tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30576167649281187902024-03-13T05:05:26.049-06:00Uncommon NotionsFinding joy in everyday living.Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.comBlogger172125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-40478370235704491102011-02-03T14:36:00.005-07:002011-02-03T14:50:03.428-07:00Cooking Up a Brainstorm<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TUsi2_Lr84I/AAAAAAAAAxg/l3QHrSMNCn0/s1600/krabby%2Bpatties.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TUsi2_Lr84I/AAAAAAAAAxg/l3QHrSMNCn0/s400/krabby%2Bpatties.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5569583692242482050" border="0" /></a>Mothering involves a tremendous knowledge of a variety subjects. Today it was cooking. Probably because D3 was feeling hungry.<br /><br />"What do you make when you mix fruit snacks, ice cream and cucumbers?" she asked.<br /><br />"Funny Salad," I answered, hoping that didn't sound tasty enough for her to want to actually make it.<br /><br />"Hmmmmm. What do you make when you mix bananas, Krabby Patties and popcorn?" D3 ventured.<br /><br />"Sweet Krabby Pattie Pop" I quickly replied, feeling pretty proud of that response.<br /><br />"Oh," D3 said, dejected. "I'm trying to make soup, but I guess I'm just not a good cooker."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-28601373623464212842011-01-27T13:09:00.005-07:002012-10-14T17:57:13.035-06:00Fraidy in Waiting<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TUHTsjJyvwI/AAAAAAAAAxU/vSjZw2UjTtQ/s1600/waiting.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566963376710663938" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TUHTsjJyvwI/AAAAAAAAAxU/vSjZw2UjTtQ/s400/waiting.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 300px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 400px;" /></a>Waiting is not my forte. Whether it is waiting for a baby to be born, a missionary to come home, or a football game to end, my obstetrician, a certain young man that served in South America, or my husband, can all provide corroborating testimony that in this regard, I lack even a glimpse of talent.<br />
<br />
I believe it is because I dislike (am afraid of?) the unknown. Since the bulk of the future is unknown, the sooner it gets here, the way I see it, the better.<br />
<br />
Today D3 and I found ourselves in one of those dreaded lingering situations. As she and I sat, I tried to console ourselves, "Waiting is no fun, huh?"<br />
<br />
"What? No, Mom. I love it. I just like to sit here...in the quiet and the peace. It's fun."<br />
<br />
Proof that she was switched at birth continues to grow.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-54389768858309641712011-01-26T11:13:00.008-07:002011-01-26T11:48:52.350-07:00Search and Eager<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TUBsH9GaeKI/AAAAAAAAAxM/IVPztsxSZeQ/s1600/split.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TUBsH9GaeKI/AAAAAAAAAxM/IVPztsxSZeQ/s400/split.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5566568023346280610" border="0" /></a>This morning, D3 was unable to find the Band-Aids®. Which is a shock because we have a gallon-sized Ziploc of 1,879 of the life-saving stickers. <br /><br />I admit that the quantity of Band-Aids® in our home is enough to supply a small country for the remainder of 2011. But I can't help but buy more when they are on sale and I have a coupon that will be doubled at the cash register. These continued purchasing decisions of the minuscule patches are based on adrenaline and are irrespective of our overflowing home inventory. (Acknowledgment is the first step.)<br /><br />My only real mistake was to organize them and place all 1,879 of them in a <span style="font-style: italic;">single </span>bag. Because as of 8:43 this morning, the said bag is AWOL.<br /><br />Undeterred, D3 came up with a search plan.<br /><br />"We'll split up!" she ordered with the pointer on her right hand denoting east and the pointer on her left, directing west.<br /><br />I couldn't help but crack a smile. D3 noticed.<br /><br />"Mom, it works <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>the time on Scooby Doo," she assured.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-85033703062614154862011-01-21T09:08:00.008-07:002011-01-21T09:50:26.648-07:00Do You Adore Me? Because That Would be Super!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TTm1gSNKRcI/AAAAAAAAAxE/KmBJ8l4MIHU/s1600/wonder-woman-carter.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 297px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TTm1gSNKRcI/AAAAAAAAAxE/KmBJ8l4MIHU/s400/wonder-woman-carter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564678380840437186" border="0" /></a><br />Most of my children are teenagers or are in the process of evolving into that species. In part this means they will no longer admit, despite my awesomeness, that I am the most amazing person they know. I don't necessarily need the verbal accolades, but some respect for the assistance I can provide them would be nice. For example, allowing me more than ten seconds to help them with their math homework before cutting me off mid-sentence and refusing to listen any further - that would be something new and fun to try.<br /><br />So while giving birth to a tail-ender like D3 at the ripe old age of 37 was torture on my hip joints, it has since proved to be very good for the ego. Because D3 is still miles away from the dreaded teen-age years.<br /><br />Yesterday, I was "helping" D3 clean her room. This means she picks up one toy for every 27 that I put away. I sent her to put a cup in the kitchen while I continued to work on the myriad of miniature Polly Pocket accessories, Barbie sandals, and Happy Meal toys. When she finally returned, her room had seemingly been transformed right before her eyes.<br /><br />"Mom!" she shouted in amazement, "Are you some kind of superhero or something?"<br /><br />Why yes! I am! Thank you for noticing.<br /><br />It should be no wonder to her older siblings why I act like she's my favorite.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-36839600390134690262011-01-19T12:50:00.009-07:002011-01-19T13:12:01.265-07:00What Kind of Life?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TTdD6MjZ0eI/AAAAAAAAAw0/yd8hpCYgA84/s1600/medium_Ski%2BUT%2Bplate.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 120px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/TTdD6MjZ0eI/AAAAAAAAAw0/yd8hpCYgA84/s400/medium_Ski%2BUT%2Bplate.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5563990531720729058" border="0" /></a>Recently I had the pleasure of driving from Irvine, California to Orem, Utah.<br /><br />D2 sat in the front seat and kept me company the entire way home. For the first 4 hours from Irvine to Las Vegas this meant non-stop chatter. At one point, she asked,<br /><br />"Mom, do you ski with sticks or without?"<br /><br />"Neither," I replied.<br /><br />"What?" she asked. My little snow bunny was certain she had heard me incorrectly. Growing up in the state with unarguably the best snow on earth, she has been in countless snowboarding lessons and enjoyed many hours at a local ski resort.<br /><br />I, however, was raised in Iowa. Although the Hawkeye state is known for many great things, powdery ski slopes is not one of them.<br /><br />"Neither," I repeated. "I've never been skiing."<br /><br />"Snowboarding?" she asked.<br /><br />"No," I confirmed.<br /><br />"No skiing either?" she double checked.<br /><br />"No. No skiing. No snowboarding."<br /><br />Shaking her head in disappointment, she sympathized,<br /><br />"What kind of life have you lived?"<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-73592105821727690582010-11-29T22:47:00.001-07:002010-11-29T22:47:12.544-07:00Christmas Card Sneak Peek<div class="sflyProductPreviewWidget" style="width:425px; height:494px;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetTop" style="height:6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/top.gif);"></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetCenter" style="height:482px; padding: 0 6px 0 6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/bg.gif); background-repeat:repeat-y;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewLogo" style="width: 105px; height: 34px; padding: 14px 0 0 14px;"><img src="http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/logo.gif"></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewContainer" style="height:350px; text-align:center; padding: 0;"><a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery"><img src="http://images-community.shutterfly.com/prs/v1/0BcOG7Vmzbs2/0BcOG7Vmzbs2cW/p/67b0de21b3127d902548/JPEG/1291095993000/0/"></a></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewMessageContainer" style="height:55px; background-color:#f4f4e9; text-align:center; padding: 15px 0 15px 0; line-height: 19px;"><div class="sflyProductPreviewTitle" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 15px; color: #333333; font-weight: bold;"><span>Family Wall Noir Christmas Card</span></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewSEOText" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 13px; color: #333333;"><span>Shop Shutterfly for elegant <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/" style="color: #6666cc;">custom Christmas photo cards</a>.</span></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewViewCollection" style="font-family: arial, sans-seris; font-size: 13px; color: #333333;"><span>View the entire <a href="http://www.shutterfly.com/cards-stationery" style="color: #6666cc;">collection</a> of cards.</span></div><img width="1" height="1" border="0" src="https://os.shutterfly.com/b/ss/sflyshareprod/1/H.15/111?pageName=sharekey&c1=msc&c2=blogger" /></div></div><div class="sflyProductPreviewWidgetBottom" style="height:6px; background-image:url(http://cdn.staticsfly.com/img_/share/preview/msc/widget/bottom.gif);"></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-44757404567064576542010-03-14T09:06:00.008-06:002010-03-14T09:42:22.348-06:00It's OK. I'll Sleep Later. When I'm Dead.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/S50C8qogYDI/AAAAAAAAAvg/03nwE4ubPpE/s1600-h/sleep.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 304px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/S50C8qogYDI/AAAAAAAAAvg/03nwE4ubPpE/s400/sleep.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5448514365447757874" border="0" /></a>It's 9 o'clock on a Sunday morning, but for some reason <span style="font-style: italic;">feels </span>like 8 AM. I'm fairly certain I have no one to blame except Benjamin Franklin and his not-so-forward thinking invention of Daylight Savings Time. If only he had stopped at the lightening rod and bifocals. He obviously never had to plan a conference call while sitting at a desk in Utah. For a caller in Boston. That will be calling people in India and Singapore. Sending the appointment on a Friday. For a meeting that will be held on a Tuesday. After Daylight Savings Time happens on that Sunday. But they pay me the Big Bucks to help people figure out stuff like that. Unfortunately, no one pays me Big Bucks to get out of bed on a Sunday morning, especially when church isn't until 1 PM.<br /><br />However, if I sound overly cranky it has less to do with my confused body clock and more to do with the noises in my home. Right now, someone is vacuuming the family room. You heard me correctly. Someone is VACUUMING. You see, NO ONE vacuums unasked in this house. It only happens after they receive a threat of no friends, no television, no video games, or no FOOD. Usually the threat includes all the above before any manual vacuuming labor is actually performed.<br /><br />Early (extra-early) on this particular Sunday morning, I have made no such threats - I'm not even out of bed yet.<br /><br />And that begs the question: "Do I get out of bed and go see what kind of late Saturday night after-mom-and-dad-fell-asleep-from-exhaustion disaster someone is trying to cover up?"<br /><br />Or is it simply best not to know?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-50881841642866083172010-01-30T13:29:00.007-07:002010-01-30T14:11:47.110-07:00Know When to Show Them (Show, as in the Big Screen, Partner)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/S2SgDsaKQ2I/AAAAAAAAAvY/_aJviFjQ9So/s1600-h/Woman+of+the+old+west+004.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/S2SgDsaKQ2I/AAAAAAAAAvY/_aJviFjQ9So/s400/Woman+of+the+old+west+004.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432643035836597090" /></a><br />My dear blog friend from Down Under, <a href="http://www.redbubble.com/people/davidmcmahon?utm_source=RB&utm_medium=banner&utm_campaign=promo_badge_see_profile">David McMahon</a>, has suggested that if he were to cast a blog movie, I (as in yours truly) would play the part of the Wild West Gambler. Me: A movie star! Believe it - cause it's true. You can read all about it <a href="http://eddybluelights.blogspot.com/2010/01/sunday-roast-special.html">here</a>.<div><br /></div><div>As a former thespian I understand the importance of studying and preparing for a role. However, this character is one to which I can already completely relate. First, the obvious similarity. The name. Gamble/Gambler. We are already one in the same. And for the rest? I'm there. Almost entirely. Mostly. Pretty much. Somewhat. A little.<div><br /></div><div>I do think it would be a kick to dress up in a plaid shirt with skinny jeans and a pair of supple <a href="http://www.thefryecompany.com/Product-Women-Boots-Western-77736TAN.aspx">Frye boots</a>. Do movie stars get to keep the clothes? No matter. I'll make sure its in the contract.</div><div><br /></div><div>Any other gaps between the Wild Gambler and I, can be easily bridged with a little tutoring from DH. While gambling is strictly prohibited in our religion. We personally believe playing a little cards with Jolly Ranchers is 'ok'. And to those that know him, it is no surprise that DH is the master of the questionable games. </div><div><br /></div><div>Even without DH, I get most of it. I know that a full house is better than 4-of-a-kind. Or maybe 4-of-a-kind is better. Either way, I know they are both <i>really</i> good. And I know the red cards are diamonds and aces. And the black ones are shovels and those clover things. I can sing the chorus of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Gambler_(song)">Kenny Roger's song</a> by heart. So what else is there to learn? I got this.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hollywood, here I come!</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-78542290625711318432009-10-22T12:51:00.005-06:002009-10-22T13:09:49.080-06:00We Will Never Go to Jimmy Johns Again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SuCtyOsq9qI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/M1lyNy_gRLA/s1600-h/mr+incredible.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SuCtyOsq9qI/AAAAAAAAAvQ/M1lyNy_gRLA/s400/mr+incredible.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395503432040380066" border="0" /></a><br />Out of the blue D2 announced that she hoped she could marry a man like her dad some day. I wanted more detail so I probed, “What is it about Dad that makes you want to marry someone like him?”<br /><br />“Well,” she began, “Isn’t it obvious?”<br /><br />Admittedly I was distracted at the onset of the conversation, but I glanced her direction during her pause and saw her holding her arms up in a traditional muscle man pose. I hid my smile.<br /><br />“Bu-uff,” she announced, flexing her own gymnastics-enhanced guns.<br /><br />And the she quickly added, “And remember that time at Jimmy Johns when that worker yelled at you and he was mean and that was not nice and Dad went back in there and yelled at him and now we will never go to Jimmy Johns again?”<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-53834777007778268122009-04-13T15:39:00.000-06:002019-07-09T15:54:42.343-06:00I Wan Fwen Fwies<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SePTonKUC4I/AAAAAAAAAvA/SKS-TUfFqhA/s1600-h/french_fries.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324331879142525826" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SePTonKUC4I/AAAAAAAAAvA/SKS-TUfFqhA/s400/french_fries.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 309px;" /></a><br />
<br />
When D3 was born I insisted that I was going to raise her as a vegetarian. For the first few months no one gave me much trouble, except in theory. I suppose it is possible that the lack of conflict was due to the fact that her life was sustained by milk alone for those first few months.<br />
<br />
However, as she grew, we naturally starting adding solids to her diet. And the pressure from my family to let her decide whether or not to be a vegetarian for herself increased. I argued that I could raise her to smoke cigarettes too and when she is older, let her decide for herself if she wanted to be a smoker or not. That logic, to me seemed perfectly sane, and yet the reasoning escaped DH and my childrens' thought processes entirely.<br />
<br />
When D3 was 1 year-old, DH "accidentally" fed her a chicken nugget. When I found out I was furious. However, with increased pressure, I soon relented and let them feed her animal flesh. Her diet has increasingly deteriorated from there.<br />
<br />
However, I had not realized to what degree the deterioration had occurred until I went to fill a prescription at Rite Aid via the drive through. Or at least I attempted to fill the prescription.<br />
D3 was settled comfortably in the back seat of the car, when we pull up in the covered drive-thru lane. I believe it was the shade for the overhead cover that first alerted her to something a little abnormal in our errand running afternoon. Then she heard me roll down the window as the outside traffic noise became more apparent.<br />
<br />
"I wan fwen fwies!" she yelled.<br />
<br />
"Hello?" the pharmacist asked.<br />
<br />
"I wan fwen fwies!" she repeated.<br />
<br />
"Hi," I began, "I'd like-"<br />
<br />
"I wan fwen fwies!!"<br />
<br />
"Sorry. I'm needing to-"<br />
<br />
"I wan fwen fwies!!!"<br />
<br />
"I came from the doctor's office and I have a -"<br />
<br />
"Fwen fwies!!!!" "I wan fwen fwies!!!!"<br />
<br />
"Um..." I briefly contemplated my limited options.<br />
<br />
"I WAN FWEN FWIES!"<br />
<br />
"You know what? I'll come back, in a few minutes-"<br />
<br />
"FWEN FWIES! I WAN FWEN FWIES!!!!" She continued. All the way to McDonald's.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-50751428501782610652009-03-20T22:10:00.008-06:002009-03-20T22:28:39.662-06:00Take this Job and Love It<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/ScRrshImkxI/AAAAAAAAAu4/-kNSfxzFEiQ/s1600-h/carwash_sign.36161008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 265px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/ScRrshImkxI/AAAAAAAAAu4/-kNSfxzFEiQ/s400/carwash_sign.36161008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315491872756896530" border="0" /></a><br />D1 wants a job. Like most people, money is her motivation. The other day I took her and her friend down to the local car wash. She heard they hire 14 year-olds, so we decided to start early in the search for summer employment.<br /><br />With D1 in the front seat and her friend in the back, I drove them down the street while coaching them on what to say, what not to say, and how to stand, and how to smile, and who to ask for, and all other things pertinent to this life changing occasion.<br /><br />When we arrived, I sat out in the car while she and her friend ventured inside to the office. A few short minutes later they emerged with white paper forms in their hands, explaining the manager was not in so they were to fill out the paperwork and return another time.<br /><br />As we drove home, D1 reviewed the two-page generic employment application. After a minute she turned around to face the back seat.<br /><br />"I hope they don't put me inside and make me do the books," she told her friend, "I hate paperwork."<br /><br />Her friend nodded silently, barely looking up as she reviewed her own paperwork.<br /><br />"Hmmm..." D1 continued a bit concerned after scanning the application further.<br /><br />"I really hope they don't ask me to manage sales. That would be so boring," she concluded.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-44991298436860478202009-03-20T21:35:00.007-06:002009-03-20T22:09:43.505-06:00A Picture's Worth Three Words<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/ScRnxBZRs-I/AAAAAAAAAuw/er3jgaqH_Fw/s1600-h/DSC00150.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/ScRnxBZRs-I/AAAAAAAAAuw/er3jgaqH_Fw/s400/DSC00150.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315487552089732066" border="0" /></a><br /><div>One of my necklaces has a photo holder charm, inside of which I have a small picture of DH. The photo was taken on vacation, and with his relaxed face framed with an uncommon-for-him and slightly sexy goatee, the picture has become one of my favorites. </div><div> </div><br /><div>Tonight when I leaned over to zip D3's pajamas, she spotted the necklace and shouted in surprise,</div><div> </div><br /><div>"Is that Dad?"</div><div> </div><br /><div>"Yes," I confirmed, "Isn't he cute?"</div><div> </div><br />"No!" she exclaimed while looking at me like I had just suggested she drive the car.<br /><div> </div><br /><div>"I'm cute," she emphatically corrected.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-34830446403640157952009-03-02T20:43:00.007-07:002009-03-02T21:32:31.591-07:00Folks, it Doesn't Get Much Worse Than This<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SayyN-8okRI/AAAAAAAAAuo/nmHYZLP2Eq8/s1600-h/2008-Antarct-1408.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SayyN-8okRI/AAAAAAAAAuo/nmHYZLP2Eq8/s400/2008-Antarct-1408.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5308814014068330770" border="0" /></a><br />This afternoon my cell phone rang.<br /><br />"Hello, Tonia!" I answered my neighbor's call energetically, after noticing the caller id.<br /><br />"Mom, it's me, "D2 clarified.<br /><br />"Why are you calling?" I asked.<br /><br />"D3's ears are hurting her. I think it is because you never clean them and now they are all dirty inside."<br /><br />"Ok, I'll come right home," I promised, as I began to wonder what my neighbor thinks about babies with dirty ears.<br /><br />"And why are you calling me from Tonia's house anyway," I mistakenly inquired before she had a chance to hang up.<br /><br />"You never paid our phone bill, so all our cell phones were shut off today," she shouted, although no one ever has any trouble hearing her at her normal volume.<br /><br />"All right then. Thanks, Sweetie," I mumbled as I pushed the receiver closer to my ear hoping no one around me could hear her.<br /><br />"So you're coming home? And you are going to look at D3's dirty ears?"<br /><br />"Yes. Love."<br /><br />"And you'll pay the phone bill and get our phones turned back on?" she repeated.<br /><br />"Of course, Sweetie," I replied.<br /><br />Then I listened to D2 hang up. I imagined my neighbor kindly smiling as D2 handed the borrowed phone (one with a paid-up bill) back to her and then I expect she gently walked D2 and her little sister with the dirty ears to the her front door, all the while full of pity for the neglected little ones.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-25188626945172237332009-02-19T23:44:00.007-07:002009-02-20T00:27:01.149-07:00Taken Out of ConTEXT?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SZ5XPnEZ_PI/AAAAAAAAAuM/u5WhJTyUSJc/s1600-h/texting.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SZ5XPnEZ_PI/AAAAAAAAAuM/u5WhJTyUSJc/s400/texting.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304773336786140402" border="0" /></a><br />Technology allows me to stay connected with my adorable children. Even when I don't really care to. I was about to clear my text messages on my cell and thought I'd share the following <span style="font-weight: bold;">REAL, untouched</span> examples of the tender messages my children have recently texted to me. Motherhood is so rewarding.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Hey ANSWER YOUR PHONE!<br /><br />Mom i don't think i should be grounded just cause i didn't wash my hair...don't you agree...were you ever grounded cause you didn't wash your hair?<br /><br />Mom my belly button hurts jessica said there could be an infection in there<br /><br />I forgot to do my homework<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(sent to me by D2, when she clearly meant to send it to her best friend) </span><br />do you wanna talk bout boys<br />Mom that was a joke<br />Ha lol<br />Mom it was a joke say something<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(sent to me while I was two rooms away at bed time)</span><br />Mom (D1) has her light on and wont turn it off<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(sent when a package arrived in the mail at Christmas time)</span><br />Mom my Ugg boots came Can I open them?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(sent after I failed to immediately respond to a text message)</span><br />See you dont care about my life do you well good nite person hoo does not care :(<br /><br />Mom will you for once answer your phone<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(sent to me after someone didn't like what I served for dinner)</span><br />Can i have 5 dollars and go get myself a chicken bowl<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-41025291561606803282009-02-19T23:29:00.005-07:002009-02-19T23:44:10.973-07:00Of Mice and Men<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SZ5RLzXb2zI/AAAAAAAAAuE/8b7X4IQ_mnc/s1600-h/lab_rat.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SZ5RLzXb2zI/AAAAAAAAAuE/8b7X4IQ_mnc/s400/lab_rat.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304766674297936690" border="0" /></a><br />We often remind our oldest, that our parenting skills are getting better and better with each child, thanks to all the mistakes we've made parenting him.<br /><br />Family Councils, as we call them, are how we coordinate our family calendar. A few nights ago, we were discussing schedules for the children. When it became known that S1 was about to receive a privilege to drive himself to a special event, S2 started to grumble about the unfairness of the situation. He quickly stopped himself however, and in a sarcastic tone, unusual for him, he confessed,<br /><br />"Oh, that's right. I forgot. You are the Golden Child."<br /><br />S1, who is clear on a regular basis about his many hardships as the oldest child, corrected his little brother,<br /><br />"You mean I'm the Lab Rat. Right?"<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-69091510065512684582008-12-31T13:16:00.004-07:002008-12-31T13:26:56.009-07:00“We are so vain that we even care for the opinion of those we don't care for.” Marie Von Ebner-Eschenbach<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SVvUhCH4mTI/AAAAAAAAAtM/XEB4pU-WGNc/s1600-h/attorney.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 386px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SVvUhCH4mTI/AAAAAAAAAtM/XEB4pU-WGNc/s400/attorney.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286052251620120882" border="0" /></a><br />DH and I (well, mostly DH) have dealt with our fair share of business disappointments and the ensuing legal woes these past couple years. Finding joy in my family and friends has helped me stay positive (at least for the most part) through all of this. In fact it is the reason I started this blog. <br /><br />I never expected to find humor in the legal woes themselves. But if anyone can surprise me, it is DH.<br /><br />One evening DH was on his cell phone when he walked in the front door from work. With a slightly louder and more high pitched tone than is normal, I immediately knew the nature of the call was not social.<br /><br />"My opinion!?" he harshly asked the person on the other end of the phone.<br /><br />"My opinion," he continued, in a slightly softer more satisfactory tone, "is whatever my attorney says it is."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-74490853773985858042008-12-30T14:55:00.006-07:002008-12-31T13:15:12.328-07:00Boogers Bug-her<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SVqbaDo3ZAI/AAAAAAAAAtE/pJrp5rKbEuI/s1600-h/Family+007.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5285707984628311042" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; height: 300px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SVqbaDo3ZAI/AAAAAAAAAtE/pJrp5rKbEuI/s400/Family+007.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>While driving in the car, D3, buckled in her lounge recliner/car seat, suddenly shouted, "Mom!" </div><div></div><br /><div>It is a little odd to me that someone so young calls me by that name. Even D2 and D1 still call my "Momma" and "Mommy". I am fairly certain that "Mom" is something your children call you when they become arrogant teenagers. Not when they turn two and start to talk. </div><div></div><br /><div>Since I was driving and focused intently on the snowy winter roads, I ignored the salutation. </div><div></div><br /><div>"Mom!" she shouted again - very distinctly. I continued to drive.</div><div></div><br /><div>"Mom! she burst with even more gusto. </div><div></div><br /><div>"What, Sweetie?" I finally replied.</div><div></div><br /><div>"Here! Hold this for me," she demanded.<br /><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div>Musing to myself at her unusually mature speech, I briefly glanced over my shoulder to see what she needed to me hold. However, I declined taking the little "gem" she had pulled from inside her nose that was perched at the tip of her finger.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-32350072465568981022008-12-06T11:20:00.004-07:002008-12-06T11:26:13.435-07:00She Takes the Cake<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/STrDboR0rJI/AAAAAAAAAs8/yp8_brJhkMw/s1600-h/birthday+cake"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 331px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/STrDboR0rJI/AAAAAAAAAs8/yp8_brJhkMw/s400/birthday+cake" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5276744792854015122" border="0" /></a><br />This morning at breakfast, D2, our nine-year old, announced,<br /><br />"I haven't had a birthday in years. But on my next birthday, I'm gonna be a double digit woman."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-8507652205590630882008-11-15T14:26:00.003-07:002008-11-17T19:39:34.449-07:00Choosing the Wrong StinksWhile I heard myself say, "Yep. I'm still planning on it - sounds fun," I immediately knew it was wrong. But instead of heading home after school, I left with my friend in the opposite direction. As I exited the school yard, I passed my mom's friend in her burnt orange station wagon. She was parked as usual, waiting to pick up her two daughters from school. I saw her look at me inquisitively as I turned right instead of left outside the chain link fence. But I pretended not to notice.<br /><br />By the time we got uptown, I could see the brick exterior of our destination on the far end of town square. It was next to the only hardware store in the area. I had been to the hardware store with its bell donning, single door entrance many times. Often, I had gone with my grandpa to gather supplies for a home improvement project. He always completed something special each summer he visited. Thanks to him we had a great swing that hung from the tallest pine tree in our back yard and monkey bars by the garden.<br /><br />One time I even went to the hardware store by myself. I remembered that day clearly, even though it was several years prior. Probably because it was the first errand I had ever run for my mom all alone. I felt so grown up getting on my bike with the money carefully tucked deep in my pocket so that it would not accidentally fall out. A direct result of mom's phone call, the small package of miscellaneous supplies was gathered in a brown bag with dull red stripes sitting by the register when I arrived. To my amazement the store clerk immediately recognized me, even though I was certain I had never seen him before. Or maybe Mom had explained, probably in more detail than the clerk cared to hear, that an eight-year old girl in a red and white polyester top with red shorts and two long, brunette pig tails would be arriving soon on her bike. There couldn't have been many that fit that description. So maybe it shouldn't have been so amazing after all.<br /><br />However, this trip was not an errand for my mother. And I was not headed to the hardware store. For the first time in several minutes, guilt suddenly crept back into my thoughts as I recalled what I was about to do. I started to feel strangely nervous. But that was ridiculous. Everyone did this. Everyone but me anyway. Until now.<br /><br />Each step I took toward the building made it more difficult to turn and walk the other way. Like walking through thickly wet cement, with each stride my decision was more distinct and more impossible to change.<br /><br />My friend seemed oblivious to my pounding chest and clammy hands. Of course she had been here before. Many times, in fact. She walked along like it was no big deal. And that is what I kept telling myself it was: no big deal. But it was a big deal. And I knew it. At least for me. But for some reason I kept walking toward the wrong, instead of turning back.<br /><br />It would be so simple too -to do the right thing. I could even make up a white lie. Except lying was wrong too. But some things were more right or wrong than others. I imagined that all I would have to do is stop short and gasp,<br /><br />"Oh no! I forgot. My mom needs me to babysit after school. Sorry, I gotta go, maybe another time."<br /><br />And then I could quickly turn around, and run down the wide, mostly empty, small town sidewalk. When I got to the corner lot with only a shell of a building, covered in white peeling paint and framed with a couple lone gas pumps covered in rust and missing their hoses, I could head west. From there I would be home in only a few minutes. I could walk inside the familiar craftsman that probably smelled faintly of dinner already in some stage of preparation. And since I would only be less than five minutes later than usual, Mom would probably not even notice.<br /><br />But I couldn't bring my mouth to utter the words.<br /><br />Suddenly, we were at the front door of the circa 1950's brick building. It was too late. However, uncertain I was about the decision before, it was made now. I saw a couple bikes on the outside of the entrance, dropped there no doubt by a couple kids from my school. This meant my friend and I would not be the only ones. It should have made me feel better, but it didn't.<br /><br />As I followed my friend's soft blond curls inside the smoky room, it took a minute for my pupils to adjust from the bright afternoon sunlight to the dingy darkness of the establishment. The neon signs on the wall cast a soft glow in the haze. I suddenly thought about Mrs. Greedy's 3rd-grade class. She asked us each to promise not to smoke. And we all raised our hands together to make the commitment. I wondered how much breathing that air felt like smoking. If it were similar, it made no sense to me why anyone would ever smoke anything.<br /><br />A couple rough looking guys with bellies as round as pumpkins sat on barstools in front of us. They slowly turned to look at the newcomers. And then, just as dully, wheeled back around on their swivel seats.<br /><br />I was genuinely surprised not one of them tried to tell us to leave. I knew we didn't belong here and I was only twelve. Didn't grown-ups know what's right and wrong? And wasn't it their job to keep kids from doing wrong things? But since there was no one to stop us, we proceeded through the room over to the far corner.<br /><br />And there it stood. It was flashy and beautiful. I felt my stomach do a little leap for joy. My goal. The one thing that had caused me to break so many of my parent's rules.<br /><br />In only a few minutes I had used numerous quarters, saved from small jobs like babysitting the karate teacher's kids. After awhile, I reached deep into the pocket of my Lee jeans, and only felt string and fuzz. I bent down and then handed my friend a damp, rolled up dollar from inside my sock. I had brought it for an emergency like this. She was plenty brave enough to ask the bartender for change. I was not.<br /><br />The arcade game that started out so new and unfamiliar soon became more rhythmic and easy to maneuver. However, it wasn't long before I was completely out of money. I was hugely disappointed. The time had gone by far too quickly. I impatiently watched my friend finish her last game on a neighboring machine. Then we grabbed our school books, and walked out the door and headed home.<br /><br />The sun was low in the late afternoon sky. I had no idea what time it was, but I knew it was late enough that I needed to work on a very good excuse for Mom and, by this time, probably Dad too. I considered all the trouble I'd be in and wondered if a few minutes on the brand new Ms Pac Man game would be worth the punishment I'd be given when I got home.<br /><br />In the fresh, early autumn air, I thought I caught the smell of something terribly rank. Cautiously, I sniffed at my shoulder. Hmmmm...this excuse was going to have to be really good.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-40337353828569674182008-11-13T18:17:00.007-07:002008-11-15T23:19:25.032-07:00Victim of Proposition 8<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SRzeDBo7mBI/AAAAAAAAAs0/SuLAkdEhM2U/s1600-h/yes+on+8.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5268329807677724690" style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 300px; height: 278px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SRzeDBo7mBI/AAAAAAAAAs0/SuLAkdEhM2U/s400/yes+on+8.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><p>We've heard a lot about the "victims" of the passing of Proposition 8. This story is a little different than the others. </p><p>Regardless of where you stand on marriage for gay couples, I hope you will read the following segments of a statement from Scott <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Eckern</span> who, after receiving public criticism and threats for donating $1000 in support of Proposition 8, recently announced his resignation as Artistic Director for California Musical Theatre. </p><p>Portions of the released statement are as follows: </p><p><em>I understand that my choice of supporting Proposition 8 has been the cause of many hurt feelings, maybe even betrayal. It was not my intent. I honestly had no idea that this would be the reaction. </em><br /></p><p><em>I chose to act upon my belief that the traditional definition of marriage should be preserved. I support each individual to have rights and access and I understood that in California domestic partnerships come with the same rights that come with marriage. </em><br /></p><p><em>My sister is a lesbian and in a committed domestic partnership relationship. I am loving and supportive of her and her family, and she is loving and supportive of me and my family. I definitely do not support any message or treatment of others that is hateful or instills fear. </em><br /></p><p><em>... I have now had many conversations with friends and colleagues,and I am deeply saddened that my personal beliefs and convictions have offended others. </em><br /></p><p><em>...I chose to express my views through the democratic process, and I am deeply sorry for any harm or injury I have caused in doing so... I hope that through future conversations bridges may be built and healing can occur that will allow us to arrive at a better place of understanding for all involved. </em><br /></p><p><em>I am leaving California Musical Theatre after prayerful consideration to protect the organization and to help the healing in the local theatre-going and creative community...It has been an honor to serve alongside those I love and respect in this noble profession. I am disappointed that my personal convictions have cost me the opportunity to do what I love the most which is to continue enriching the Sacramento arts and theatre community.</em><br /></p><p><em>Sincerely, </em><br /></p><p><em>Scott <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Eckern</span></em> </p><br /><p><span style="font-size:85%;">SOURCE: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Randle</span> Communications <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Randle</span> Communications Clay Merrill, 916-448-5802<br />Copyright Business Wire 2008</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-2372182696499635992008-10-11T09:57:00.003-06:002008-10-11T10:04:29.432-06:00The Truth About Boys<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SPDOEH9UmTI/AAAAAAAAAew/y7gzvtyWrEE/s1600-h/Boys+are+Stinky.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SPDOEH9UmTI/AAAAAAAAAew/y7gzvtyWrEE/s400/Boys+are+Stinky.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5255927335392418098" border="0" /></a><br />Inside the cover of D2's journal she has defined the essence of the boy/girl relationship that causes mankind endless joy and woe:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><br />Girls are clean and pritty</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);"><br />Smell Butiful</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 204);">GOOD LOOKING<br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(204, 255, 255);">Boys are stinke</span><br /></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-77826356816077747352008-10-07T07:09:00.007-06:002008-10-07T07:27:43.813-06:00Spoiled Dinner<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SOthfomrgmI/AAAAAAAAAeo/Ih_BWEUxi3M/s1600-h/fallen+fork.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254400586361307746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SOthfomrgmI/AAAAAAAAAeo/Ih_BWEUxi3M/s400/fallen+fork.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />With an uncanny ability to speak with skills that would not normally be expected of a 28-month old, D3 often elicits chuckles as we hear ourselves in someone who is only 30 inches tall.<br /><br />The other night D3 and I sat at the kitchen bar eating dinner. As she crawled up, down and around the eating area, I cautioned her that she needed to remain seated and hold still. But she continued to fidget, oblivious to my advice.<br /><br />Eventually her fork fell off her plate and tumbled to the floor. With an animated look of surprise, she crawled off the edge of the counter and back onto her bar stool. There she perched on all fours and peered down to the floor from the rattan seat.<br /><br />I sat in silence watching her think. Soon she looked up at me, shook her head, and distinctly confessed,<br /><br />"That's not good."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-68028148149914009402008-10-03T18:27:00.000-06:002008-10-04T22:06:14.640-06:00Post Dramatic Stress Syndrome<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SOg8AoXc3PI/AAAAAAAAAeY/KtSDIuTUQvk/s1600-h/ultimate-fish-bowl_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SOg8AoXc3PI/AAAAAAAAAeY/KtSDIuTUQvk/s400/ultimate-fish-bowl_2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5253514946861128946" /></a><br />Our family does not have an impressive track record with pets. In fact, we have inadvertantly caused premature death to a quiet helpless lizard, an adorable fluffy Guniea Pig, and countless fish. <br /><p>Personally, I am tired of the burden of so much death and carnage. Unfortunately, our lack of ability to keep the few creatures we have cared for, or at least attempted to care for, alive, has not slowed my childrens' intent to continue to beg for more pets. <p><br />Recently D1 has picked up the oral arguments with me on this subject. Apparently she wanted creatures that belong in lakes and rivers to live in her bedroom more desperately than I originally thought. In exasperation she finally stomped out of my bedroom. A little while later, she slipped this under my bedroom door:<p><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Why I Should Have a Fish</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">by (D1)</span></div><ol><li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">It is a great responsibility lesson for me...and my future.</span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">My friend has given me great advise about what fish are easy to take care of and how to take care of them, and she will supply supplies.</span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I would love the fish like my brothers and sisters and care for them always.</span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I know where I can get cheap but good fish and I'm willing to keep up with the fish.</span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I will do my best to find fish that are low maintenance but fun.</span></li></ol><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /><p>If I do not get fish side affects may include, thoughts of suicide, chronic depression, nausea, insomnia, post dramatic stress syndrome, and series of violent mood swings. A serious but rare side affect may include schizophrenia resulting in multiple personalities and frequent conversations with imaginary objects, people, fish and places. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><p><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">If any of these side affects occur, do not operate machinery or perform manual labor of any kind. If side affects do not lessen with in a few days consult your local Petco store for further advice.</span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-22195491297864938762008-09-25T08:38:00.005-06:002008-09-25T11:23:00.629-06:00It's Official: I'm a Dealer<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SNui-y2AkSI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/-CNP_Dw-Mys/s1600-h/ammunition.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249968990314336546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SNui-y2AkSI/AAAAAAAAAeQ/-CNP_Dw-Mys/s400/ammunition.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Politically speaking I am more of a Republican than anything. However, I'm not as Republican as some since I actually <em>do </em>care about the environment. And I'm not a huge NRA activist. In fact, while I understand the right to bear arms was a fundamental liberty once-upon-a-time, I am not so fond of guns or their <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">accouterments</span>. I don't care to see, touch or hear them.<br /><br />So you might be able to imagine my surprise when my father-in-law brought an old circa 1965 US military ammunition box to my home for Sunday dinner. But, as is typical for George, the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">surprises</span> did not stop there.<br /><br />"Hey, Deb," he called out as he was leaving for the evening, "Can you give that ammo box to Steve at work on Monday."<br /><br />I like my brother-in-law (aka my co-worker) Steve and am happy to facilitate family errands, so naturally I replied, "Of course."<br /><br />"Your employer shouldn't mind too much, right," he stated more than asked.<br /><br />"I don't think Security is going to stop me over an ammo box," I said, suddenly doubting it myself, "It's not like there is really ammunition in there."<br /><br />George looked at me in silence.<br /><br />"There isn't ammunition in that box. Is there?" I asked.<br /><br />"Well sure, some," he admitted, and then turned around and walked out my front door.<br /><br />I am not experienced in dealing arms. So the next day I called my brother-in-law at work from a phone in an empty conference room. I asked him to meet me at my car, because I had a very important <em>package</em> for him.<br /><br />Is that how you deal in contraband? Hope so.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3057616764928118790.post-64497801037910405612008-09-22T21:47:00.008-06:002008-09-24T22:17:58.053-06:00She's Too Hot for Marriage<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SNsPwPy7wHI/AAAAAAAAAeI/ddYe_2xYZvc/s1600-h/burning+sun.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249807112178745458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_nG0_3xgZoxE/SNsPwPy7wHI/AAAAAAAAAeI/ddYe_2xYZvc/s400/burning+sun.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>I have made a conscious effort from their infancy to brainwash D1 and D2 into believing that they should allow me, the one person in the world that has nothing but their best interest at heart, to plan their weddings. I make no secret about the fact that this would be an attempt to re-create my wedding day, but with better choices. And when I say, "plan their wedding", I mean everything. As in everything. From choosing the wedding dress to the paper mint cups, of course it will all be tasteful and perfect. Their young age does not temper the seriousness of my intent in this scheme. </div><div><br />For the most part D1 has accepted this enormous generosity as fact and has not questioned my motives. When she has begun to inquire, I have quickly reminded her that on her wedding day she is the Princess Bride. Once she makes the most important decision of all, on who will be her future husband, she should not have her mind cluttered with more choices. At this point in the conversation, D1 usually smiles faintly and lets the matter drop.<br /><p>As D2 has gotten older however, her independent mind is becoming more apparent. And as such, she has become more of a problem in my planning-the-girls'-weddings conspiracy. <p></div><div><div><div></div><div>One evening D2 had gone to the Home Depot with me and, as usual, ran to the paint section to grab - er steal - as many paint chips as she felt she could - without me forcing her to carefully file them all back. On the way home, she picked two colored squares and placed them side by side. Shoving them in my face, she showed me what she called her "wedding colors." I gasped at the juicy orange and electric teal samples. <p></div><div></div><div>"Oh, Sweetheart," I lightly chuckled, trying to downplay the seriousness of the situation. <p></div><div></div><div>"You know that Mommy is going to pick your wedding colors."<p></div><div></div><div>D2 shook her head furiously and an argument ensued. D2 asserted her rights to plan her "own wedding" as I attempted to convince her this was something best left to her loving mother. I could tell I was losing the debate, but that failed to dissuade me from continuing the heated discussion. <p></div><div></div><div>Finally, D2 threw up her hands in frustration. <p></div><div></div><div>"It doesn't matter," she confessed, "since I'm never getting married anyway."<p></div><div></div><div>"What!" I shrieked. <p></div><div></div><div>"Of course you will!" I tried to assure her. And myself. I was not ready to let my visions of her gloriously planned wedding slip away so soon.<p></div><div></div><div>D2 was silent. <p></div><div></div><div>"Love, what would keep you from getting married?" I questioned hesitantly.<p></div><div></div><div>With fingers up by her head forming quotes in the air, she replied, <p></div><div></div><div>"Duh!" <p></div><div></div><div>And then with finger quotes curling, she continued slowly and distinctly, <p></div><div></div><div>"Global. Warming."<p></div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><meta name="verify-v1" content="zBIIqEw9+YTazytx2qISzsMXNui9SgkanInHA6dDjHc=" /></div>Deborah Gamblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07950955046427526175noreply@blogger.com27