tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13663741375614196582023-11-16T04:38:18.811-06:00The Babbling BohemianBAB·BLING: Verb
1. Talk rapidly and continuously in a foolish, excited, or incomprehensible way.
BO·HE·MI·AN: Noun
1. a person, as an artist or writer, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices.
2. living a wandering or vagabond life, as a gypsy.Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-68083511649987699252017-02-01T20:41:00.001-06:002017-02-01T22:32:23.320-06:00#WhyIMarch<i>**Disclaimer: I'm sharing some very real, personal experiences here about sexual harassment/assault that may be difficult for some people to read. I just want you to know what's coming. Also, there may be language you find offensive in some of the photos. If that bothers you, well, you're worried about some pretty small stuff and you should just keep scrolling. </i><br />
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About a week and a half ago I got to be a part of this really, really amazing thing- The National Women’s March on Washington. When that Saturday came to a close, I decided I would talk about my experience in my own time, when I was ready. But for then, I thought, I wanted it to just be mine. I just wanted to sit with it, and feel it, and relive it, and dream about it…and I would talk about it when I was good and ready. I wasn’t ready to have to defend it. Not this. I needed this experience, for my own sanity, to remain exactly what it was- an emboldening, impassioned life experience, unlike anything else I had ever been a part of.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But here we are, roughly 10 days later, and y’all….I’m ready to talk about it, and defend it if I must.<o:p></o:p></div>
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My goal for writing this piece is to get a little personal, to share the reasons why I marched and what my first-hand experience was like in D.C. But first, (because I am a scientist), I feel it’s important to share a little factual data with you before presenting you with my personal anecdotes. Bear with me, I promise this part won’t take long.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Women are not equal in society. Period. Not in America, and certainly not in the rest of the world…(and in case you didn’t notice, over 50 other countries around the world, from Guam to Serbia, took part in this March to stand together in solidarity, demanding equality and fair treatment of women). So, this is certainly a movement concerned with global women’s equality. <a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/photo/2017/01/photos-of-the-womens-marches-around-the-world/514049/" target="_blank">Global Photos.</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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But, let’s just compare American women with the rest of the world’s women for a second, because we are <b>A LONG WAYS</b> away from achieving gender equality here in the states. For starters, we don’t even rank in the top 20 countries IN THE WORLD for gender equality. In fact, compared to the rest of the world we are ranked #45 for gender equality. <a href="http://reports.weforum.org/global-gender-gap-report-2016/" target="_blank">FORTY-FIVE.</a> Did you hear that? And if you’re saying to yourself, <i>“Yeah, I’m sure that’s just in comparison to other western/European countries,”</i> you’re wrong. We fall below Rwanda, Burundi, Mozambique, Portugal, and Argentina, just to name a few. And if you’re saying to yourself, <i>“Yeah, but what are they even measuring? It can’t be a real representation of women’s equality,”</i> you are again wrong. For this index, the World Economic Forum uses 4 primary measures for the gender gap, Economic Participation and Opportunity, Educational Attainment, Health and Survival, and Political Empowerment. And in an effort of full disclosure, the ONLY reason we are even ranked as highly as #45 is that we are number one in educational attainment (Yay us!). Too bad that doesn’t translate to economic opportunity, good health, or political empowerment for our women. We’re ranked #62 for health and survival, and #73 for political empowerment. </div>
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Did you know Pakistan has more women holding elected offices than the U.S.? Did you know we have a higher maternal mortality rate in the United States than 47 other countries? That means you are more likely to die in the process of <a href="http://www.indexmundi.com/g/r.aspx?v=2223" target="_blank">becoming a mother here in the United States</a> than you are in Bosnia, Kuwait, or Iran. Still don’t think we have a problem? There are only two countries in the world that do not legally require maternity leave- the United States and Papua New Guinea. But, guess what we are ranked in the top 20 countries for. Rape. That’s right, <a href="http://www.nationmaster.com/country-info/stats/Crime/Violent-crime/Rapes-per-million-people" target="_blank">we are ranked #14 in the world</a> for number of rapes per capita annually. In the entire world, there are only 13 other countries where women are more likely to be victims of rape than in the U.S. </div>
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Sadly, I could go on and on with data that illuminates America’s gender disparities, but I think you get the point.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For all of these reasons, and plenty more, I’ve never been more proud to say that I marched. I marched for each and every one of us, both here in the states and all over the world. </div>
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<b>On a more personal level, I marched for women who are victimized by a culture that promotes sexual assault, myself included.<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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As a football manager in high school, I was physically coerced by a coach from the opposing team at an away game. He grabbed my arm and began pulling me toward a private locker room, while making vulgar and inappropriate comments about my 16 year old body. I was able to pull away from him and make it safely back to the sideline, where I tearfully sought out the cheerleading coach to tell her about what happened. She helped me call my parents to tell them about the incident. That night I sat in my parents’ living room, feeling uncomfortable in the skin that had been devalued to the status of a mere object in the eyes of a grown man just hours before. That night was the first and only time I heard my dad say he wished he had a gun. In the days that followed, charges were pressed. I was asked to speak in court, but didn’t want to face him. I also didn’t want anyone at school to know about it. I was embarrassed. That part kills me. <i>I was embarrassed</i>. I wrote a letter to the judge instead. My dad sat with me in the superintendent’s office, along with the cheerleading coach who showed up as my advocate, as we reviewed the details of the night in front of a panel of officers and school leaders. I found out weeks later that I was not the only teenage girl that he had victimized. I found out he admitted guilt. I also found out he would serve no time. He wouldn’t be punished for his actions because we had all been able to escape his grasp, despite the fact that he had admitted guilt to having foul intentions. Instead, he lost his job at the high school and was moved to the position of P.E. teacher at an elementary school. That was the first time I realized that our society doesn’t really care about sexual assault.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Years later, when I was 20 years old, I was once again victimized by a grown man who made me the target of his stalking. I only met him a few times, and to this day I don’t even know his name. But, he has changed the way I live my life, forever. He moved from Texas to Colorado to follow me. I moved back to Oklahoma. He followed me here, too. Over a period of more than 18 months, I had to change my phone number, get a new car, move to a new house, learn how to shoot a gun. I found him sitting in his truck in front of my house the day of my very first job interview in my career as a hair stylist. I was escorted to my first job interview by police officers. Do you know what that’s like? My parents drove to Oklahoma City the next day to help me file charges at the police office. The police detective insisted that my mother could not accompany me into the private interrogation room, despite the fact that I was trembling and afraid. I sat in that room in front of a two-way mirror like a criminal, while the detective aggressively questioned me. He didn’t believe me that I hadn’t slept with this man. I remember something along the lines of, “You’re telling me a girl like you, a girl that looks like you, with those long legs and short shorts, you never had any kind of sexual relationship with this man?” I remember wondering why that would matter, as if sleeping with him would justify his stalking me, as if the videos we had of him covertly stalking me around stores and waiting in my school parking lot would be somehow be irrelevant if I had slept with him. But, I hadn’t. I didn’t even know his name. I left the detective’s office in complete distress, feeling like <i>I was the one who had done something wrong</i>. Hands shaking, tears flowing, that was first time my mother ever saw me smoke a cigarette. That was the second time I realized no one cared about sexual assault or violence against women. </div>
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My case was finally transferred to a female detective. She was helpful, but the law was not on the side of stalking victims. My parents had to hire a private investigator for a period of time to follow me and guarantee my safety. The night we first met with the PI, we sat at his kitchen table and reviewed protocol for worst case scenarios moving forward. My dad cried, and held me, and said, “I promise you will get to have a normal life, I promise.”</div>
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I’ll never forget that. I think, because I kind of knew that wouldn’t be true...</div>
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...Because, there’s nothing normal about stopping 15 feet from my parked car to look underneath it for a hiding person, every single time I’m alone. There’s nothing normal about scanning a room full of strangers to take mental note of their faces in case any of those faces start to turn up in unexpected places. There’s nothing normal about staying in my office for 2 extra hours after finishing my work because I refuse to walk to my car alone at night out of fear that I could disappear, and no one is answering their phone. There’s nothing normal about neurotically checking my rear-view mirror every few minutes to make sure no one’s following me. There’s nothing normal about staring at the ground when I walk through a bar/restaurant/coffee shop, out of fear that I’ll make eye contact or smile at the wrong man, and he might get the wrong idea. There’s nothing normal about having the internal fight with myself every day about how I should stop doing all of these things because it means I’m giving up my power by allowing him to win. </div>
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<b>To be honest, there is no "normal" for those of us who have had our lives so severely impacted by others who think they are entitled to us and our bodies.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Last summer I was once again forced to face the fact that sexual assault is a mainstay in our society. During a trip to Charleston for a friend’s wedding, I was assaulted in a dance club. J and I were there with a group of friends, including the wedding party. The club was packed. I followed a train of girls to the bathroom, but when I came out I couldn’t find them. I decided to make my way back to the group on my own. As I pushed my way through the crowd, I was grabbed by the arm and pulled into a circle of 4 men who were up against a wall. Before I could even realize what was happening, they were shoving me back and forth between them. I screamed, but it was too loud for people even two feet away to hear me. My butt was being groped, there was a hand down my shirt, and a firm grip on my arm. I started to cry and used my bony elbows to fight back. I'm not sure how long this went on for. I would guess only a few minutes. It felt much longer. I heard one yell, “This bitch ain’t fun anymore,” and they shoved me back into the crowd. I got back to our group, and one of the wives saw that I was distressed and had been crying. She called us an Uber. I didn’t report anything this time. I should have, but I didn’t. History told me it wouldn’t matter, and you couldn’t have paid me to go on a search in that club for someone who could help. I just wanted to leave. That night, my husband held me in our hotel room while I cried myself to sleep.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I'm telling these stories because I want you to know that I am not an anomaly. I can promise you, you know someone who has been victimized by these same things. You just don't know that you know them. </div>
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I marched for every woman who has had similar or worse experiences, I marched for every young girl who I want so badly to inherit a society that does not tolerate these experiences, and I marched for myself.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Data shows that in the United States, <a href="http://www.nsvrc.org/sites/default/files/publications_nsvrc_factsheet_media-packet_statistics-about-sexual-violence_0.pdf" target="_blank">roughly 20% of women are raped during their lifetime, and over 40% of women will experience sexual assault at least once.</a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-uaNQXhu_04uLuoYCxghG447o12zIZngP-8KHKQ2ElAznW3g1JvlsHcsC9_8MHv5jH31GYpCfkBhRoZdU-4hRGkoC-kj3U5gWUaXhFZmc7FSzJCB8_vHwZ90qbpd2i-TgVfKOWcSp08/s1600/Consent+is+Required.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi-uaNQXhu_04uLuoYCxghG447o12zIZngP-8KHKQ2ElAznW3g1JvlsHcsC9_8MHv5jH31GYpCfkBhRoZdU-4hRGkoC-kj3U5gWUaXhFZmc7FSzJCB8_vHwZ90qbpd2i-TgVfKOWcSp08/s640/Consent+is+Required.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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I’m not okay with living in a country that excuses this. I’m not okay with an administration that wants to cut the crucial 25 grant programs managed by the Office on Violence Against Women. These grants are small but vital countermeasures to a system that overwhelmingly casts doubt on survivors and victims of sexual violence, and fails to hold perpetrators accountable. Take a look at what each of <a href="https://www.justice.gov/ovw/page/file/914131/download" target="_blank">these grants actually do</a>. Getting rid of them would turn back every bit of progress we’ve made since we established the 1994 Violence Against Women Act. </div>
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The current administration is run by a man who makes statements like this, and writes them off as “locker room talk”:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b><u>I am a victim of “locker room talk.” That is why I marched.</u></b><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>I also marched because the wage gap exists. It is a real thing. The data does not lie.</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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And if I stay in my line of work as an academic or an environmental researcher, I can all but guarantee I will make far less than my male counterparts. I don’t care what Fox News is telling you. I care about data, facts. White women make 81 cents to a white man’s dollar. Black women make 65 cents, and Hispanic women make 58 cents <a href="http://www.pewresearch.org/fact-tank/2016/07/01/racial-gender-wage-gaps-persist-in-u-s-despite-some-progress/" target="_blank">to a white man's dollar</a>. </div>
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And maybe you’re thinking, <i>“Well, that’s just because women choose lower paying careers than men.”</i> To some extent, you are right. But, do you wonder why? I can vividly remember during high school and my first year of college, parents and teachers telling my male friends they should go into nursing or teaching because “we need more men in those fields, so you’ll get paid really well.” You know what no one ever said to me or my female friends? “You should go into scientific research or be a business executive because we need more women in those fields, so you’ll get paid really well.” They didn’t say that, because that’s not a thing. Men, on average, make thousands <a href="https://www.ucsf.edu/news/2015/03/124266/male-registered-nurses-make-thousands-more-salary-female-counterparts" target="_blank">more in salary as an RN than women make</a>, because men are a valued contribution in the female-dominated field. Yet, the exact opposite is true for women in male-dominated fields. </div>
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I’ve had people tell me that women are just more naturally drawn to nurturing/care-taking professions, which is why they make lower wages, on average. Did you know in Iceland, <a href="http://www.theglobeandmail.com/news/which-is-the-best-country-in-the-world-to-be-awoman/article29062399/" target="_blank">44% of top ranking business executives are women</a>, but in the U.S. only 4% of these positions are filled by women? Do you think that’s because women in the United States are just biologically different from their Icelandic counterparts, and therefore are drawn to different careers? No. The answer is no. It’s because women’s contributions are systematically undervalued in American capitalism. And it’s not just in business. We also have a problem with undervaluing women in STEM fields. In their first year after graduating, women with doctorates in science and engineering fields <a href="https://news.osu.edu/news/2016/05/10/stem-gap/" target="_blank">make 31% less than their male counterparts</a>, and women only make up roughly 25% of the entire STEM field. </div>
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So for all the women who told me in the last two weeks that you don’t face any discrimination challenges in your career, you should know that a lot of your sisters have, and a lot of your daughters will. Until you have been the only woman in a room full of men, trying to make your voice heard, (and valued), you can’t imagine the struggle.</div>
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Honestly, it would take me 100 more pages to continue telling you the personal reasons why I marched. But, I won’t do that to you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>Instead, I want to tell you a little bit about the glorious, illuminating, supportive experience I had in D.C</b>…and show you some of my favorite speeches from the day that you probably haven’t seen because they have been less televised.<o:p></o:p></div>
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This march was the most inclusive and empowering thing I’ve ever been a part of. Have I mentioned that yet? The rally before the march went on for more than 4 hours, with more than 40 speakers, who spoke in support of a full-range of topics including economics, immigration, climate change, political empowerment, reproductive justice, criminal justice, civil rights, LGBTQ rights…Because, as Kamala Harris stated, all of these issues ARE women’s issues.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You can watch Kamala’s speech here: <a href="https://www.c-span.org/video/?c4650821/sen-kamala-harris-remarks-womens-march-washington">https://www.c-span.org/video/?c4650821/sen-kamala-harris-remarks-womens-march-washington</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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A Native American woman started off our morning with a prayer song for protection over all of the protesters. She walked out on stage, looked out at the roaring, endless crowd, and made the unmistakeable gulp/cough sound that only ever happens when you try to swallow the lump in your throat that's a direct result to choking back tears. It was clear she was overwhelmed by the turnout. It was a sobering moment, there was an audible gasp through the crowd, and the streets became silent. She introduced herself, and began the prayer in native tongue. Her voice, the prayer, it roared through the crowds. It was, by far, the most hallowing experience of my life. Full-body chills. My first tear of the day fell. I wish I could describe the energy in the crowd and the bonds that were created at that moment. But, I don’t think the words to describe it exist. I’ve listened to it recently online, and while it is beautiful and reverent, the moment and experience that was felt by everyone that morning can never be recreated.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You can watch her prayer song here: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJYdZchqi1s">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sJYdZchqi1s</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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America Ferrera gave one of the fiercest defenses of American democracy I’ve seen in some time.<b><o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Amanda Ngyuen, a rape survivor and the founder of RISE, invoked FIRE when she spoke out about the failings of the criminal justice system, and the need for women to rise up against it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sophie Cruz, my favorite 7-year-old activist, stood strongly on stage with her family and flawlessly delivered a speech in support of immigration. <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/local/wp/2015/09/23/meet-the-5-year-old-who-gave-the-pope-a-letter-because-she-doesnt-want-her-parents-deported/?utm_term=.680cab1be6ab" target="_blank">You might remember her from that time</a> two years ago when she contacted the Pope about immigration/deportation policies. </div>
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Sister Simone Campbell, the coolest nun in the world, offered an inspiring call toward bridging racial and societal divides, and the need to take care of each other and the least among us.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Van Jones is all about LOVE.<o:p></o:p></div>
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And last but not least one of my personal heroes, Rhea Suh, the President of the National Resources Defense Council, reinforced “The fundamental principle that we matter. Women Matter.” And as an environmental researcher, I was brought to tears by her angry defense of environmental justice in the face of an administration that undeniably favors dollars to clean water. That was made evident in the last week when researchers in Flint, MI were forced to halt their investigation, and the president ordered the EPA to destroy valuable data from databases. Data that we, the researchers, rely on to hold corporations and the government accountable.<o:p></o:p></div>
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You can hear her speech here: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lFbWWlrF4i4">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lFbWWlrF4i4</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<b>The organizers were told they had to cancel the march because too many of us showed up. </b></div>
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We had a permit to take up several blocks of standing room in the stage area, the national mall, and a 1.5 mile marching route. Apparently, by the end of the rally our crowd had grown so large we filled up every inch of those spaces, including the entire 1.5 mile march path. It was shoulder to shoulder and heel to heel, but everyone was patient and respectful. Over and over we parted the sea of people (a task that seemed impossible) in order to make way for a wheelchair. People shared food and water, and everyone apologized for bumping into each other (which happened every 4 seconds or so).<o:p></o:p></div>
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They said we had to cancel because there was nowhere to march. We marched anyway. We spilled out into the streets of D.C. As we started to take over the city, I heard whistles and turned around to see police on horses. They were wearing riot gear, and coming through the crowded streets. I thought, “This is it, this is where it all goes to shit. I’m going to have to use this legal hotline number written on my arm because I’m going to jail.” I was wrong. As the last horse passed us, the officer turned around, waved his arm and said, “Well, come on!” They led us to open streets. Streets we didn’t have permits to be on. They didn’t care. I can’t tell you how many officers thanked us for marching that day. I can’t remember how many times I heard people thank the officers for protecting us. It was a lot.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For hours we walked through the streets. I met and connected with people of every race, age, religion, gender, occupation, and reason for marching. At one point I walked and talked with an older man who was there with his daughter and granddaughter. He told me he had been marching for causes since the 1940s. Civil Rights with Dr. King, war protests, the women’s movement…he told me he had never seen or experienced anything like what we were a part of that day. He said he had never seen so many people in one place be so peaceful and kind to one another. For about an hour I walked next to an award-winning, Oscar nominated actress. No one asked her for photos or autographs. No one even acknowledged her “celebrity-ness”…we were all there for one purpose, to stand together against injustices. She and I talked and laughed like we knew each other. </div>
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At one point I said, “I keep catching myself grinning like an idiot, this is the coolest thing I’ve ever done.” She said, “me too.” I cried.</div>
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<o:p><b>--And, I promised several of you I'd get around to sharing some of my photos-- Enjoy!</b></o:p></div>
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-76383240050205911632015-08-14T11:05:00.001-05:002015-08-14T11:05:59.398-05:00Saying "No" to Where You've Been and "Yes" to Where You're GoingThey always say, love will find you when you stop looking for it.
They always say you get pregnant when you stop trying. I don't know who
"they" are, but I'm starting to think they're really on to something.
Justin was the last thing I was looking for when we strolled into each
others' lives eight years ago. Yet, here we are. Eight years together,
three years married, and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna keep him.
(Disclaimer: *Before you all start freaking out, I am definitely not
pregnant.*) But, something nearly just as life consuming found me while I
was looking the opposite direction.<br />
<br />
When I decided to
go back to school three years ago, I had a plan. A whole big plan. I
gathered a ton of information from college advisers, from other
students, from friends and family, and I set out on the path I had
decided was the best fit. I finished the first semester, and it felt
great. I finished the second semester, and it all fell apart.<br />
<br />
The
path I was so sure of, and following oh so intently, got obliterated.
More than once. In this order-- Program was cancelled. Found new
program. Enrolled. Program was cancelled. Found new program. Enrolled.
Lost all my funding. Said NO WAY. Dropped Out.<br />
<br />
I'm a
firm believer that life is just a long series of paths and pivot points,
and it's what you do with the pivot points that determine where you end
up. Think of it this way-- paths are driven by yes's, and pivot points
are created by no's. I had definitely hit a pivot point. I am certain
that I will never, not ever, forget the moment I said "no way." I was
sitting in the financial adviser's office at Oklahoma City University,
finding out that finishing my degree was going to cost $30,000 more than
expected.<br />
<br />
I hate crying in public. I HATE crying in front of strangers. But I did. A lot.<br />
<br />
I had been so intent on following the path I had originally planned, that every time I had hit a bump or possible pivot point, (<i><u>TWO cancelled programs, helloooo?)</u></i>,
I just kept saying "yes" and moving forward. "Yes," even when my path
started to look different from what I had intended....Until I got to
that very moment, and saying "yes" was just not possible. I just
couldn't. I'll never forget that "no" moment, (partially because I was an embarrassing soggy mess in front of a complete stranger), mostly because that one moment directly impacted the rest of my life.<br />
<br />
At that point, I just wanted to finish
school with a degree, basically any degree. I had worked too hard, and I'm just not fond of
being a quitter. I honestly can't tell you exactly what pointed me to
the Sociology program at the University of Central Oklahoma. I think it
was a combination of several things. But, at the point that I finally
said "no" to OCU and my original path, I said "yes" to this new path and
started my first semester of Sociology classes at UCO.<br />
<br />
Do
you remember the first time you fell in love with something? I mean,
really fell in love with it. Maybe it was the first time you read a book
and haven't been able to put it down since, maybe it was your first day
of a new career that excited you to no end, maybe it was your spouse,
or your kiddo and loving that person put life in a new perspective.<br />
<br />
That's what found me. All of that. And I was caught so off guard by it.<br />
<br />
Let
me just say, I have loved a lot of things in my life, and I've been
good at a lot of things, (humble side note-- I'm terrible at twice as
many things). But in all my adventures thus far, nothing, absolutely
nothing, set my soul on fire quite like this. From day one of sitting in
these classes, engaging in these conversations, learning these things
that were blowing my mind, I felt alive with purpose. I've never in my
life felt my soul beaming so brightly. Immediately, I knew, without a
doubt, that this is where life was supposed to take me. Not a single
doubt. I think we are granted very few actual <i><u>purposes</u><b> </b></i>in
our lifetime, maybe even as few as just one. And if you are lucky
enough to find one of them, or have one of them find you, you better
hold on tight and enjoy the ride. <br />
<br />
I have always been
a curious person. I'm sure my parents would tell you I've been curious
since I was old enough to wander. Part of that curiosity has always been
questioning the way the world works, questioning the systems in place,
wondering how it all works and how I could do it differently. That is very
much who I am at my core. My independent spirit and against the grain
attitude are very much a part of that.<br />
<br />
That IS
Sociology. Studying the deeply engrained and complex systems that make
up the world we live in. Demographics, political systems, economics,
human development, cultural norms....in short, it's all about what makes
the world go 'round. <b>And I dig it</b>, (*understatement of the century*).<br />
<br />
So what now? I'm saying "yes." I'm taking this path as far as it allows. I'm taking the GRE next month, and I'm going back to school. I want to go as far as I possibly can in this education. I'm willing to do everything I can to continue this path, because when you feel this connected to your soul and your true self, that's a feeling you never want to lose. <br />
<br />
It's always funny to me the reactions I get when I tell people that I plan to continue, that I want to someday be a Doctor in the field of Sociology. Most people give their best sour face and respond with some form of "I could never..." And that's ok. Because it's hard to fully understand what sets someone else's soul on fire.<br />
<br />
My purpose, is not anyone else's purpose, and vice versa. And that's something I think we could all stand to learn, about both ourselves and everyone else. Listen to your gut, know when to stop saying "yes" out of convenience, take advantage of the pivot points, let go of control, and let your passions find you. You never know, there could be a brand new purpose for your life just waiting to surprise you. You just may have to pivot to get there. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-71090329596635930632015-08-06T12:34:00.002-05:002015-08-06T12:34:43.846-05:00Happy Birthday to my Very First HeroLucille Ball was funny. Lucille Ball was fierce. Lucille Ball was a feminist, before it was even labeled "feminism." And Lucille Ball was my first hero.<br />
<br />
I grew up in a Nick at Nite home. I often joke about how I didn't experience a television show that was being currently produced and aired until at least Middle School. While that may be a <u><i>tad </i></u>exaggerated, the MAJORITY of what I saw on TV as a child were early family sitcoms.... I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, The Brady Bunch, Leave it to Beaver.... the wholesome "classics" you might say. But, while they may have showcased "wholesome" family values, there was something else they most definitely did not showcase- a strong and fearless female lead character.<br />
<br />
<i><b>Except for one. </b></i><br />
<br />
Lucy was fearless. She was fearless in her pursuit to break the mold that society far too often put on women, and still puts on them today. Women work hard to break free from those expectations today, but Lucy had to work even harder in the 1950s. That decade marked a time when the women were begrudgingly forced out of their jobs to make room for the returning soldiers, and were told there was really only one place they belonged-- in the home. And so, when it came to television, art imitated life, (or maybe life was imitating art).<br />
<br />
In any case, Lucy was not the stereotypical housewife. She was not the supporting actress. She did not fade into the background. Her fearlessness, ambition, and pure hilarity set her apart from all others. As I got older, I developed a profound respect and admiration for the woman. I started collecting her biographies and reading her interviews. I got to visit the original set of I Love Lucy at Universal Studios. And the day I got to take a picture with her star on Hollywood Blvd...let's just say there were some teary eyes on this girl. <br />
<br />
<h4 style="text-align: center;">
So, in honor of her birthday...</h4>
<h3 style="text-align: center;">
The top 5 reasons why Lucille Ball will forever be my hero:</h3>
<br />
<h2>
#5</h2>
“Ability is of little account without opportunity,” she said. When the studio she worked for wouldn't let her produce the show the way that SHE wanted, she created her own studio! She was the FIRST WOMAN to run a major television production company, DesiLu Productions, (which she co-owned with her husband.) Years later, after the two divorced, Lucille bought out Desi's share in the company, becoming the sole owner. She later sold that company for $17 million (a lot of money in 1967), and it is now known as <b>Paramount Pictures</b>. <br />
<br />
<h2>
#4</h2>
She was a red head. By choice. On purpose. In her day, there were two options for women on-screen, a flirty blonde or a sultry brunette. Lucy colored her hair red, telling people that her desire was not to fit in, but to stand out.<br />
<br />
<h2>
#3</h2>
She was a strong and independent woman, yet she adored her husband and was his biggest cheerleader in his career. She had to fight to get him on the show. Network producers didn't approve of their multi-ethnic marriage, and thought Desi was "too ethnic" for television. In true Lucy fashion, she wouldn't take no for an answer and refused to do the show without him. Of couse, she got her way. She divorced him after 20 years of marriage, because he was not a faithful husband, and because she knew she deserved better than that. But she always said that he was the love of her life, and that she loved and adored him until the day that he died. I've got mad respect for a woman that knows her worth and knows when to leave, but also doesn't hold a grudge.<br />
<br />
<h2>
#2</h2>
She was 40 years old when she started I Love Lucy. Did you hear that?...FORTY...WHEN SHE STARTED. And she was America's #1 star on television with over 16 million weekly viewers. That may not seem so crazy to you, but when you consider that less than 20% of all female actresses we see on screen today are over 40, it gives you a little more perspective on what an accomplishment that was...and proves that it's never too late in life to pursue your dreams.<br />
<br />
<h2>
#1 </h2>
<u><b>She was hilarious.</b></u> Her comedy was relentless, and knew no bounds. As a young kiddo, I of course wasn't aware of the mountain of accomplishments she was standing on. I didn't know that she, (along with Phyllis Diller and Carol Burnett), were paving the way for funny women today. But, I knew she was funny. And I knew that she wasn't afraid to look RIDICULOUS.<br />
<br />
<br />
I knew that she was not the same as the other wives and moms I had seen on TV. I knew that she could juggle being a best friend, being a wife and mother, and being an adventure seeker, and make it look like fun. I knew that she was different. I knew that she was special. And for a young girl, who couldn't wait to break the mold and make my own way, I knew that I absolutely and positively adored her. And for a much older gal now, who is strong in my passions, enjoys the orneriness of wild adventures, and is always itching to go against the grain, I still absolutely and positively adore, respect, and admire Mrs. Ball.<br />
<br />
Here's to you, Lucy... Inspiring women to go after what they want, to challenge the status quo, to enjoy life to the fullest, (and to be brave enough to act ridiculous while doing so.)<br />
<br />
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HAPPY BIRTHDAY </h2>
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<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-60966647903666859572014-11-04T00:56:00.001-06:002014-11-04T00:58:19.437-06:00Because It's What Brings Us Together<div class="MsoNormal">
Today is a pretty big day, November 4, 2014. It's an election day. Out of all of the days in the year, today just so happens to be one of my absolute favorites. </div>
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Not because my intense competitive nature is dying to see who wins or loses. Not because I get a free sticker at the polls. Not because I'm ready to spend my spare time on the internet doing something other than reading about politicians and campaign spending. </div>
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I love today, because today <i><b>WE</b></i> are <i><b>ALL</b></i> doing these things, feeling these things, anticipating these things.</div>
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At this day in age, it has become fairly common knowledge that politics is not a fair game. We're living during a time in this country where money most definitely buys happiness, (at least where corporations and politics are concerned). More money was spent on campaigns for this midterm election than on any other election in history. The internet is plastered and smeared in news articles blaming this side for that, and that side for this, not to mention the elusive sides of the story who are hiding backstage and working the politicians like puppets. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">dis·in·gen·u·ous</span> </div>
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<b>not candid or sincere, typically by pretending that one knows less about something than one really does.</b></div>
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<tr><td class="lr_dct_nyms_ttl" style="font-style: italic; padding: 0px 3px 0px 0px; vertical-align: top; white-space: nowrap;"><br /></td><td style="padding: 0px;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;">synonyms:</span></i> insincere, dishonest, untruthful, false, deceitful, duplicitous, lying, mendacious;<br />
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hypocritical<br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;">For most people, "disingenuous" describes the taste left behind by American politics. Rightfully so. For me personally, I don't buy into much of the political warfare and theatrical mind games. Honestly, I think the majority of politicians deserve a Tony Award rather than an honorable title. <span style="line-height: 15px;">But as odd as it may sound, even though I've quit believing in politics, <b><u>I still believe in voting</u></b>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span style="line-height: 15px;">Why? If I actually think the system is one big real world version of Monopoly, (where those who own the most, control the game), why even put forth the effort to vote?</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span style="line-height: 15px;"><span style="font-size: large;">Because, voting is what brings us all together, as a united front.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span style="line-height: 15px;">Even though we won't all vote the same, even though we all have different beliefs, worries, desires, and visions, even though we argue on Facebook about the integrity of each party's politicians, VOTING is what we have in common. VOTING is what reinforces the fact that </span><b style="line-height: 15px;">WE</b><span style="line-height: 15px;"> still care. VOTING is the thing that defines </span><b style="line-height: 15px;">US </b><span style="line-height: 15px;">as the public, and </span><b style="line-height: 15px;">THEM </b><span style="line-height: 15px;">as the representatives. VOTING binds people together as dreamers and maintains a collective hope that if we are all in this thing together we can make a change. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times;"><span style="line-height: 15px;">So, I'm asking everyone to remember that today. When you find yourself disagreeing with someone's political stance, or when you feel like the whole thing is an impossible uphill battle, please remember that right or left, red or blue, up or down, in or out, <b>WE the VOTERS</b> are on the same side. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 15px;">The side that works together in maintaining hope. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: Times; font-size: large;"><span style="line-height: 15px;">A hope that can, and will, drive change.</span></span></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">"Voting is the hope that sustains one generation to the
next."</span></i></b></div>
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<b><i><span style="color: #990000;"><br /></span></i></b></div>
<b><div style="text-align: center;">
<b><i><span style="color: #990000;">"When I say our votes
matter, I speak not out of some mystical belief in 'the will of the people' but
because elections – imperfect as they are, twisted and smattered by smears and
lies and counter-lies galore, subject to distortion and manipulation – elections
offer an alternative to violence, they keep us from coming apart
altogether." -Bill Moyers</span></i></b></div>
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-37689593183822228972014-09-09T13:37:00.001-05:002014-09-09T13:37:19.505-05:00Slow down you say? I don't think so.I am absolutely terrified of stagnancy. There are few things I hate more than the feeling of a stagnant period in life. It is the way I am built, I have felt this way my entire life. The minute I feel as if life has quit moving forward, I panic. I just can't help it. I embrace change with a reckoning force, and I will always choose change over a period of staleness, (even if it brings stress or anxiety with it).<br />
<br />
For some reason, this personality trait of mine concerns people. I mean, <b>REALLY</b> concerns people. I can't even tell you how many times someone has told me to, "cut yourself a little slack," "slow down and smell the roses," or my favorite, "why don't you just take a break from everything and enjoy life?"<br />
<br />
In truth, there's nothing wrong with the concern. I know that all of this advice is offered from the only perspective people understand... <b>their own</b>. For quite some time, though, all of these perspectives and concerns made me second guess everything I was doing. It created an underlying guilt that I was missing out on life and an anxiety that I was just simply doing life wrong. <br />
<br />
So, here is my attempt to help everyone understand my strategy in life, and hopefully to bring some peace and shared understanding to anyone who lives like I do, and who may feel the guilt and anxiety that can accompany it. <br />
<br />
<b>I refuse to grow stale.</b> This does not mean that I refuse to rest, or lack the ability to enjoy life's simple beauties. The best way I know how to describe my tactics, is to explain that my strategy in life is the exact same as my strategy in mountain climbing. Anyone who has ever hiked with me, can attest to what I'm about to tell you.<br />
<br />
<b>I am not afraid to stop on the way up</b>.<br />
<br />
My mountain friends are probably laughing as they read that statement, because this is something they know ALL too well. Practically <b><i>every.</i></b><i> <b>single. time</b>.</i> I see a flat surface with a good view, my butt is on the ground, and my water bottle is at my mouth. You see, I have a goal set when I start at the bottom of the mountain....that goal is to reach the top, by any means necessary. I am far too competitive and stubborn to give up on that goal. However, I get tired. (Sometimes embarrassingly quickly).<br />
<br />
<b>This is most likely due to the fact that I don't pace myself. I can't. I literally don't know how.</b><br />
<br />
I start out that trail so hell-bent on reaching the summit that I push forward without any regard to maintaining my energy. I don't stop on the trail to drink water, (waste of time), I don't stop on the trail to take deep breaths, (waste of time), and I certainly don't walk slowly in order to preserve energy, (where's the fun in that?). So when I see that perfectly flat rock overlooking a gorge or some beautiful picturesque landscape, a natural force as strong as gravity drags my ass right to it. Sometimes, I even joke as I'm sitting there, that <i>"this is far enough....this is a pretty view...it can't be THAT much prettier at the top..."</i> But then as I sit there, <b>the stagnancy washes over me</b>, my competitive nature kicks in, and my dreams of reaching the top take over.<br />
<br />
That is my life in a nutshell. I'm a dreamer, a goal-setter, and I'm hell-bent on getting there. I don't know how to pace myself. <b>And I don't want to.</b> Let me tell you why.<br />
<br />
I enjoy the race, I am driven by the adrenaline of it. <b> </b><br />
<b>I learn and grow and become more of the person I want to be during these times that everyone else perceives as overwhelming craziness.</b> <br />
And on top of all of that, BECAUSE I have raced up the trail without breaking for rest, I get to spend more time sitting on the flat rock than the average joe has the opportunity to.<br />
<br />
I get the satisfaction of knowing that I took to that trail with everything that I had, that I walked up the mountain as <b>a force to be reckoned with</b>. And the minute I see my opportunity to rest, I not only take it, but I get to enjoy it more intensely and for longer than the person who took the time to "slow down and smell the roses" along the way.<br />
<br />
So which life strategy is the better one:<br />
1. The pace yourself and rest along the way, so as to never reach the overwhelming stage of tiredness<br />
<i><b>or </b></i><br />
2. The force to be reckoned with, who both blazes the trail AND rests on the rock at their own intense and preferred pace<br />
<br />
<b>TRICK QUESTION: neither.</b><br />
<br />
We are different people. We have different life purposes, and with that comes different life strategies. To assume one strategy is healthier than another is as absurd as assuming an individual's role in the universe is more important than another's. <br />
<br />
So, next time you think to yourself that it is your duty to express concern, when you think to yourself that someone must be absolutely crazy to live their lives at a degree of intensity that makes you sweat to even think about....consider this: we know what we're doing, we love the way that we're doing it, and we were built to not only endure the crazy, but to thrive in it. <br />
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<br />
<h3 class="quoteText" style="text-align: center;">
“Here's to the crazy ones. The misfits. The
rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. </h3>
<h3 class="quoteText" style="text-align: center;">
The ones
who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no
respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them,
glorify or vilify them. About the only thing you can't do is ignore
them. Because they change things. They push the human race forward. <u> </u></h3>
<h3 class="quoteText" style="text-align: center;">
<u>And
while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the
people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world, are the
ones who do.</u>” -Steve Jobs</h3>
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-62289816069395408952014-08-25T21:19:00.001-05:002014-08-25T21:28:43.624-05:00That moment when... it all comes together.<span style="color: #cc0000; font-size: x-large;"><b><i>"That moment when......"</i></b></span><br />
<br />
Recognize those words? I'm sure you do. Those 3 words show up on my Facebook newsfeed more often than buzzfeed quizzes. (And we all know that's A LOT).<br />
<br />
<br />
Recently, I've read all of these statuses on my newsfeed: <br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000;">"That moment when... </span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000;">everyone around me is in a relationship and I'm awkwardly sitting there like, 'I love my dog.'"</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000;">"That moment when... </span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000;">you take off your high heel shoes, and somehow it feels like that was the first breath you took today."</span></i><br />
<br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000;">"That moment when... </span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #cc0000;">your new baby smiles for the first time and you forget about everything else that sucked today."</span></i><br />
<br />
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<div class="_wk">
<i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">"That
moment when... </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">there are seven textbooks piled on your desk and you're
looking at them and thinking, 'Damn that's an overwhelmingly impossible
amount of reading material.' And then you receive an email from Amazon
concerning the late delivery of 2 more textbooks on their way........</span></span></i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">😑</span></span><i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">"</span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span></i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">^^^ That last one is MY most recent Facebook status ^^^</span></span></span></span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span class="UFIBlingBoxTimeline"><span data-reactid=".93"></span></span></span></i><i><span style="color: #cc0000;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">So you get the picture. You know exactly what I'm referring to.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">This happens to be one of my favorite things about social media. I hear people say all the time that social media is ruining our ability to live in the present. That we are so focused on documenting our entire lives that we have completely forgotten how to just be present and live in the moment.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">Well, maybe that's true, maybe it's not. <b>Regardless</b>, the silver lining is this - whether people are fully focused on living the present moment at hand or not, <b><i>people are pausing life to capture that moment.</i></b> Never before have we been able to actually freeze frame time to capture a moment so easily. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">To pause life around you, and take the time to share <b><i>your</i></b> moment, that is big. Truly, I don't care if your moment is eating a sandwich or marrying your best friend. Because really, that's the great thing about <b>MOMENTS</b>. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">Sometimes a moment is something so simple and minute. It can carry little to zero weight in the grand scheme of life. Yet, it still means something to you, even on the smallest scale. And then, there are times when one single moment has the ability to rearrange your entire life. Sometimes, if you compare one moment to months or years of life, the moment will win.<b> SOMETIMES, one moment is the only thing you have in your life that's telling you, you're on the right path.</b></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">A moment. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">Today I had a pretty great moment. I'm not sure if its equivalent to eating a hell of a sandwich or falling in love. I'm sure I won't know the actual role this moment will play in my life for years to come. But, what I do know is that this moment made me feel like<i><b> I am on the right track</b></i>. And that makes it pretty important to me right now.</span></span><br />
<u><b><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span></b></u>
<u><b><span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">TODAY, my senior capstone research proposal was approved. </span></span></b></u><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">On Monday of last week, (day 1 of the semester), I presented my first proposal to the professor that would be overseeing this year long project. It was rejected. Bummer. It was something I am passionate about, it was a topic I wanted to devote a year to, it was a subject that will help me tremendously in the Graduate Programs I am interested in. But it was rejected, and I had until Wednesday of this week to get a proposal approved. So, I reworked it. I changed the thesis somewhat, but I held on strong to my original topic.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">And today, when I presented my second proposal, she nodded her head yes. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">That was a really, really awesome moment. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #cc0000;"><span style="color: black;">It was one of those moments where something inside of me felt aligned. It was one of those moments that reassured me, that everything I have worked so hard for has a purpose. <b>And sometimes, when life is swallowing you whole, you need to be able to ignore everything else around you that is present, and turn your entire focus to that one single moment... because that moment wins against everything else.</b></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-1731734902772805592014-08-01T00:58:00.002-05:002014-08-01T00:58:30.552-05:00It's Time to Get Real.Everyone blames Hollywood for setting our relationships up for unrealistic bliss, which inevitably ends in disaster. <b>Newsflash - it's not Hollywood, it's us</b>! Social media has created a world where all that we see of each other is the perfect and happy facade we all present of what we really are. <i><b>Because really, who is posting pictures of your households when it looks like World War 3 is throwing down in your living room?? No one.</b></i><br />
<i><b> </b></i> <br />
<br />
From a personal standpoint, I'm quite tired of it. I'm ready to be realistic, folks.<br />
<br />
The last year has been really hard for us. I mean....really hard.<br />
<br />
This month will be one year since we moved into our first home, (the first one we would actually own together, anyway). And I'd like to say that's when shit hit the fan. Although, looking back, I think the 'shitstorm' that would soon be throwing down on our marriage, like hurricane katrina on the gulf, began much earlier. <br />
<br />
However, August 13th, the day we moved in...that was the day it all came to surface. I'm going to spare all of you the intricate, dramatic details from that day. We'll keep those details between Justin and I; (well, between us and our closest friends who happened to be here on moving day, and were forced to witness the disaster, and are probably far from shaking the memories of it).<br />
<br />
<b>August 13th, Move-In Day: Long story short-</b><br />
<br />
<b>Me: "Justin, did you even measure that fridge?!.....LIKE I TOLD YOU TO?!"</b><br />
<b>Justin: "Amy, I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I found the fridge. It's stainless steel. It's our DREAM fridge. It looks FINE."</b><br />
<i>(The refrigerator was almost a foot too large....in each direction.) </i><br />
<br />
Imagine these two sentences... over and over... confronting different subject matter... for 12 hours straight.<br />
It. Never. Got. Any. Better.<br />
<br />
And so the separation, and the hardness, between him and I began.<br />
<br />
Fast forward to the current us. A whole year later. We have been in couple's counseling since the "move-in catastrophe of 2013". Something I am FAR from ashamed of. It's disappointing to me, honestly, that so many people consider counseling or therapy the same as metaphorically waving the white flag, or worse, as an acceptance of failure. In my opinion, our decision was far from surrendering, and even further from the acceptance of defeat. Our decision to get some help came from a survival skill deep within us. Our warrior, stubborned, slow to give in selves, decided we would step up to the plate and fight.<br />
<br />
We have spent the last year fighting for it, striving for it. Striving for happiness, striving for peacefulness, striving for a normal, conducive living arrangement. I've tried to become the version of myself that would make life easier for him. He's tried to become the version of himself that makes life easier for me. Guess what? That doesn't work.<br />
<br />
In our last session with our counselor, aka our Sherpa, we brought to the table one of our most hideous arguments yet. During the explanation of this terrifically, embarrassingly, raw argument between my husband and I, our counselor sat looking dumbfounded at us. I had expected him to break down the fight, piece by piece, examining what I did wrong, examining what he did wrong...telling us how to communicate better, and how to avoid such arguments in the future. I expected him to tell me that I wasn't being the wife Justin needed me to be, and that Justin wasn't being the husband I needed him to be. I was wrong.<br />
<br />
SO. WRONG.<br />
He smirked. And almost laughed.<br />
<br />
At first I was angry. All I could think was, 'Here I am spilling out my feelings about this treacherous event. I am completely exhausted by it, completely defeated by it, and each time I relive this horribly awful fight in my head (and now out loud), I feel as if our marriage has an expiration date, that no one has filled us in on yet.<br />
<br />
That smirk. It held strong on his face. His immediate response..."When was it that you two decided it would be easier, or better, to be on opposing teams?"<br />
<br />
He found our argument to be funny. He said it was the kind of fight that sitcoms are made of. When he repeated it back to us, I could see where he was coming from. He felt like the argument was about 3 degrees away from being a funny story to share with the grandkids.<br />
<br />
What was that 3 degree difference? It was how we responded to each other, post-argument. The day after our home had survived the atomic bomb of all arguments, (as I saw it anyway). We had fled the catastrophe, safely, but on separate teams. We kept to ourselves, protecting our integrity, holding strong to the fact that <u><i><b>I</b></i></u> was right. That <i><u><b>I</b></u></i> was the one who deserved an apology. I felt like I had deserved different treatment <u>as his wife</u>. He felt like he responded accurately <u>as my husband</u>. Both of our reactions, and takeaway, from the argument were in direct reference to the role we were trying to play in each others lives.<br />
<br />
So, in my opinion, what's the hardest part of being married?..... <b>Being Yourself.</b><br />
<br />
It seems like it should be the easy part. Right? Being yourself is simple. At least it should be. But something weird happens when you fall in love. And it gets even more complicated when you decide to spend the rest of your lives falling in love.<b> </b><b> </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
I became torn between being the best version of myself for me, and the best version of myself as a wife. They are not the same.<br />
<br />
WIFE, is not my identifier. HUSBAND, is not his. I was created to be me, he was created to be him. Marriage is not about becoming something for someone else. It is about deciding that the two of you, as two separate and whole beings, want to admire each others assets, bask in each others worth, and 'do life' together, as yourselves. <b>THAT</b> is why marriage is so hard at times. You have to find a way to be yourself, be your own person, and be those people <b>TOGETHER</b>.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, when you find yourself in the middle of a storm, you immediately become a new version of yourself. Maybe it's the adrenaline, maybe it's protection, maybe it's the fear of being your true self and it not being enough. I don't have that answer. I wish I did.<br />
<br />
What I can tell you, from my experience as a wife, is that the storms may come. The storms may come at the worst possible time in your life, in your relationship, in your career... and it will feel like the equivalent of the world's greatest hurricanes combined coming down on you. <br />
<br />
In those moments, don't play a role in your own life. Be you. Let your partner be them. Appreciate and admire the things about each other that you once valued. <b>Be on the same team</b>. Know that you only make a great team because of <b>what you are each bringing to the table</b>. You both have strengths.<br />
<br />
Understand that everyone else in the world is dealing with hurricanes, (even if you can't tell by their recent Facebook cover photo). And that you, and your relationship, will undertake many more. But hold on to your person. Hold on to yourself. Don't change, and don't allow them to change either. <b>BE YOURSELVES</b>, because that's what each of you really needs the most. And hold on tight. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-64857864410981291082013-06-16T11:34:00.002-05:002013-06-16T11:34:42.038-05:00Happy Dad's Day!Laughter. I grew up with so much laughter in our house. There was also a lot of dancing, mostly to Motown and classic rock. Girl talk...SO MUCH girl talk, and all of the things that come with raising two little girls- dress up, hairdos, My Little Ponies...<br />
<br />
I'm sure that anyone on the outside looking in at our family dynamic had to think, "That poor Ben, surrounded by estrogen!" In truth, he was. Just about every pet we ever owned was a female. He was literally surrounded by the female race.<br />
<br />
I can't count how many times, my dad sat in the floor with us and played my favorite game- Pretty Pretty Princess. Basically, for those of you who have never played it, it consists of dressing yourself in gaudy, plastic, costume jewelry including a tiara and dangly earrings. If you landed on the black diamond, you had to start over which meant taking off all of your jewelry! I dreaded the black diamond...Looking back, I bet Dad prayed he would land on the black diamond...<br />
<br />
He let us put sponge rollers in his hair, and helped pick out dresses for our stuffed animals- while we watched movies like the Carebears and My Little Ponies. Never once complaining!<br />
<br />
I eventually grew into somewhat of a tomboy. Dad got me to fall in love with sports, Star Wars, and good music (like James Taylor and The Rolling Stones). And my sister grew to love golf, Dad's favorite pastime. I know he loved this phase of our lives, and finally having some things in common with his little girls. But sometimes I can't help but think he misses the plastic dangly earrings and puffy slips (even if he won't admit it).<br />
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Dad taught me how to mow the lawn, how to rip up tile floors, how to punch boys when they were inappropriate, and how to dance like Bill Cosby, (seriously, my husband has my father to thank for my embarrassing dance moves.)<br />
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He taught me to act silly and not take life too seriously. To this day, I blame my ability to make a complete fool of myself and not feel any shame or embarrasment, on him.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This would be the previously mentioned dance moves...and also<br />
the not taking life too seriously</td></tr>
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In so many ways I am so much like Dad. We share the same sense of humor, the same explosive temper (which is always followed by the ability to forgive quickly), taste in music, inability to refill the toilet paper roll, and a love of Jack Daniels and good cigars.<br />
<br />
I guess what I'm trying to say is, I hope you have a happy Father's Day, Dad. So much of who I am is because of you, whether you like it or not. You're the best Poppa a girl could ask for....even if you did trip me that time i was trying to be a graceful ballerina! :)<br />
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-35335485468431714832013-06-15T17:30:00.003-05:002013-06-15T17:30:52.676-05:00Ode to a FriendIt has been 137 days since I started writing on this blog. ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-SEVEN. I have written about politics, religion, day-to-day life, disasters, and relationships. The last of which I have covered fairly extensively. But there is one relationship that I haven't yet mentioned, and its one of the most significant ones in my life.<br />
<br />
Growing up, we moved around some. I had lived in 3 different towns before 8th grade. It was rough at times. I made friends everywhere that we went, and then would eventually have to leave them. I have stayed in touch with several of them, not great touch, but enough to check in a couple times a year or so (even if its just to say Happy Birthday on facebook.)<br />
<br />
So when we got back to Duncan, my parents assured me we would be here until I graduated. I had 5 years to build friendships before leaving for college. Honestly, I was pretty nervous. I knew high school was going to be a tough few years, and by 8th grade everyone seemed to have settled into their groups. What I hoped for more than anything was a friend who could have my back during all the rough teenage years ahead.<br />
<br />
I met some fun girls when school started. Being in sports definitely helped. It helped even more when someone finally invited me to sit at their lunch table after weeks of going home for lunch to eat chicken salad sandwiches (my favorite) with mom and dad.<br />
<br />
By the time I was leaving Middle School it seemed I had a pretty solid group of friends to head into the next phase of life with. (I had no idea how much this group would change through the high school years). Nonetheless, I was feeling comfortable and not alone.<br />
<br />
I had also started spending some time in a youth group, and had made some friends there too. There was one guy in particular that I meshed well with. He was a couple of years older, and the sole reason we started spending time together was because a friend of mine had a crush on him. We hung out quite a bit, and with the help of MSN instant messenger got to know each other fairly quickly. I had expressed how nervous I was to start high school. He assured me it would be fine. In a matter of words, he said he would have my back.<br />
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<i>I had no idea how true of a statement that would become.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
I was right in my assumption that high school was going to be hard. But he was holding up to his end of the bargain. He completely had my back, and because of that I looked up to him almost immediately. I had never had a brother, but I felt certain this was close, not exactly the same...but very close.<br />
<br />
Throughout the next couple of years he became a solid structure in my life. As we all know, young teen girls are not the most stable of human beings, and I was no exception. I can't count how many late nights he spent talking me through a break up, calming me down after a girl friend had stabbed me in the back, or convincing me that I was not making the smartest of decisions. He was a sane voice in my whirlwind of poor choices and terrible boyfriends.<br />
<br />
Let's be honest, I can pretty much attribute the fact that I am not married to a convicted felon, or a cheating douchebag to his intervening. I must say, at the time I was not pleased with some of his interventions, but looking back...THANK GOD he did.<br />
<br />
Don't get me wrong, he made his fair share of poor decisions...and dated some real winners. We made it through all that, too.<br />
<br />
The time came for him to graduate, and I was terrified. I still had two years left in high school and wasn't sure how well I'd survive without my new found brother. I put his picture in the dashboard of my car, and there it stayed until I left for college.<br />
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Thankfully, he came home a lot those couple of years. He didn't miss any of the big stuff. La Fiesta for our birthdays, both of my proms, and of course my graduation. More than the actually showing up, he was available for a lot of distraught phone calls and text messages as well.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is one of my favorite pictures, I think this would be referred<br />to as "foreshadowing." **ahem** meaning the two sitting together at the end<br />of the table....well, we'll get there.</td></tr>
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Somehow, I survived high school. The next thing to tackle was college. It got tough sooner than I thought it would. I had decided I wanted to be in a sorority, or at least I thought I did. Halfway through rush I realized it wasn't for me, and dropped out. I was pretty upset, realizing I was a long ways from home and feeling lost as to what I was suppose to do with myself.<br />
<br />
The next day he got a phone call. On the other end of the call was me and I was in tears, so he invited me down to Edmond to spend a few days. (Little did he know I was already in the car headed that way). A few days of friend time was all it took to feel like I was back on track and I headed back to start college!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sorry bud, I wish I had better pictures from that trip... :)</td></tr>
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The next few years our friendship continued. It was mostly from a distance. He moved back to Duncan to finish school. I was in Stillwater, then Colorado, then Oklahoma City. (These were somewhat of my gypsy years.) We didn't see each other very often. But he still got the phone calls. Most of the time they were ridiculous middle of the night calls when I found myself in a predicament. Still though we got together for the BIG stuff. Like the day I finally got my dream car...<br />
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Life threw some crazy twists and turns. Christmas of 2009 was no exception. He was over for family time that evening, nothing out of the ordinary, when I noticed he and my sister being extra chummy. Actually, Justin noticed and i blew it off, thinking my sister and my brother? Yeah right.<br />
<br />
I couldn't have been more wrong. Something had sparked.<br />
<br />
After a few months of dating, I got the phone call. He wanted to ask my sister to marry him.<br />
<br />
In all honesty, it was strange at first. It took me a bit to wrap my head around it. But it only took a couple times of watching them together to see it...the spark. I had never seen someone so ENAMORED with my sister. He loved her like no one else could, and she returned the favor. How could I feel anything but complete happiness about it?! And besides, this meant he would now officially and legally be my brother.<br />
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December 19, 2010 was such a cool day. They said their vows, they danced, and I was beaming with excitement for them. I didn't think it could get much better. Two of the people I loved dearly were the happiest i had ever seen them.<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Then a couple of years later, this day happened....</i></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>That's right.</b> They were giving us a niece. I can't describe the feeling of that day.</span></div>
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<br />
Immediately after the baby announcement, Justin and I had an announcement of our own. We were getting married, and we asked him to be our officiant. That's right, he was going to marry us. I found it pretty fitting considering Justin was the only boy I have ever dated that he approved of.<br />
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<br />
Tomorrow is Father's Day. His first Father's Day. I couldn't be more proud of him. He is an incredible husband to my sister, and an awesome father to my niece. Life sure is different now than when our friendship began. But I wouldn't change a thing.<br />
<br />
Stephen Brown, I owe you a LONG overdue Thank You. Thank you for being a friend, thank you for loving my sister, and thank you for being an outstanding Dad to my niece.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Happy Father's Day Brother.</b></span></div>
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<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-83584274278477997812013-06-13T22:28:00.002-05:002013-06-13T22:31:21.945-05:00The Bloom Said It All<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;"><i>This summer I am working on getting Justin and I's story down on paper, not chronologically, just the random moments through the years that make us, Us. Every now and then I will post some of "Our Story" here. This is my first one.</i></span></div>
<div>
<br />
<hr width="500" />
<br />
It was pretty much like every other Tuesday night. I was home, working on dinner, and waiting for my <span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">man to get home from work. The thought that it was any sort of special day on the calendar had completely escaped from my mind. I was too concerned with not burning our dinner to even consider what the rest of the night might hold.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Tomato soup and caesar salad was on the menu. That's right, i was trying not to burn soup. Give me a break, being a domesticated "housewife" was still a relatively new idea to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He came through the door with a grin on his face that screamed, <i><b>"I am so proud of myself"</b></i>. His hands seemed to be clasped behind his back, and I couldn't help but feel curious. As if his posture and facial expression wasn't enough to tell me something was up, my welcome home hug that I had grown accustomed to was missing. It was then that I realized his hands weren't just clasped, there was something in them!</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"What is going on?" I kept thinking. This moment probably lasted a total of 20 seconds, but I was so confused and curious that I felt like I had been standing there, soup spoon in hand, taking it all in for at least 5 minutes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Weeks ago we had been watching television, when the cheesiest most ridiculous commercial came on for Walgreens. They were advertising "The PERFECT gift for your Valentine." I had laughed at the commercial as a perfectly, perfect couple exchanged this most perfect gift. They had held hands, and laughed, probably danced at some point, and I'm sure there were candles involved.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I have never celebrated Valentine's Day, I find it silly. In my cynical head, I thought to myself, "I can't believe people buy into such a consumer driven holiday. Someone is actually going to watch this commercial, hop in the car, and go get their partner A BLOOMING EXPRESSION..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That's right, the item for sale in the ad was called <b><i>A BLOOMING EXPRESSION.</i></b> I giggled to myself thinking that sounded like a nickname I'd use when talking in code about my vagina. I mean really people, is a fake battery operated flower that opens up to reveal a generalized statement about the way you feel going to be <i>THE PERFECT</i> gift for your Valentine? Did people really think that offering up this plastic bloom would generate a happily ever after which included dancing in the candle light?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"<b><u>THAT'S EXACTLY WHAT I WANT FOR VALENTINE'S DAY!</u></b>" I exclaimed, in what I felt like was the ideal sarcastic tone.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Apparently, I'm not the best at communicating through sarcasm. APPARENTLY, what I thought was the ideal sarcastic tone, actually came across as flawlessly genuine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So, here I stood, soup spoon in hand, dying to know what Justin had so proudly come home with on this Tuesday night. As he brought his hands around front, from behind his back, he pressed a button on the bottom of the plastic vase and the cloth petals of my most perfect present opened up to reveal a lovely, but generic, statement.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I immediately died laughing. My hilarious boyfriend had remembered the oh-so-funny joke I had made weeks ago. I don't remember exactly what I said immediately after being given my Blooming Expression. But whatever it was, it did not sit very well with him. His facial expression automatically changed from the 'I'm so proud of myself face,' to the 'Uh oh, this was not the reaction I expected face.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We both paused. Me, mid laughter. Him, confused face.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"This was a joke right??"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"You said this was what you wanted!!"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh my god, I was being sarcastic..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Oh no...You sounded so genuine, I thought you were serious! I have to call Tyler and tell him not to give his to Emily, I convinced him to get her one because you had wanted one so badly..."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I stopped giggling, and his face went from confused to embarrassed in an instant. I suddenly realized that Justin had been excited to surprise me with "EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED FOR VALENTINE'S DAY," for at least the last 6 weeks. He later informed me that he had even called the Walgreens by his office to have them set aside the exact expression he wanted on hold.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Disappointment clouded his face and he went to set my cloth flower on the table, he looked completely defeated.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I looked over at my now BLOOMED expression, and saw that the inside of my flower said, "You are one of life's best gifts." I looked at him and thought to myself, 'Ditto.'</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I hugged my boyfriend, gave him a kiss, and thanked him over and over for my PERFECT GIFT. He gave me a look that said 'Don't patronize me.' I smiled and assured him, that I loved it. And I did, I really loved it. Not because it was the perfect gift, or because I had always dreamed of a cloth flower in a plastic vase, but because it was given to me out of pure and perfect thoughtfulness.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I set the vase in the middle of the table, next to a burning candle, and we sat down to enjoy our caesar salad and tomato soup that had now burned on the stove during this whole process. We enjoyed our simple dinner, around our small table, in front of our burning candle, and a cloth flower that said it all.....</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b>"You are one of life's best gifts."</b></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span>
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February 14, 2012</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><b><br /></b></span></div>
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-17294659542923434592013-06-10T23:21:00.001-05:002013-06-10T23:21:59.400-05:00A Day in the Life...Purple Crying and All<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sara Beth's Mommy Monday post this week!</span></div>
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<b><i>I’m not going to lie.
This week started out rough.
REALLY rough. And not just because I discovered that while away from
home this weekend the squirrels planned another attack on my swing.</i></b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-jsUUH6Zj7yk0ksQ3PHelg9uAxac_OBiwxRrOOpgZejzbItO-B9-ofHld3WtXaru0CBTVN7bdcGkDVZYfNQTDguCvrBkeyu7M5ttqLPUa4u-Ag8g-hXdPndtk-jI53-_Ik4ElnvEoEM/s1600/pic1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG-jsUUH6Zj7yk0ksQ3PHelg9uAxac_OBiwxRrOOpgZejzbItO-B9-ofHld3WtXaru0CBTVN7bdcGkDVZYfNQTDguCvrBkeyu7M5ttqLPUa4u-Ag8g-hXdPndtk-jI53-_Ik4ElnvEoEM/s320/pic1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I swear its like they
get together, strategize, and plan out the best time for an ambush. All you people planning for a zombie
apocalypse need to wake up! The zombie
myth is just a distraction. The world is
going to end because of a squirrel attack. Just you wait and see.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, I digress. My
week. It was the kind of week that had me running out of patience with the
little one, doubting my ability as a mother, and taking it all out on my
husband. It was really our own fault
though. On Saturday we spent the day in Oklahoma City with the husband’s
family. And when I say we spent the day,
I mean we spent the WHOLE day. I knew
better but it was nice to be out and about and spend time with our nephew that
we don’t get to see very often. And Emma
did SO good. She hardly fussed, she ate
well, and she shopped well. (*note – the
outfit change is because we had a poop incident)<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOp-XbUEF-gJFcK8hSa6RwqZTOuv-2QlVLA8Nzd3VH_GfzBv27djXL6rmO47ZLev629ShID3GMvP_ySXdYYVdS0TUFQupCMT4zzFWqQcDCMNAZAJEEvStIuaKBrhpPQ1ZYELAuTLhBbuc/s1600/pic2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOp-XbUEF-gJFcK8hSa6RwqZTOuv-2QlVLA8Nzd3VH_GfzBv27djXL6rmO47ZLev629ShID3GMvP_ySXdYYVdS0TUFQupCMT4zzFWqQcDCMNAZAJEEvStIuaKBrhpPQ1ZYELAuTLhBbuc/s400/pic2.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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And I got to drink one of these lovelies…</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP8-MmQ1tYkS0XisrmH3nIwBeSA6Pzn582AndHQby2HEeZHAQ4L0x3sTcEjYi82c5oexv_AIe5OYt5QrRihtCFx3pqwcANbOodxC1wVVYNDHRiKjh2EHs_xRZ1bv1cqp0foqwpi30POE/s1600/pic3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwP8-MmQ1tYkS0XisrmH3nIwBeSA6Pzn582AndHQby2HEeZHAQ4L0x3sTcEjYi82c5oexv_AIe5OYt5QrRihtCFx3pqwcANbOodxC1wVVYNDHRiKjh2EHs_xRZ1bv1cqp0foqwpi30POE/s320/pic3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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But Sunday brought out a side of my child that I haven’t
seen since she was brand new. A side
that made us pay for our fun on Saturday and it lasted for three whole
days. She was tired. SO tired.
And screamed…a lot…a LOT. God
bless all of the mothers and fathers out there with colicky babies. I don’t know how you do it. </div>
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<o:p></o:p>When we were at the hospital and in labor with Emma, they left a video with us the second we
arrived entitled “Purple Crying” The
nurse explained that it teaches parents that sometimes babies cry and cry and
cry for no reason and that no matter how frustrated we get, we shouldn’t shake the baby. My husband and I just kind of looked at her
like “duh! Of course you shouldn’t shake a baby.” Over the course of our 3 day hospital stay
they must have mentioned that video at least 10 times. We started to wonder what kind of vibe we
were giving off. I started worrying that
they could already tell I wasn’t going to be a good mom. Even still, we never
watched the video. We thought that
surely even the most novice of parents were capable of soothing a crying baby….<o:p></o:p></div>
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About two weeks into the whole parenting thing we found
ourselves wishing we had watched the video.
It was 8 pm and this sweet tiny little baby of ours was producing a
noise that was so loud that it could be heard outside of our house. I wouldn’t really classify it as a cry…more
like a scream…like she was dying…and it wouldn’t stop. We went through our checklist…she was fed,
her diaper was clean, she might be tired but she wasn’t sleeping for sure…and
being brand new parents ourselves we were out of tricks. We found ourselves standing in the living
room passing her back and forth about every minute and a half. I would take her, bounce her, shush her and
she would get quiet…for a minute…and then the scream would come back and off
she’d go to her dad. Stephen would then
bounce her, shush her and get her quiet for about a minute and then she’d come
back to me. This wash, rinse, repeat
cycle continued for about an hour or two (or more…I lost track of time…it
seemed like an eternity) and then she finally fell asleep…and I cried and
Stephen sat silently staring off into space like he had just returned from
battle. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This crying/screaming session returned every night at 8 pm
for weeks…you could set your clock by it.
Thankfully we learned some new strategies (one being the hair
dryer. She loves the noise.) and she
eventually grew out of it. But I will
never forget that phase…and I will never forget the fear that would consume me
every time she would start to get a little fussy and I was worried it would
grow into a fit that we didn’t know how to stop. I shudder just thinking about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And this week it returned.
Only it wasn’t just at 8pm. It
was every time she got the least bit sleepy during the day. It was miserable….not nearly as fear inducing
(because I am an experienced parent now…kidding) but exhausting none the
less. Again, parents of colicky babies,
I don’t know how you do it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I saw a post on facebook recently from a new mom who stated
that she now knew that babies are so adorable, smell so sweet, and are so
snuggly because parents need those things to make it through the rough
nights. AMEN. Thank you Lord for giving me a cute baby<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbs-MKkzVVKWJ_BtXu2qQMEKJs55wk48s2R6c6dnIhREz2XQENVx7dUMUV2oHkjrzagHV_IgezZi1E8AU2WScizeJBucdpFJYmNRcrAE5zXzqaavlHvcmGso2gRsghPhEHdT1fcQaaJ2M/s1600/pic4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbs-MKkzVVKWJ_BtXu2qQMEKJs55wk48s2R6c6dnIhREz2XQENVx7dUMUV2oHkjrzagHV_IgezZi1E8AU2WScizeJBucdpFJYmNRcrAE5zXzqaavlHvcmGso2gRsghPhEHdT1fcQaaJ2M/s400/pic4.jpg" width="297" /></a></div>
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…even when being a bit grumpy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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That being said, my
sweet girl returned sometime around Wednesday.
And my week returned to somewhat normal (whatever normal is these days)
until Friday when I had to go post baby body swimsuit shopping…ugh…but that’s
another post for another week. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Anyway, here’s hoping next week is a little happier and that
your week is filled with less tears than mine and more joy than discovering you
can fit your whole fist in your mouth (although I’m not sure that’s possible!)!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-7735773046441628022013-06-08T00:50:00.001-05:002013-06-08T00:50:31.766-05:00How is it already Friday?Let me just start by saying this week rocked. I got to really slack in some parts of my life (*ahem, work and writing), which allowed me to be really productive in other parts- housework and videography. I know it sounds backward, who wants to be slow at your job (which means losing money) and spend your spare time doing laundry? THIS girl!<div>
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For the first time in a VERY long time I had openings this week. On top of that several people had to reschedule, which meant even more available time! Whoopa! That translates to eating lunch- EVERY SINGLE DAY, (which never happens because I'm awful at planning ahead and rarely have a break to grab anything), running errands during breaks, and going home to let out the pups and switch out laundry. So in summary, I may be completely broke after this week, but I'm so happy for the sanity that comes with feeling productive.</div>
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I am completely shocked by how much I enjoyed doing housework this week. My last count on laundry was 8 loads, (I guess you could say we were a little behind...also we have too many clothes). After getting caught up on laundry I started one of my favorite projects of the year- cleaning out my closet. Every year at the beginning of the summer I pack up all my sweaters and send them to the attic, making room to move in all the summer clothes that had gone into hiding. Usually during this process I wind up with a rubbermaid tub full of clothes that either don't fit or have become covered in hair color and bleach. This year was no exception. (I should've known by the amount of dirty laundry we had collected). My closet is set for the season, organized by type, and replenished with new items to replace the ones in the discard tub.</div>
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On top of all of the housework I got done, I also finished editing the highlight video from the Pettigrews' wedding on Saturday. As soon as the happy couple gets back from their honeymoon and are able to watch it, I'll post the video for everyone to see! Even though I loved reviewing the footage, and had a fun time editing, it took up pretty much all of my computer time, and I didn't get any writing done all week (as you may have noticed by my lack of blog entries). For my next event's shoot, I'm going to have to designate times each day for editing. I'm sure J would appreciate not being woken up at 2 am by the light of my laptop and the same 5 seconds of video playing over, and over, and over again. </div>
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After my pseudo-productive week, I'm excited for the events that will follow this weekend. Tomorrow is Kelsey's going away party. Dinner at Picasso Cafe, one of my faves, followed by a night of dancing and confetti at Groovys. Ohhh I cannot wait for Groovys and the weeks of finding confetti around my house that will indefinitely come after. </div>
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SUNDAY, I have been looking forward to for a MONTH! My cast-mates from Listen To Your Mother are finally getting back together for the evening. A cookout in Ms. Carolyn's backyard, then on to Norman for the Summer Breeze Concert Series, this week's show is John Fullbright. I have really been looking forward to this day since the afternoon I last left these women. I'm honestly in awe of how much I miss them seeing as 2 months ago they were relatively strangers to me. </div>
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The only thing I'm really dreading is the end of the weekend, Monday. I realize that's not weekend to most of you, but I am a hairdresser. Mondays are my Sunday. On Monday I have to take Phyllis to the vet. Phyllis is the wild child of my fur babies. You could say that she lives life to the fullest. You could also say that she is bat shit crazy. Both would be the truth. She either fell from a great height (would not be the first time), or has gotten into a bar fight...in which she probably started. Honestly, I wouldn't even try to narrow down the options of what Phyllis has gotten into. The summary of this story is that she is pretty scraped up and is now wrapped in bandages. Although she doesn't seem to be in any pain, she keeps throwing herself to the ground and holding her bandaged legs up in the air as if she is trying to generate some amount of sympathy. Bat shit crazy that one is...</div>
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All in all, I'm counting on it to be a pretty great weekend!</div>
Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-29422175637183566632013-06-03T12:25:00.000-05:002013-06-13T14:00:37.635-05:00Little House On The Prairie meets Duck Dynasty<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #a64d79; font-size: large;">Sara's Mommy Monday post this week is priceless. Seriously has me giggling out loud- Hope you all enjoy it!</span></div>
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: Cambria;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>**Disclaimer – If you are a huge animal rights
activist or frown upon gun use…You may not approve of this post. If that’s the case, here’s a cute baby
picture for you and you may be on your way**</i></b></span></span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-family: Cambria; font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span><!--EndFragment-->
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkg2898RllbInanSoU4TDZPH-CcXhIgeJ4LVZAayXLLfQcz-IjXz5yAW69mXhXnFrTOJkojQzhTS_YTIeI0f5xe76Lf4C3rg8yVRlw1yO9F-14H5OjyOVbi8wBsRkw3KbIqXaaNXGDWE/s1600/pic1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimkg2898RllbInanSoU4TDZPH-CcXhIgeJ4LVZAayXLLfQcz-IjXz5yAW69mXhXnFrTOJkojQzhTS_YTIeI0f5xe76Lf4C3rg8yVRlw1yO9F-14H5OjyOVbi8wBsRkw3KbIqXaaNXGDWE/s640/pic1.JPG" width="477" /></a></div>
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<br />
When my sister asked me to do this blog segment, her exact
words were “it doesn’t have to be all poopy diapers and breast pumps…just
everyday life.” Well here you go…this
post is all about everyday life and a mom simply protecting her homestead
pioneer woman style. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The particular week I’m writing about started out much like
any other.<o:p></o:p></div>
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On Monday Emma started her week off by getting milk drunk in
honor of our dear friend Annika’s 21<sup>st</sup> birthday. We thought it was the only appropriate way to
celebrate. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGugZO1fTNwsLerLVrt48KCAIhhVrxIzc20MkAWh2z6-Yd_fzuacjf-B7c1C8BTlf9pMmo9E7h5bTMGvkir7iHJLb5cp2vHwRT8_RQJlVtmEtHWjLJ5-wtVq0xY3O4L8wIdnll-kb5zU/s1600/pic2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicGugZO1fTNwsLerLVrt48KCAIhhVrxIzc20MkAWh2z6-Yd_fzuacjf-B7c1C8BTlf9pMmo9E7h5bTMGvkir7iHJLb5cp2vHwRT8_RQJlVtmEtHWjLJ5-wtVq0xY3O4L8wIdnll-kb5zU/s400/pic2.JPG" width="297" /></a></div>
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On Tuesday I decided to stop procrastinating and clean out
my closet…ugh…I currently own about five different wardrobes. Please tell me I’m not the only new mom that
has this issue. I can’t exactly fit into
my old clothes and I refuse to wear any more maternity clothes (except for the
stretchy pants…I love those I’m not going to lie) so I’m stuck with a crazy
assortment of clothes in about 5 different sizes…Oh well. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On Wednesday my precious girl turned 2 months old!! I can’t
believe it! Time has absolutely flown by! We celebrated with some cute pictures
and some not so fun shots <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">L</span> <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwiAhGDRca4l7plberl4uxZxsHLMo-dzlykU4JwGDg_tK_2UDWM8u-5S1yEKy5cf4yF4j2XJw9yIMwhRCWaOY6i1iYexP3WJiOjS363b1ctU0TW2usEepXrk8TUbU04jq6e1044U2lcE/s1600/pic3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBwiAhGDRca4l7plberl4uxZxsHLMo-dzlykU4JwGDg_tK_2UDWM8u-5S1yEKy5cf4yF4j2XJw9yIMwhRCWaOY6i1iYexP3WJiOjS363b1ctU0TW2usEepXrk8TUbU04jq6e1044U2lcE/s400/pic3.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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On Thursday, the normal routine took an unexpected twist. Who
would have thought that Thursday would be the most exciting day of the
week? Oh Thursday, you sneaky day. You’re right between hump day and the day that
gives everyone hope for the weekend. No
one expects anything noteworthy to happen on Thursday. But this week it did. <o:p></o:p></div>
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On Thursday, a squirrel…….wait for it………ate my mother’s day
present. (Yes I’ve been watching a lot of How I Met Your Mother lately). You know, the swing that I posted a picture
of a couple weeks ago. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My first Mother’s Day
present ever and a squirrel ate it. But
let me back up a bit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My husband and I bought our first home together about a year
and a half ago. We love our home. It’s nothing huge or fancy or new but it’s
home and we LOVE the location. It’s on a
quiet dead-end street and backs up to a creek and some green space that no one
can ever build on. It’s almost like
having a park for a backyard. At any
given time, you can find families playing, flying kites, fishing for tadpoles,
or see our wealthy red-neck neighbors (that we desperately wish would move)
ride their four wheelers. This creek of
ours also brings in some sweet wildlife to our neighborhood. It’s not unusual to look out the kitchen
window and see bunnies, several types of birds, and huge cranes (pretty cool). But
the creek can also bring about some not so nice creatures too. For instance last night we awoke to the sound
of what can only be described as two monkeys doing the deed outside our
window. Any ideas on what animal that
might be? We have no idea (We’re just
hoping it wasn’t the four wheeling red-neck neighbors… ). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kFdEyLMb46-Dl5PXy39pfGffeWYqjjJs57H8H4PmZankPI-xhHbVkCKopBlEZJadYeWE3Lw4k1qLifkGwO_yAtPkGENm5XOjdLTOSh34O3IJApqcuozb9hU412wYrkplZ4qhM4kggHE/s1600/pic4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1kFdEyLMb46-Dl5PXy39pfGffeWYqjjJs57H8H4PmZankPI-xhHbVkCKopBlEZJadYeWE3Lw4k1qLifkGwO_yAtPkGENm5XOjdLTOSh34O3IJApqcuozb9hU412wYrkplZ4qhM4kggHE/s400/pic4.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="297" /></a>It also brings in skunks, ginormous opossums,
an occasional snake and…squirrels, lots of them. For the record, I hate squirrels. They’re just rats with bushy tails. Why it’s
ok for squirrels to roam around the streets and not rats, I don’t
understand. And now I have an even
bigger reason to hate them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I was passing by the kitchen window Thursday morning I
looked out and saw a giant squirrel sitting on my swing. I immediately went out to chase the bushy
tailed rat off my beloved swing only to find that he had been ripping apart the
seam on my swing cushion. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Are you kidding me?? As I angrily stormed back in the house,
texting my husband about this horrendous crime, I passed back by the kitchen
window and saw him there AGAIN. What in
the world?!? This time I was irate. Who
was this squirrel and what was he doing to my poor swing? </div>
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FIVE times, this squirrel came back to
torture my swing. FIVE times! That’s
when my husband received this text message.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0wgj2U2V-3isn-yPNkXodfcwGndpQr3oIL7AXZ0C3WBeHhAehgK3mFAG9f35HqBP_r7j4ZYGBnEQShfLH_iMKb22k85alazdwV4iDo1qP_7pDZlSzZiXFM_ygUBxQvK7vbodHY8tUe0/s1600/pic5.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM0wgj2U2V-3isn-yPNkXodfcwGndpQr3oIL7AXZ0C3WBeHhAehgK3mFAG9f35HqBP_r7j4ZYGBnEQShfLH_iMKb22k85alazdwV4iDo1qP_7pDZlSzZiXFM_ygUBxQvK7vbodHY8tUe0/s400/pic5.PNG" width="265" /></a></div>
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Now I should have known better than to text my husband to
bring me a pellet gun…I really didn’t think he would take me seriously…but he
did. In fact he came home from work around lunch time, placed this beauty of a
bb gun on the table and said Happy Mother’s Day. Oh yes.
I have THE BEST husband in the world. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4LVWu6tI76G2j0tAHEYKUmFVgDaifa9JWycIQu_p9vV60TO7mOcsBe2GyTm40bvGPFuKTkiTZXrG9SGukpsVWwDAyUMpIvAh4gpQJYerkD7LNh5UMN9QhaQeVHTbqFerYo3-5J6lifCc/s1600/pic6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4LVWu6tI76G2j0tAHEYKUmFVgDaifa9JWycIQu_p9vV60TO7mOcsBe2GyTm40bvGPFuKTkiTZXrG9SGukpsVWwDAyUMpIvAh4gpQJYerkD7LNh5UMN9QhaQeVHTbqFerYo3-5J6lifCc/s320/pic6.JPG" width="237" /></a></div>
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The next few hours (or days rather…we’re still hunting
squirrels two weeks later) were spent seeking revenge on one very large
squirrel. (No, I promise we’re not the
redneck neighbors I referred to earlier.)
And before you get all up on your soap box about animals and guns look
at these sweet pictures of my girl on her swing and then think about how this
squirrel tried to ruin that sweet smile.</div>
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We started with an empty laundry detergent container and
some target practice and then moved on to hunting down the real thing. Now, I’m not a hunter and I have a very hard
time inflicting pain on anything (my sister used to take full advantage of this
fact when we were younger) but there is something invigorating about seeking
revenge on a squirrel. Maybe I’m bored
and just need to get out of the house more, I don’t know, but I had WAY too
much fun with this. And when word spread to our families of how we were
spending our afternoon, they came over to join in on the fun too. Turns out, hunting squirrels is good stress
relief from work. (NO, I SWEAR we’re not the rednecks of the neighborhood.) <br />
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After a few shots and misses, we quickly learned that
opening up the back door to run outside and shoot squirrels actually just
scared the squirrels away. It also elicited
remarks from our redneck neighbors who were unknowingly sitting on their back
porch when I ran out all Annie Oakley style shooting a bb gun.... </div>
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<b><u>“If you kill it
you have to eat it!”</u></b> and <b><u>“Bring it over
we’ll make some squirrel dumplings!"</u></b> (See,
I told you we weren’t the rednecks. What
is this, Duck Dynasty?? ) Anyway, in case you were wondering, the appropriate
way to shoot squirrels without scaring them is through the kitchen window in
the comfort of your air conditioning. </div>
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Well, long story short (yes this is a long post, but I’m
leaving out the details of spending date night going to buy a bigger gun and
how the hubs actually did kill a squirrel on Saturday and I almost cried…) we
didn’t kill any squirrels on Thursday. We
did scare the living daylights out of some and I think we sent a very clear
message because even though we spent the weekend peering out windows like we
were under attack, we didn’t see many squirrels. We also made friends with our neighbors who
actually offered to move their giant RV away from our yard (God has been listening
to our prayers!) </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i><b>And most importantly, I
now get to look down and enjoy this view on my swing in peace.</b></i></span><o:p></o:p></div>
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-39167184980959814402013-06-03T00:22:00.002-05:002013-06-03T00:22:16.840-05:00Thank God I loved it!Last night was our first wedding shoot of the summer. I was so nervous about it for so many reasons:<br />
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A) What if I don't enjoy it...after we invested all of this money into videography equipment?<br />
B) What if I suck at it and ruin someone's biggest day of their life?<br />
C) What if Justin hates it and I am out a business partner/equipment assistant for the rest of the summer's shoots?<br />
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LUCKILY, so far none of the above happened. (Although, I haven't reviewed the footage yet, so I guess we'll have to wait and see if I suck or not!) Overall it was a pretty successful day of shooting. Sure there were a few setbacks, and a few "Ah Hah!' moments...but I'd expect that with a first time out filming a wedding.<br />
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I definitely learned a few lessons. I'm quite sure as the summer goes on, and the filming gets more extensive, I'll learn many more.<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">1. Don't be afraid to speak up and tell the photographer that their services aren't the only ones getting paid for here.</span></b> <i> </i><br />
<i>-Seriously, the photographer at this wedding was the absolute worst. THE WORST I TELL </i><i>YOU! Once I got past the brash personality and the nasally voice, I realized her social skills weren't any better. I can't even count the number of shots she ruined for me, or the number of times she would turn around and say "You can edit my butt out of that, right?". LITERALLY, every time I would find a great shot of kiddos playing in the corner, or a couple dancing on the dance floor, I would zoom in, (ready to capture the money shot), and then all of a sudden my viewfinder would go dark- because the photographer dressed in black had jumped right in front of me to capture the moment. </i><br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>2. </i>Eat before, eat A LOT before.</span></b><br />
<i>-I had no idea how physically draining the day was going to be. 2 pm-11 pm is a long time to go without eating when those 9 hours are filled with stressed bridesmaids, drunk groomsmen, and never sitting down. I grabbed a couple of snack plates at the reception, (but that was totally not enough). Thank god for a husband who is willing to pick up cheeseburgers in a drive thru at 11 pm.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>3. Have an exit plan, or even just a plan for goodness' sake.</b></span><br />
<i>-Honestly, first wedding shoot of the season (and also of my life), I was just wingin' it. I pretty much just kept my camera rolling at all times and prayed I didn't miss anything. NEXT TIME, I will absolutely have a better strategy for what I'm shooting. Who knows, maybe I'll even carry a notebook, (or a clipboard because I feel like thats more professional.) Either way, there will be a plan in place for what needs to get shot and what doesn't. On top of that, I will be implementing a cutoff time. At this wedding the bride and groom weren't leaving in any sort of special way, they had just planned on partying through the night with the rest of the crowd. Next time, I will have a designated time to say, "Its Over.".</i><br />
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Regardless of all this, I must say, I HAD AN ABSOLUTE FANTASTIC TIME. I can't wait to start reviewing the film tomorrow, hopefully I'll have their highlight video up by the end of the week. Kris and Emily were an awesome couple to start off this summer of weddings with, and I wish them all the blessings in the world on their marriage!<br />
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<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-45274478591956725662013-05-30T21:31:00.000-05:002013-05-30T21:31:12.997-05:00Some things are just worth the recovery timeSeriously? Who gets a cold at the end of MAY? Apparently half of Oklahoma City... and this girl. This morning I woke up to a god awful amount of snot and disappointment. I begrudgingly downed a hefty dose of Airborne, Dayquil, and Mucinex, did my Nettipot rinse, and headed off to Whole foods for some lunch.<br />
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SURELY a plate full of steamed veggies, and a baked potato with vegan chili would cure whatever the burly dose of drugs didn't. If that doesn't do it, then I'm counting on the extra large size of "Electrolyte Enhanced Water," (which I'm quite sure is just tap water with a fancy label), to do the trick.<br />
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So far, nothing has done the trick. FLURGE. This is so not the week I would have chosen for Mr. Mucus to come for a visit. Tomorrow is jam packed at work, and Saturday is my first full day of wedding shooting.<br />
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Eek! That's right, J and I are will be packing up all the video equipment we bought and heading out to Yukon for the day, where we'll be filming Chris and Emily's wedding. This will be our first of 3 weddings have booked this summer. I am so excited about our new adventure (but would be totally lying if I said I wasn't a little nervous).<br />
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All I can hope for between now and Saturday is some solid sleep and a mucus miracle. I really shouldn't be complaining about being worn out and sick, I'm sure my lake trip last weekend didn't slow down the onset. But, honestly, I'm not sorry about it. I wouldn't give up a Memorial Day weekend at Lake Eufala for anything.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Saturday of Memorial Day weekend:<br />
Last Year vs. This Year</td></tr>
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The Saturday of Memorial Day weekend is in my top 3 favorite days of the year. Seriously. Its the official start of summer and lake season for us. And this chair, in front of that water... One of my happy places. This year we took our dear friend Abbie with us. All the way to the lake we tried to prepare her for the weekend she was about to experience. I don't think words do it justice.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the drive back home Monday afternoon, Abbie informed us she'll be<br />going back every chance she gets! :)<br /></td></tr>
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I've been going to the same lake house every summer for 6 years now, J's been going much longer. The house belongs to OUR best friend Tommy and his family. (Tom is Justin's best friend from Shawnee, but I get in trouble if I don't claim him too.) His family, the Smith Family, have been incredible friends to us. In fact, last summer when we announced to people we were getting married, the Smith's were second only to our parents when it came to spreading the news.<br />
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Their family is so dear to me. Every single one of them. They are doing it right, just about as right as it gets. Ted and Rhonda are so often the people J and I look to when it comes to having a thriving marriage. I can't even tell you how many things we have tried to mirror after them. I have often wondered how their partnership can be so strong after so many years. Who did they look up to? Who was their marriage mentor? This weekend I got a really great glimpse of it.<br />
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For the first time in a LONG time Tommy's grandparents, Oma and Papa, came to lake house for the weekend to hang out with all the young bucks. They are 93 and 94 years old, and this year they are celebrating their 75th wedding anniversary. I've never seen two people still so in love after so many years. I even caught a couple of butt smacks exchanged between the two of them! And up until recently they were still going out dancing...every single weekend. They may look old, but they have as much youthful spirit as any one of us young'ens. Saturday morning Papa woke up with a Bloody Mary just like the rest of us, then headed outside in his cowboy boots to help ted cut down tree limbs with a chainsaw. Oma sat in the living room with all of us kids and handed out her fair share of life lessons.<br />
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"Hey Amy!" Oma yelled as I was walking away. "Yes Oma?" I replied. "Don't you wait." She said "Wait for what?" I asked. <b><u>"ANYTHING."</u> She said</b><br />
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If there is anyone in the world I will take advice from, its a wise 93 year old who's happily survived 75 years of marriage. <b><u>"Don't you wait for anything"</u></b>...I'll never forget it.<br />
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Memorial Day weekend is also home to the annual Beer Olympics. It's not exactly what the name implies. Last year when I won, (that's right, I was the champ), my mom seemed less than impressed when I called to tell her that I HAD WON BEER OLYMPICS. I guess she thought that meant I had chugged the most beer. The fact is you don't have to actually drink any beer during Beer Olympics, (but most people do). Its a 6-8 hour tournament of yard games like Bocce Ball, Bags, Ladder Golf, etc. Last year me and our friend Jen were the first women to ever win the Beer Olympics championship, and this year I had to hand the title over to Tommy and his brother Ken.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlm0CftSEmeI50ayIF4zjg90oTSosoAUSOQp_xdFYmU9gyEHv_EdHl4hwTZaBGVBhgt2OREppoei-H9-xVdaaen3-MTOwm3P813khG77y5TTjzdxHg3QeiC8f5wwmdOdDEwrLg-lScDBc/s1600/Screen+Shot+2013-05-30+at+9.21.22+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlm0CftSEmeI50ayIF4zjg90oTSosoAUSOQp_xdFYmU9gyEHv_EdHl4hwTZaBGVBhgt2OREppoei-H9-xVdaaen3-MTOwm3P813khG77y5TTjzdxHg3QeiC8f5wwmdOdDEwrLg-lScDBc/s320/Screen+Shot+2013-05-30+at+9.21.22+PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Last Year's Beer Olympics Champions</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This Year's Beer Olympics Champions</td></tr>
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<br /><br />A weekend full of friends we call family, Bloody Mary's for breakfast, loads of sunshine, and Beer Olympics.... Ya, it was worth getting the cold.<br /><br />
<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-79897987224945410152013-05-27T21:45:00.003-05:002013-06-13T14:00:45.260-05:00Celebrating those lost with the ones you love.<span style="background-color: white; color: #674ea7; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: 18px;">Where does the time go?? It's been two whole weeks since the last momma monday post. Last week's post got skipped- due to the no power or wifi all day during the storms. No worries- this week its back! </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 16px;">Have I mentioned how hard it is to write a blog post with a tiny baby around? (I actually started and stopped this post 5 times today before I could get it finished. And it’s not all that spectacular.) As we speak my husband is currently holding Em and walking circles around our house to keep her content so I can write (such a good hubby/daddy). She’s a walker…meaning she wants to move and see it all but doesn’t have the ability to actually walk herself yet. Some days this leads to very tired parents. She’s also the only two month old I’ve ever seen that fights sleep as hard as she does. She already doesn’t want to miss a thing. We’re in trouble.</span><br />
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Well, once again this post is not what I had intended to write about this week. I have had a particular post involving my swing, squirrels, and bb guns (intrigued aren’t you?) ready for two weeks now, but every Monday something happens that makes it seem not quite appropriate. It did not make it last Monday because Oklahoma experienced the largest tornado in history and I didn’t feel right posting something that now seems trivial, when so many friends were hurting. Now today as I was getting ready to re-send it, I realized it’s Memorial Day. A day meant to celebrate all of those who have given their lives for our freedom. Again, my topic doesn’t seem to fit. Don’t get me wrong. That post WILL make an appearance next week. Only because this morning there was another “incident.” But today I’m going to leave you with some thoughts that seem a bit more sensitive to the holiday.<br />
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Honestly, most memorial days come and go without a single thought from me (I’m just thankful my husband has the day off for a long weekend). I’ve never really known someone who lost their life fighting for our freedom. Yes, I’ve always been incredibly thankful for these brave military men and women and their families, but I’ve never had a personal experience with this.<br />
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I’ve never had to worry about sending someone I love overseas, not knowing if they will return. I’ve never had to grieve when they don’t get to come home. But everyday, there are fellow Americans who do this willingly….and they do it for the rest of us.<br />
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Say what you want about our country and its flaws (I have plenty of opinions myself) but there is no other place on this planet that allows some of the freedoms we get to experience and we have our military to thank for this.<br />
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I got my first real taste of this two years ago when my husband and I took a vacation to Washington D.C. We went over Memorial Day weekend, which made the city incredibly crowded, but we also got to experience some amazing things. Every memorial we went to was filled with mementos and gifts people left behind for someone they love. To see the memorials in person is incredible in and of itself, but to see them covered with the belongings of people who personally knew someone who fought the good fight makes it even more touching.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Korean Memorial</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vietnam Memorial</td></tr>
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The day after memorial day we went to Arlington Cemetery. If you have never been, add it to your bucketlist. It’s by far one of the most humbling and peaceful places I have ever been. For miles, all you can see are tombstones of soldiers who have given themselves for our freedom and everywhere you turn there are people paying tribute to someone they love.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Arlington National Cemetery</td></tr>
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But my absolute favorite place at the cemetery would be the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Sure I’ve read about this and I’ve watched the ceremonies on T.V. but none of these do it justice. Never in my life have I been anywhere that was filled with so many people and yet so unbelievably quiet. There’s nothing like it. This is what Memorial Day is all about.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tomb of the Unknown Soldier</td></tr>
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Now I’m not one of those people that thinks you should feel guilty about spending the day enjoying your grill, pool, family, and a day off of work. These are the freedoms our military fought to protect. I think the best way to honor what they have done is to enjoy this day, celebrate, and make the most of it. But as you do, maybe say a quick prayer for those families that can’t quite celebrate yet or show your gratitude to someone who has risked it all for you, and most importantly be thankful you live in a place that allows you the freedom to spend today however you wish. I’ll be spending my day with these two. Life doesn’t get much sweeter.<br />
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-46224075839266969562013-05-23T15:56:00.003-05:002013-05-23T16:15:25.948-05:00It's the memories of coming together.<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can't count the number of times in my childhood I woke up in the bathtub next to my sister, with every couch cushion and pillow our house could offer, piled on top of us...or how many times we sat in the hallway with our mattress strategically propped up on the wall, hovering over our heads. "Doppler Mom" (as she has become known) was the queen of weather over-preparation. A few months ago, as I was leaving Whole Foods, I noticed they were selling pre-made rubbermaid tubs of "Tornado Survival Kits." I laughed as I looked at them- thinking they really should have consulted my mother because there were several things she could inform them were missing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Growing up in Duncan, Oklahoma (located in an area known as "Tornado Alley"), Tornadoes are not recognized as a major natural disaster, or an occasional feared phenomenon...it was a season. Tornado Season. A span of time each year when tornadoes, and all the activities included, are just a pastime. From April til early June- sirens, basements, flashlights, mattresses as tents, are just a part of everyday life. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Eventually, there were things I grew to love about Tornado Season. There were 3 families on our street we were very close to. And one of those families had a storm shelter that, for me, as a child, was what dreams were made of. A few times each season, (on the nights we had time to prepare and weren't stuck in the cold porcelain tub under cotton stuffing), my family and all of our friends would cram into this shelter for a night of game playing and meteorologist critiquing. (Everyone except my claustrophobic father, who would indefinitely be sitting outside on the porch refusing to come down until he could see the 'nader coming down the street). We made a lot of memories in that shelter.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b><u>I remember being scared. Mostly because my mother was a ball of panic. But the memory of the fear isn't what sticks with me. Its the memories of coming together.</u></b> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">As I grew up, I began traveling to other states, making friends in other places. Inevitably, when people found out I was from Oklahoma, some of our first conversations usually went something like- "<i>Are there still teepees there?</i>"-"<i>You people sure are serious about college football!</i>"- and- "<i><b><u>Aren't you afraid of the tornadoes??</u></b></i>". </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Generally I laughed them off- "<i>We have houses just like you. Of course we are, it's not a joking matter. <b><u>Its not too scary, grab a cushion and a snack and hop in a closet.</u></b>"</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Native Okies have a tendency to become a little 'hum-drum' about tornadoes. Most likely due to our over-panicked mothers and occasionally dramatic weathermen. After all, the majority of the time when clouds rotate and "vortex's" show up on the weather map- nothing happens. We natives are so completely used to it that when the sirens were going off Sunday most of my friends were headed outside to cheer on the paraders at OKC's Pride and I was laying in bed trying to nap, wishing the sirens would be quiet so I could sleep. After all, the tornadoes were 5 miles from me, I was less than worried. I mean its tornado season, this was normal.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQhcuSZwyy5mgHQ3zimTfPgrL15rNnNK676Y8JNgxMpknFQ8QS9kVep3K-4YwDw4DILcRhuzPtciFB8LNgtZ6Yg1GR9DnP6gHFThbIV2SdegYbqqvMPc6g6qgXtvX8Eh8wav4pxr8IRw/s1600/tornado.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQhcuSZwyy5mgHQ3zimTfPgrL15rNnNK676Y8JNgxMpknFQ8QS9kVep3K-4YwDw4DILcRhuzPtciFB8LNgtZ6Yg1GR9DnP6gHFThbIV2SdegYbqqvMPc6g6qgXtvX8Eh8wav4pxr8IRw/s320/tornado.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But last weekend was anything from normal. Sunday evening to Monday afternoon, monstrous tornadoes ripped apart communities and neighborhoods with a force that is rarely seen. It was horrific, devastating, and heart breaking. <b><u>It was not the normal.</u> </b>Red Cross, FEMA, and the National Guard rushed in to help as adults and children alike were being pulled from the rubble. Our local newscasters who are so used to reporting on tornadoes and torn up fields, were breaking down in tears on camera.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">It has been so interesting to watch the difference in reporting between local news and national news. National broadcasts have been flooded with opinions about what Oklahomans should and shouldn't do, where we should have shelters, where we should build homes. One newscaster even said "Parents shouldn't send their children to school on days there might be a tornado." (My mom informed me of this through a series of irritated text messages concerning the 'stupid national news people'). But really, these people have no idea what they're talking about. Basically that means no one would go to school past february.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I have been so impressed with our local news stations. They're reports have been so heartfelt. As we all watched Lance West break down into tears on the scene in Moore, you couldn't help but feel the connection to the victims. Okies have such an incredible way of connecting in times of distress. It happened after the bombing, it happened after the May 3rd tornado in '99, and it is happening now. Oklahomans are resilient, and no matter how hard we get beat down, nothing can keep us from getting back up. Not even the most powerful tornado in American history.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><u>It only took 24 hours for Red Cross to announce they were no longer taking In Kind donations- they had received more than enough bottled water and other goods. </u></span></b><br />
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I don't know how many interviews I have watched of people who have lost <u>everything</u> and they stand with a smile on their face- grateful to be alive, and ready to help their neighbors dig through piles of what used to be their homes. Time and time again I hear people who have not two pennies to rub together and only the clothes on their body, and yet they are spending hours in the rain helping a friend. We are such a community in this state, and I am so blessed to be a part of it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">"Why would anyone want to live in that state?" the rest of the nation asks...</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">BECAUSE, when the Today Show and The Red Cross pack up and head out, we Okies will pull together like we always do. And a few years from now we'll all remember being scared, we'll all remember being sad, but thats not what will stick the most. <b><u>It'll be the memories of coming together.</u></b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>A teacher finding his student after the tornado</b></span></div>
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<b>If you are looking for a way to help or would like to donate, please make your first option a local charity. <a href="https://app.e2ma.net/app/view:CampaignPublic/id:1722661.13071274641/rid:d1a6840974c114b5a44510ef9068c384" target="_blank">Infant Crisis Services</a> is an incredible local organization, you can be sure donating to them will directly impact lives of infants.</b></div>
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Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-1061869163716288742013-05-18T00:53:00.001-05:002013-05-18T00:53:21.347-05:00And exhale, its over.I have completely ignored my space this week. And I gotta say, I really missed it. All week long something would happen and I'd think- I need to write that down!<br />
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I never wrote it down.<br />
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And now that I have finished up this whirlwind week of 4 final exams, 6 final projects, and a full work schedule, I really can't remember anything. Honestly, I didn't bury my head in the books. I didn't stay up all night studying. In fact, a handful of times J caught me outside digging in the dirt, or working on a new crafts project, and would ask- "Don't you have studying to do?"<br />
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The truth is, my brain gave up on me this week. I came to the conclusion that I had given this semester all that I really could. I had invested my brainpower into those classes to the fullest extent, and I had nothing left to give. I mean really, after 16 weeks if I don't know the information by now a few hours of studying wasn't going to help.<br />
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So instead, I worked in the front flower bed, I built a patio in the backyard, I de-weeded the entire perimeter of our property. Basically I shut my brain off and played in the dirt. It was perfect. I even spent a couple of hours one afternoon on a puppy date with Indira.<br />
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Well, it started out as a puppy date. We wanted to take the kids downtown to the Botanical Gardens dog park. But our plan was interrupted when Kid Cudi (one hot mess of an animal) decided he'd rather try to kill himself. Twice. Seriously the dog has a death wish. This kid leapt from the back of my jeep, over two seats, over Indira's head, and out the passenger window. The window of a MOVING vehicle. A couple more stunts from him and we decided dog time was over.<br />
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It was probably for the best, the result of our failed play-date was a carafe of mimosas on the patio of Sauced, and my first sunburn of the season- Huzzah!<br />
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This week held so much information- Asolid talk about my future with a professor, an enlightening presentation by a local feminist artist, a lesson in "how to build a patio"... Don't worry, I will cover them all in blogs to come.<br />
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But for now, I am going to bed, resigning from this week with a sense of accomplishment. 17 hours of classes while working full time? Check it off the list. Won't be happening again.<br />
<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-32499666393756296642013-05-13T12:13:00.000-05:002013-05-13T12:13:24.896-05:00New Mommy Monday #1<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: 18px;">I'm super excited for this new guest writing segment... After a little prodding, my sister has agreed to take over my blog on Mondays! With everything on her plate, having a brand new little nugget, I was pretty surprised when she took me up on the offer. But I couldn't be more excited for everyone to get a little glimpse into her world. So from here on out, I declare Mondays, "New Mommy Monday." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #741b47; font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: medium;">Welcome to the wonderful world of blogging Sister, this is now your space to put all your stuff, too. Hope you enjoy it!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Well, let me begin by apologizing. You see when my sister asked to me to guest
post on her blog my initial reaction was to laugh…for several reasons. The main two
reasons being that 1) I never
once envisioned being a part of anything entitled “Mommy Mondays” and 2) my
life is so frazzled and turned upside down right now that I’m lucky if I can
put together a coherent sentence or even finish one without being distracted by
something else. Reason #2 is why I am
apologizing. I love reading my sister’s
blog. She has a way with words. I feel like I might be disappointing a few of
her readers with my bumbled thoughts on this new mommy life. Don’t get me wrong, I love to write…in my
journal…where no one else can read/judge it….
My sister however insists that this is a good idea. She says that other new moms may enjoy
it. So there you go. If this sucks and Mommy Mondays are a bust,
blame it on her. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Our original plan for this segment of her blog was to start
this Monday with thoughts on Mother’s Day, but as Sunday was coming to a close
I seriously began to doubt that this Monday’s deadline was going to be met. I’ve come to the conclusion that babies have
this radar that alerts them anytime Mom is trying to accomplish something (i.e.
eat, check email, eat, go to the bathroom, sleep, eat, and most especially
blog) and immediately wakes them up.
It’s remarkable how Emma can be dead asleep and suddenly wake up the
second I sit down. It’s a gift really,
one that I haven’t quite adjusted to yet.
But tonight a Mother’s Day miracle has occurred and my precious baby is
asleep at 9:30….9:30!!!! And so is my
husband. This means I have an hour and a
half of peace and quiet and my computer before I have to feed her again. I should be sleeping while she’s sleeping as
many, many, many people have instructed me but sometimes writing in the quiet
dark living room with a glass of milk and a giant piece of my mom’s chocolate
sheet cake is just as therapeutic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">As I sit here thinking about my first Mother’s Day, I’m
still a little bit in shock. It sill has
not quite registered that I am a mom, that I get to celebrate Mother’s Day for
a whole new reason this year. I feel
like I’ve joined some special club, one that I’m not sure I’ve earned my spot
in yet. I have after all only been doing
this for 2 months. But despite my
newness, I have gained a whole new appreciation for mothers. Everyone told me I would understand my own
mom better after having a baby of my own and it’s true. It took me these whole two months to truly
realize it, but I never gave moms enough credit. This mom thing is by far the absolute hardest
thing I have EVER done (and I’m a middle school art teacher….try having 150 thirteen
year olds in and out of your room all day with paint…). It’s not just the lack of sleep and endless
pooping that makes this difficult. I
expected all of that. It’s the complete
emotional exhaustion of loving someone more than you ever thought possible and
the giving of yourself so completely and not even realizing it until you lay
down at night that completely caught me by surprise. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">My body and my mind have taken a beating over
the last several months and I have found myself doing and saying things I never
imagined, but I wouldn’t change it for the world. I can’t imagine life without her. After experiencing these things personally, I
found myself today feeling so bad for every year I treated Mother’s Day with a
last minute/half ass attitude (although I’m sure I’ll be repaid by my own
daughter one day) Mom, I want to take this time to personally say I’m sorry for
the many gifts of coupon books and candles over the years. You deserve SO much
more. Like a hot bath with a glass of
wine in complete silence…or maybe that’s just my wishful thinking right now. I could go on and on (as I did in my journal
earlier) about all of my thoughts on Mother’s Day but I’m going to leave it at
this and also leave with a huge thank you to every mom out there. A genuine thank you from your children that
are either too little or too cool or too busy to say it. YOU are
incredible. Our world would not function
without you….literally. I’ll also leave
you with a few incredibly cute pics of my own little one that made me a momma
this year. How could it not all be worth
it when you see that smile. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">That’s all
the thanks I need. Life is sweet.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">On My Mother's Day gift from "Emma," aka the hubs.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">A swing for my girl who loves being outside!</span></div>
</div>
<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-82176460262492232232013-05-12T10:47:00.000-05:002013-05-12T10:47:47.159-05:00And She Understood: Happy Day Momma!<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="color: #8e7cc3;"> For everyone who was unable to make it to the show last weekend, this was my story. Today seemed especially appropriate to share it with you. I hope every last one of you is enjoying today. I will be spending the day with my mother, my sister (the new mother), and later I'll be playing in my yard with my own children- the furry ones. Happy Day!</span></span></b></div>
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<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">And so was I.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">I was ahead of the game, as far as “blossoming” goes. I had boobs. Good
ones. And I thought it was time everyone knew that.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">I almost made it to spring break before my mother realized- it was not in
fact the darn dryer that was shrinking my clothes, but was me and my top of the
line Bernina. My new wardrobe consisted of the DEEPEST of V-necks and SNUGGEST
of slim fit tee’s. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">OH, The boys noticed. The girls noticed the boys noticing. And my mother
noticed, she was in for a treat of a teenager to raise.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">Now, everyone says being a new mom is a challenge. Moms with freshly
popped out babies get thrown up on, screamed at, and sob-snotted on.
(Sob-snotting is what I call the fluids that come out of your face when you are
completely and ridiculously upset). </span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">What my mom didn’t realize, is that she would have to endure this phase
of my life more than once. Puking, screaming, and sob-snotting were all too familiar
to my teenage years. If you think its tough to put up with a newborn, try it
with a menstrual mad-woman who is 15 years old and freakishly taller than you. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">When I was two I would run from my mother in the grocery store looking
for women in long skirts, with every intention of throwing their skirts up,
revealing to all of Homeland their Victoria’s Secret merchandise.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">This, too, was accustomed to my teen years. Except it was MY skirt being
thrown up, and MY Victoria’s Secret merchandise being revealed. And instead of
in the local grocer, it was in the Burger King parking lot. Which just so
happened to be the cool kid hangout of my small town.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">I’m gonna spare you all the gory, whorey details of the rest of my
teenage years. They go along like most women’s tormented youth. Too many boys
and bad decisions to count. Too many friends lost, too many gained. Pointless,
painful tears cried.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">And all along the way, each moment, both dreadful and overjoyed, were
ended with a hug from my mother. A mother who could never understand, or so I
thought.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">The older I got, the less frequent the screaming became, the bigger the
problems became, and the closer my mother and I became.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">I remember the exact moment we crossed that threshold, the line that was
drawn between mother and teenage daughter.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">I had so many secrets from those “lost years” (or so I like to call them).
I couldn’t forgive myself for them. I had flourished right on out of those
horrible mistakes and bad decision-making skills. But I still had the memories,
and guilt.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">My mother saw right through me. She was visiting me in college, my
sophomore year. Nineteen. Somehow, as mothers do, she recognized that I was
hurting, from secrets I didn’t want to hide but was too afraid to share.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">She put me in the car, drove me to the nearest convenience store. Put the
car in the park, and went inside. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">My Mother. The conservative, God-fearing, rule-following woman… came out
with two Tall-Boy Bud Lights. I was surprised to say the least.</span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">She cracked open the beer and sat it in front of me… “now spill it.” … I thought,
‘What the hell? What do I have to lose?’ and in that moment I let her in. I
did. I unleashed. I revealed my broken heart. Broken from both my actions, and those
of others. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">I had beaten myself down so far and had become so ashamed, that I thought
there was no chance of recovery. Nonetheless, I poured out my stories to her,
with unprecedented amounts of sob-snotting. </span></b><b style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="line-height: 200%;">Finally, she knew what I came from. She knew who I’d been hiding. She
knew me</span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;">In that moment everything changed. We were no longer Mom and teenage
daughter. Instead, it was two women. We were two women, connected by the
strongest bond possible, that of a mother and daughter. I had bared my soul,
and my secrets.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"> In that moment, she was more than
my mother. She was my friend. She loved me.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><u> And, as I assume she probably
always had, she most definitely understood.</u></span></b></div>
</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLN1TFAxK_f-J-2KPLUoYZprR8PUrsX7e6hRTbjjGVIsfB2YHuFOzBKZ5jp1yPxKNs6LrXtb0WGK7hyQ_8Qa6nyq4TN2n9lwuenP4JagTrfW_3brmtxpWMExuqRYBe2rQTYAvt9fHWtl4/s1600/941283_10200575788290496_234886673_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLN1TFAxK_f-J-2KPLUoYZprR8PUrsX7e6hRTbjjGVIsfB2YHuFOzBKZ5jp1yPxKNs6LrXtb0WGK7hyQ_8Qa6nyq4TN2n9lwuenP4JagTrfW_3brmtxpWMExuqRYBe2rQTYAvt9fHWtl4/s320/941283_10200575788290496_234886673_n.jpg" width="320" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRNwpV2h4JzXcVVeCE7pb8c4J6qzsr-7cGFd5QlJ6xs7PO9O57-I-cj1ma4afmqPzbSBY5GSmVtYq90xp3KxBpd2F2tXtEIag0cLHQO5nW10CeeKYa_saOJIeJNwQnhu0btihXcuEpOA/s1600/931194_10200575787690481_675241356_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRNwpV2h4JzXcVVeCE7pb8c4J6qzsr-7cGFd5QlJ6xs7PO9O57-I-cj1ma4afmqPzbSBY5GSmVtYq90xp3KxBpd2F2tXtEIag0cLHQO5nW10CeeKYa_saOJIeJNwQnhu0btihXcuEpOA/s320/931194_10200575787690481_675241356_n.jpg" width="320" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfx_9HHkSWp-1TglrhiRHV_SSEDxvtSPhkM22qWsdgLxal1wT6XfS4NuPkLqa7rcmewDc9jZ58QqPxMjQ-tZpOv65-t_w9_KDw_cnVT45lGNgGlA1fed8KFDvy58kP_Ixct-uxsPJ_4s/s1600/941675_10200575792050590_1521279335_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMfx_9HHkSWp-1TglrhiRHV_SSEDxvtSPhkM22qWsdgLxal1wT6XfS4NuPkLqa7rcmewDc9jZ58QqPxMjQ-tZpOv65-t_w9_KDw_cnVT45lGNgGlA1fed8KFDvy58kP_Ixct-uxsPJ_4s/s320/941675_10200575792050590_1521279335_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-6854263707294417922013-05-08T22:37:00.000-05:002013-05-08T22:37:27.297-05:00That one time when we all took the leap<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next thing I knew, I was stuck behind a tall black iron gate, trying desperately to climb to the top. I was shouting, oh boy was I shouting. On the other side of the gate, a woman stared at me, shouting back- "YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT!" That's all she would say. Over and over, she said it again and again. There was a man behind me pulling me down to the ground by the leg of my pants. </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Still, I continued to climb the iron gate, shaking the man off of my leg, I continued to shout desperate ramblings from the top of my lungs. What I was saying? I'm not sure. What height I was trying to reach? Again, its unclear. But one thing I know, I was determined. </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I was almost to the top of the gate, ready to make the leap over, when the woman sternly yelled one last time- "CAN YOU NOT HEAR ME? <u>I SAID, YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT!</u>"</span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"<b><u>BUT I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY!</u></b>" I replied with all the determination I could muster, and took the leap. </span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">....And then I woke up.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
Odd dreams are nothing new for this girl. They happen almost every night for me. So, Sunday morning when I woke from this one I shook it off, like all the others. Honestly, there was so much more on my mind. The day had finally come. It was the inaugural show of Listen To Your Mother in OKC.<br />
<br />
All I really remember from Sunday morning are the feelings. I know that I woke up a flustered mess, full of doubt and fear.<br />
<br />
Me: "Am I really going to do this?"<br />
Amy: "Of course you are, its going to be great!"<br />
Me: "How do you know that? Everyone says that, no one can know for sure!"<br />
Amy: "Would you just calm down? Misti and Heather have told you over and over, this is going to be a life-altering afternoon, just embrace it ok?"<br />
Me: "Amy, in case you haven't noticed, you are in the middle of a conversation with yourself...again, I think that's a pretty solid piece of evidence that you are not, in fact, prepared for today."<br />
Amy: "I never claimed to be emotionally prepared for today, but I am ready to do this, because, well I have to be."<br />
<br />
This conversation, and ones like it, continued through most of my morning. Justin was out running errands, getting us ready for the day. So here I was, stuck at home arguing with myself about my level of preparedness.<br />
<br />
FINALLY, it was time to head to the theater. I couldn't believe how excited I was to see my cast-mates! It really is crazy to me now, that only several weeks ago most of us were strangers. I COULD NOT wait to see them, hug them, freak out with them.<br />
<br />
We met in the green room, where we snacked, primped, gave gifts, did yoga (thanks to Suzanne), and just loved on each other. We did our run through, checked out the stage setup, and all was set to go. Now was time to hangout and wait.<br />
<br />
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<br />
A group of us made our way onto the patio to chill out and get some fresh air. As I turned to look behind me, there it was. The tall, black iron gate. Staring at me. The gate opened up to a walkway, the one that would soon lead our entire cast to the backstage door. I immediately remembered my dream. And this gate, well it was identical.<br />
<br />
<br />
I stood looking at it, and realized, my dream had not been nonsense at all. The iron gate represented all of the obstacles between me and getting on that stage, (the doubts, fears, stresses). And here it was, right in front of me, it was the only thing between me and the route to my podium.<br />
<br />
<br />
In my head, I pictured myself climbing over the gate instead of going through it, and jumping off.<br />
<br />
<br />
As we walked on to the stage, the crowd welcomed us with huge applause. We all looked around at each other as we were taking our seats. Some already had tears in their eyes (*ahem, me), we all had smiles, and the looks in our eyes said it all. <span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>We were ready to jump off.</b></span><br />
<br />
I sat while several of my new friends shared their beautiful stories. When Misti said my name, I grabbed my hankie, walked to the podium, and took a deep breath. I kept myself from yelling it, but what I heard in my head was...<br />
<b><u><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></u></b>
<span style="color: #3d85c6; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b><u>"I have so much to say."</u></b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-43740727695155770692013-04-30T09:10:00.001-05:002013-04-30T09:20:12.937-05:00Everybody's Got One<i><span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">There were 4 long tables, set in a square, chairs facing inward.... </span></i><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;">All 16 of us arrived to the room after a lunch date at Irma's Burger Shack, where we sat and giggled and ate greasy, yummy food. We had spent the lunch hour together, getting to know everyone a little better. We laughed, OH how we laughed. We talked about what we were going to wear on Sunday, and how we should do our hair. "Should I wear heels or flats? I don't want to fall on stage!"</span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="color: purple;">We arrived to this room of 4 tables on a high note, with sneaking suspicions that we would be hitting an incredible array of both high and low notes in the next 2 hours ahead. We couldn't have been more right. </span></b><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;">The first story had us in stitches, laughing until we almost cried...The second story brought the painful lump to our throats, crying until we, well... we cried. And so on and so forth. We were up, we were down, we were in, we were out...pfffft, I've never gone so many directions in such a short period of time!</span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;">I just sat in awe of these incredible people. So ready, to be so honest. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;">Hands shook, voices quivered, mine did both for sure. Even during the *happy parts. It was nerve racking, really. To share a moment in your life, a moment that means something to you, it doesn't matter where it lands on the scale of emotion, its personal, and its yours. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;">That's my favorite part about this whole thing we're doing. The HONESTY. I was touched and brought to tears by <u><b>every single story</b>.</u> The content didn't matter. Don't get me wrong, the content is great- really, really great. But the raw, honest, truth of these moments and the presentation of them, it's so pure, and its so relieving. </span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;">I sat there, watching each woman (*ahem and the one man), who were relatively strangers a month ago, unzip themselves and lay it out on the table. I couldn't help but think to myself, "That's what you had to share? I had no idea!" We have spent the last several weeks getting to know each other, through Facebook messages and the initial meeting. We had spent the afternoon at Irma's together laughing and bonding.</span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;">"And then you just dropped that on me?" I thought. How incredible. It makes you think about everyone you know, everyone you have met. What's underneath the surface? What's inside the zipped up exterior?</span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-size: large;">Everyone has one, a story that is. </span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="color: purple; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;">We are not unlike any others. This <a href="http://www.listentoyourmothershow.com/oklahomacity/" target="_blank">Listen To Your Mother</a> cast is consisted of everyday members of your community, we are your neighbor, your friend, your sister, your brother. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;">Sure, we have been given an incredible opportunity, a platform to stand on, a podium to stand behind, and we are ready and excited to share our stories with you. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;">I can only hope this opens the gate for everyone else. I hope people realize- You don't need a podium to share yourself with the world. A little bravery is all it takes. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: purple;"><b><i>Be Brave, Be Honest. Tell your story. I can promise you, it feels so good.</i></b></span><br />
<span style="color: purple;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<span style="color: purple;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><i>Ann Imig- the one who started this whole thing, gives you a glimpse into what's happening. Take a second to watch this, great insight into what we're doing on Sunday.</i></b></span></div>
</div>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Vgi_PVtZlfI?feature=player_embedded" width="533"></iframe>
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: purple;"><br /></span>Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-32896001453423885832013-04-28T21:11:00.000-05:002013-05-12T10:48:32.776-05:00Marathoners, Mothers, and Mamasita's<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;">And then there was that one day, when I couldn't get it together, and I just cried all day long.... Seriously, Amy, pull yourself together.</span></i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
6:30 a.m. does not come easily to me on a Sunday. Well, usually. Today I woke up 10 minutes before my alarm went off, bright and eyed and bushy tailed. I had never gotten up in time to cheer on the OKC Memorial Marathoners before. This year I decided to make it a priority. Misti had talked it up so much to me that I couldn't help but wake up excited.<br />
<br />
It was more than I bargained for. Call it lack of sleep, or maybe its my period, I don't know. But when I walked up to the corner of 39th and Shartel, holding my gas station coffee in one hand and Regina in the other, I immediately felt a rush of emotion. Clearly, I was feeding off the energy of the crowd.<br />
<br />
"GOOD MORNING! WAY TO GO! THANK YOU FOR RUNNING! KEEP IT UP!" Misti yelled. Mark, her boyfriend, stood next to her clapping and grinning ear to ear. The occasional "WOO!" coming out of him.<br />
<br />
"WE'RE SO PROUD OF YOU!" Misti screamed.<br />
<br />
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Everyone was clapping. Everyone was woo-ing. Even Regina, the little pup loved it. She ran in circles and howled with the crowd.<br />
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We were at mile 6 of the 23 mile race. In the middle of a huge wave of runners, near the lead, was an older man keeping up with pace. He was in a wheel chair. And that's when I lost my shit. Not far behind was a man running his heart out, pushing a reclined wheelchair-a young boy in it. Lost it again.<br />
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It's been over 12 hours since then, still haven't fully regained my composure. It was an inspiring morning. 2 hours of clapping, cheering, and crying wore me out.<br />
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Thank God, I snuck a nap in afterward. I had a feeling the next thing on the day's agenda would be emotionally exhausting. I had no idea how much of an understatement that would be.<br />
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Today was our first table read for our Listen To Your Mother cast. We have been interacting together for weeks now, but our directors asked us to keep our stories a secret until today. I truly wish I could expound on the experience, but to be honest, I don't have it in me tonight.<br />
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All I can say is that it was gratifying, validating, emotional, hilarious....inspiring to say the least. I will follow up more on it later this week before the show. But for now, I've really just got to pull it together.<br />
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I am so in awe of the raw honesty of these lovely cast-mates, and so excited for this movement that is happening. I love that as a society we are running away from that June Cleaver, perfect on the outside, I have all my stuff together persona....and finally being honest.<br />
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This show is going to be great. Really, really, great.<br />
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Misti and I headed to Mamasita's for a nightcap and some wind down conversation. More laughter, more tears, (at this point I'm just feeling ridiculous). Her friendship has become so dear to me, and this week is her last one at the salon. I'm so proud of her and so excited for the direction her life is heading, but can't help but to feel a little selfish and wishing she would stay with me.<br />
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As for me, I'm putting myself to bed. My eyes hurt from tears, and my abs hurt from laughter. I'm going to sleep SO good tonight.<br />
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<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-89280277298907041782013-04-26T08:12:00.000-05:002013-04-26T08:13:26.086-05:00OKC Arts Festival 2013"Understanding Art in OKC" wins the prize for best college class ever! Each week we take a little field trip to discover galleries and art shows here in Oklahoma City. Last night, we spent the evening perusing the Oklahoma City Arts Festival.<br />
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So. Much. Fun. </div>
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We have an incredible professor named Narciso, who is less concerned about grades, and more concerned with growing his students understanding and passion for the arts world. This class is such a great reminder of why I'm doing this school thing. It's not about the grade, it's about the education. </div>
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I'm gonna keep tonight's post short and sweet, but not without leaving you a little peak into my fun-filled evening with a video I shot last night at the festival. Hope you enjoy the video, then head downtown this weekend and enjoy The Arts. It is so worth it.</div>
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<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="300" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/ovqDqR2oWRw?feature=player_detailpage" width="533"></iframe>Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1366374137561419658.post-66903648145777567792013-04-23T09:52:00.002-05:002013-04-23T09:52:20.955-05:00Just keep running, just keep running, running.....<div>
The last week or so has felt more or less like I'm in my very own version of a classic nursery rhyme. You know the one, with the little old woman and the little old man. The little ol' pig, little ol' bird, the cow, and horse. Anywho, they're all chasing this Gingerbread Man. The little old woman is hungry and has a craving for a sweet treat. She gets about halfway through the process of making this dream come true, and off he goes. Running Away!</div>
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My modern twist to this classic tale goes slightly different. </div>
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"Run, run, run, as fast as you can! You can't catch me, I'm......life." Ergh, not the fairy tale character I was expecting to chase. And yet, here I am. 4 weeks left in my semester, halfway through this whole school process. I'm well on my way to making my dreams come true, and yet.....I'm running. \</div>
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Gotta keep those grades up, Lord knows the panic that'll ensue if I get a B. Gotta get these projects done. Gotta get my application done for next semester. Gotta make sure I'm still on the right track. And there's work, and there's personal projects, and then there's.....wait? Where'd it go? ugh....gotta start chasing it again. </div>
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It keeps getting away from me!</div>
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I'm tired. I'm really tired. </div>
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I have got to get off the defense. I am playing defense in my own life. Not ok. That was this little old woman's whole problem. Who I really need to take lessons from is the sly and hungry fox. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white;"> Then the gingerbread man</span><span style="background-color: white;"> reached a wide river</span><span style="background-color: white;">, but he </span></span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">didn't know how to swim. A sly and hungry fox </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">saw the gingerbread man </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> and said, "Jump on my tail, and I'll take you across the river</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">!" </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> The gingerbread man </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">thought to himself, "I'll be safe on his tail." So he jumped on the fox's </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> tail and they started across the river</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> Halfway across the river</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">, the fox </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">barked, "You're too heavy for my tail, jump on my back." So the gingerbread man</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> jumped on the fox's </span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">back. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> Soon, the fox</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> said, "You're too heavy for my back, jump onto my nose." So the gingerbread man</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> jumped on the fox's</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> nose. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> As soon as they reached the riverbank, the fox</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> flipped the gingerbread man</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"> into the air, snapped his mouth shut, and ate the gingerbread man</span><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;">. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And that was the end of the gingerbread man <img border="0" height="31" src="http://www.enchantedlearning.com/ggifs/Gingerbreadboy.GIF" width="22" />. </span></div>
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<b><span style="color: #b45f06; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So that's the plan. I'm gonna trick life into jumping on my back. I'm getting on the offense of this situation. And I'm going to win, because, well, that's the only choice I'm giving myself.</span></b></div>
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<b><i>....Was that the strangest blog post of all time? Further proof that my brain is tired....the finals week delusions are having an early onset this semester.....</i></b></div>
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<br />Amy Herringtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13147214956239338614noreply@blogger.com2