7xOec9EtnKuDTcyJ3l3AteV0bRRlC5iquOAscbMto3l9LxQRdzp4yPnlxJ9u85r5o_z0SywToQPHrPQoVYC_-i0vJeZ4KnZiYG_VPZZVVoaTNPiqS5RsMKeZhBUunAZWoOswft7/s1600/funny-puns-pop-art1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV6thPc7xOec9EtnKuDTcyJ3l3AteV0bRRlC5iquOAscbMto3l9LxQRdzp4yPnlxJ9u85r5o_z0SywToQPHrPQoVYC_-i0vJeZ4KnZiYG_VPZZVVoaTNPiqS5RsMKeZhBUunAZWoOswft7/s400/funny-puns-pop-art1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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So, did you groan or giggle? Any of these tickle your funny bone?</div>
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-65255362504063535182012-03-02T17:39:00.001-05:002021-07-21T20:47:22.092-04:00My Guy is Indiana JonesToday, I am thinking about how much I love my guy. Really. He is the best.<br />
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If you're into that whole train-of-consciousness thing, then you've come to the right place because I am about to explain the exact chain of events that led to me sitting here, typing on my keyboard as I consider just how great my guy is.<br />
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Ready? <br />
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It all started with my black leather tote bag, which I love. It's large and spacious and has room for everything imaginable - my wallet, a tube of lip gloss, my portfolio, a bottle of wine. . . you know, the typical stuff one carries in ones purse.<br />
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But mostly, I love it because it was a gift from my son's girlfriend. She gave it to me after a trip home to China to visit her family. <br />
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Anyway. . . I love my tote <i>(for the aforementioned reasons) </i>so you can understand why I was upset when I entered the house the other day, pulled the tote off my shoulder, and noticed one strap was broken. The straps are held in place by a brass bolt with round nuts at each end and apparently a nut had come loose and the bolt had fallen out.<br />
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Always one to rush to my rescue, my husband Macgyvered a steel bolt & nuts which made the purse functional <i>(but looked like crap).</i><br />
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Then he got an idea.<br />
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"Where do you think you lost the bolt?"<br />
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"Umm. . . if I knew that, it wouldn't be lost, now would it?"<br />
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Being long immune to my sarcasm, he rephrased his question.<br />
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"Do you think it fell out in your car? Because I vacuumed it out yesterday."<br />
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"Er...maybe..." I said as I followed him to the garage where he pulled out the Shop Vac, opened the lid, and began digging through the dust and dirt. <i>(Yes, my guy will do just about anything for me.)</i><br />
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"Here!" he exclaimed as he pulled out my purses's missing brass bolt. But before I could rejoice over his find, he got a strange puzzled look on his face, reached back into the dust and pulled out . . . <i>(are you ready for this?)</i> . . . a honking big diamond ring!<br />
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He found a diamond ring in his shop vac! A diamond ring! And not just any old diamond ring. No-sir-ee Bob. This diamond is the mother of all diamonds!<br />
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Macgyver be damned! My guy is Indiana Jones!<br />
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-91266726104503397452012-02-27T19:40:00.000-05:002012-02-27T22:15:12.713-05:00Other People's SonsMy son was home for a visit. It was Reading Week, a week off from his studies. But with exams looming ahead of him, he spent most of the time with his nose in his books barely coming up for meals. Still. . . it was very nice to have him home.<br />
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Sunday, we drove him to the train station. I gave him a hug and kiss good-bye then turned and left him standing there, loaded down with a backpack full of books as he waited on his train.<br />
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It was later that day we heard the news. <i>A VIA Rail passenger train has derailed in Ontario. At least three people dead. Many more wounded.</i><br />
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I felt sick. A moment of panic.<br />
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And then the news story continued,<i> "...an Eastbound train on route to Toronto." </i><br />
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Relief.<br />
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My son was heading West. It wasn't his train. My son is fine. What a rush of relief! <br />
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And then guilt.<br />
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I know that train would have been full of other young people heading back to university after a visit home, other students with backpacks full of books, other people's sons.Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-33194859523789503532012-02-24T12:59:00.000-05:002012-02-24T16:56:04.417-05:00Friday's Feature #7Today, I'd like to introduce you to a very funny blogger, G. Thomas Boston, from <a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.com/">Snow Shoveling in Canada</a> who is the master of lampooning all things ludicrous. In his recent post, <a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.com/2012/02/nude-stewed-and-pursued.html">Nude, Stewed and Pursued</a>, Tom's sharp wit takes aim at high booze prices and law enforcement agencies while blatantly attempting to increase his readership through the liberal use of certain *ahem* top Googled keywords. You have to read this. . .<br />
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<b>Nude, Stewed and Pursued</b></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="background-color: white;"> <span style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">It's been such a mild winter, that I've decided to spend the rest of it in the nude. This might make for some uncomfortable situations when shopping, visiting friends, and </span></span><span style="color: #333333;"><span style="line-height: 19px;">shovelling</span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 19px;"> snow. But all I will need to do is put on a few layers of clothing. I can still be nude underneath! In fact, this is how I plan to live the rest of my life </span></span></span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px; text-align: center;">—</span><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;"> nude underneath my clothes. <a href="http://canshovel.blogspot.com/2012/02/nude-stewed-and-pursued.html">Read more~</a></span></span></blockquote>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-81385869791704132072012-02-21T12:41:00.002-05:002012-02-21T13:48:19.403-05:00Never Accept Cookies from a Whiskered Old LadyThe other day, Bojangles and I were enjoying an outing at the off-lease dog park. The sun was shining, the air was mild, and the snow was melting into nice, mucky mud which (as any dog owner knows) is doggy heaven.<br />
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Bo made fast friends with an over-sized Beagle-ish looking dog who stuck by our side as we romped and splashed through the mud along the trail. </div>
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Two (regular-sized) beagles came bounding up to greet us, followed by a lumbering, elderly woman with a whiskered chin.</div>
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"Are these your Beagles?" I asked.</div>
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"Well...that one there," she pointed at one of the dogs "is a purebred Beagle, but that other one is part Jack Russell." She shook her head in disgust.</div>
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"Oh?" I inquired, "Not a good mix?"</div>
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"Oh! He's got the devil in 'im, that's for sure!"<br />
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She reached into a pocket of her massive parka and pulled out a dog treat. "Here," she said handing it to me, "a cookie for your fella."</div>
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"Thank you!" I smiled at her then called Bojangles to me. As he returned to my side, then sat in his very best I'm-a-good-doggy pose awaiting the treat which I held temptingly above his nose, I noticed the old woman was staring at him with a look of disdain on her face. Now . . . I'll admit Bo was a fine mess of orange and white fluffiness tinged with wet mud, but still, who couldn't love his sweet Brittany face grinning up at me as he awaited his treat.<br />
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"That's your dog?!" she exclaimed. "I thought this here Beagle was yours. I meant that cookie for him." And with that, she snatched the dog treat out of my fingers and gave it to the over-sized Beagle who had been keeping us company. I could not believe it. She took Bojangles' treat away! Because he wasn't a Beagle! My dog had been discriminated against on account of his breed!<br />
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To borrow an expression of my mother's, "I was right flabbergasted," but I shrugged it off and we went merrily on down the trail (minus the over-sized Beagle who recognized a good thing when he saw one and was now sticking close to the old woman with her cookie-filled pockets).<br />
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So. . . there <i>is</i> a lesson in all of this and as best as I can make out, the lesson is this: never accept dog cookies from a chin-whiskered, Beagle-loving old woman in a giant parka (unless your dog happens to be a Beagle, in which case I'm sure it's fine to accept her cookies).<br />
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</div>Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5738464753043442833.post-56518815735949645862012-02-20T11:41:00.000-05:002012-02-21T12:52:02.131-05:00Mirror Mirror on the Wall<div style="text-align: center;">
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I wash.<br />
I scrub.<br />
I pluck.<br />
I dye.<br />
I whiten.<br />
I tint.<br />
I buff.<br />
I polish.<br />
I paint.<br />
I brush.<br />
I exfoliate.<br />
I deodorize.<br />
I moisturize.<br />
I naturalize and emphasize.<br />
And when I'm all done,<br />
I criticize.<br />
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NEVER buy a magnifying mirror!<br />
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<br />Karahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17044224027343776064noreply@blogger.com6