tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89101584856356875632024-02-20T19:40:59.943-05:00Kathleen's worldKathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-16474943742304223862009-08-17T23:25:00.008-04:002009-08-18T15:43:57.463-04:00Notes on the departedI visited all of you yesterday. None of you spoke, not aloud anyway.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_X5TtinnxUqVWAd6qXU3JiyyO-Qngs89NOl8QXR2CiIBrLMJoypN70JGYlC44FdiNp_jBnwDoNGcNtjx9mw3K99fgf_YLzKUAbtSOH7j4Im-Y5HpRBWvRpX0Fjao6AkUe-te7oRaWsA/s1600-h/00000099_3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 312px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH_X5TtinnxUqVWAd6qXU3JiyyO-Qngs89NOl8QXR2CiIBrLMJoypN70JGYlC44FdiNp_jBnwDoNGcNtjx9mw3K99fgf_YLzKUAbtSOH7j4Im-Y5HpRBWvRpX0Fjao6AkUe-te7oRaWsA/s320/00000099_3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371388375870868690" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dad (1999)</span><br />I still can’t believe it’s been 10 years. One of the ways I describe you to people who never had the good fortune to meet you: Sure, he was short, but he was the tallest man I’ve ever known.<br />You taught by example. You were dedicated to your faith, to your family, to your career. You loved your friends. You were kind to a fault. You and Mom were an example that love born in childhood can last. You taught me how to play pool well enough to beat the guys and, bless you, tried to teach me how to do math. You sang and danced – and it didn’t matter to you that you were terrible at both.<br />Your last three words to me weren’t exactly words, more like three guttural sounds. I understood, Dad. And I love you, too.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimg9NA83aGvcWf_OizfRtwePEau_lNgpD_BhCU-rKPIi8PJTq0GpDcSgjU3lMb0E_LP-ljyGd39ABDarClfoZ-PVInN6P-td3acGCPaLs2ChL38-gHEPPkcbUPx_d8ANBNX2gmz_7OHSQ/s1600-h/00000081_2.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimg9NA83aGvcWf_OizfRtwePEau_lNgpD_BhCU-rKPIi8PJTq0GpDcSgjU3lMb0E_LP-ljyGd39ABDarClfoZ-PVInN6P-td3acGCPaLs2ChL38-gHEPPkcbUPx_d8ANBNX2gmz_7OHSQ/s320/00000081_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371388352318790690" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grandma and Grandpa P. (1998 and 1999)</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grandma:</span> I took you up on your offer when I was 16. You asked the grandkids each year, and I was the first to say yes. And so we found ourselves on a plane headed for Rome, then Palermo, then your hometown of Villafrati, Sicily. We stayed with your nephew, next door to the house where you were born. We went to the church where you had been baptized. I celebrated my 17th birthday at a family wedding. It was unforgettable. But, grandma, what I will remember most about you is your kitchen table -- the hours we spent at that table playing cards. And I’m happy to report we still pull the equipment you used out of a box each year to make ravioli. It’s a tradition I hope never dies.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grandpa:</span> I remember taking walks with you as a kid. Without me knowing, you’d reach into your pocket, grab a quarter and throw it on the sidewalk just in front of us. I never wondered why I only found quarters while I was on walks with you. And you’d show up just about every afternoon (and on Sunday mornings) to roll the papers for our paper route. If we weren’t feeling well, you’d deliver them, too. And in the dead of winter, you’d follow us along the route in your Cadillac, giving us a place to warm up when we got too cold. You were a man of few words. But you didn’t need to say much. Your actions said it all.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxpNyko-VJu2hxKyZJ15YuWm_U3Lfz7JIOpO8V7Sk4Q0YjBZQIWKmnBWfGL_XkEtiDqzJlOwX7JbCsq4rUldf9_-BAYCTNekmae0U8MFXk7LR1kle6OOryPyPH27woCGyycN0QDTwrJE/s1600-h/00000095_1.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYxpNyko-VJu2hxKyZJ15YuWm_U3Lfz7JIOpO8V7Sk4Q0YjBZQIWKmnBWfGL_XkEtiDqzJlOwX7JbCsq4rUldf9_-BAYCTNekmae0U8MFXk7LR1kle6OOryPyPH27woCGyycN0QDTwrJE/s320/00000095_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371388363394506098" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grandma O. and Aunt Pat (2005 and 2007)</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Grandma:</span> You were my other card-playing partner when I was a kid. I used to look forward to going to your apartment, walking up that spiral staircase, sitting at your dining room table and settling in for an afternoon of playing cards. I never thought about it when I was a kid, but I was one of 17 grandchildren. When we were together, you always made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. The angel figurine you gave me when I moved to D.C. continues to watch over me.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Aunt Pat:</span> When you did something, you didn’t believe in doing it halfway. You cooked dinners that could feed armies. When you bluffed playing poker, you bluffed big. And when you laughed … God, there was such joy in your laugh. And even though we are not a family known for our singing ability (to put it nicely), when it was time to sing Christmas carols, you always demanded to hear us do “O Holy Night” just one more time. You treasured your family, and you were a big part of what kept us all together. I hate to see that end.<br /><br />I love you all.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-75874572691212633992009-08-02T20:51:00.030-04:002009-08-04T12:49:00.845-04:00Thank you, ChicagoHere's what happens when you get Kat, Rick, Ricardo, Col, Meg and me to sign up for a little thing called the Great Urban Race.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Team Doppelganger:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1Q3tFvBTW9K6ho-weXxt9xWZq5emVt9hpUzr2XV7-uLVlVZgR1W6wFvyxe4RyGwmD67cXebSPeqf-CI1AFFNTLkA6tauJdye_sdOwB9gJg7-e3pQaJgKXP8BLypjbfhWfgs8JtoQvg0/s1600-h/5332_138317565750_698010750_3634164_5741971_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1Q3tFvBTW9K6ho-weXxt9xWZq5emVt9hpUzr2XV7-uLVlVZgR1W6wFvyxe4RyGwmD67cXebSPeqf-CI1AFFNTLkA6tauJdye_sdOwB9gJg7-e3pQaJgKXP8BLypjbfhWfgs8JtoQvg0/s320/5332_138317565750_698010750_3634164_5741971_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365537923456408194" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Team Non Sequitur:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwVtH_90BW5Xd2M2BqtSxWjQOuRd9QAZw63eM9YPlqOaBVQmG3ddv_W5_Rgeo3nckaN5ryJVcoiKgylcEIlDlAfCvlVykk7yqdONEZZf3f-mJAQBlpUj1OTfzipwdR6s8xOOq9_Gx0YJQ/s1600-h/IMG_4258.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwVtH_90BW5Xd2M2BqtSxWjQOuRd9QAZw63eM9YPlqOaBVQmG3ddv_W5_Rgeo3nckaN5ryJVcoiKgylcEIlDlAfCvlVykk7yqdONEZZf3f-mJAQBlpUj1OTfzipwdR6s8xOOq9_Gx0YJQ/s320/IMG_4258.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365537629234575154" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Team Commando Kilts:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4jeNATxDXWkOiM3CBlQ8FImM1jDJJbKZ5VfUPf-t-HcheNgPMQwkDQckuypFPrIrcvhYQLOC9gU-PHECkFruDXRAMVXvEsKvSv3RHzU60kvI95YR5w9zu8H19E3Vto2h3H5RRHGihh8/s1600-h/IMG_4259.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz4jeNATxDXWkOiM3CBlQ8FImM1jDJJbKZ5VfUPf-t-HcheNgPMQwkDQckuypFPrIrcvhYQLOC9gU-PHECkFruDXRAMVXvEsKvSv3RHzU60kvI95YR5w9zu8H19E3Vto2h3H5RRHGihh8/s320/IMG_4259.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365538949475394450" border="0" /></a><br />Well, the six of us had decided beforehand that we would all work as a team. Good thing, too. Rick and Ricardo *know* Chicago. I know that if you go too far in one direction you'll end up in a really big lake.<br />We started with up to 500 two-person teams (don't know the final tally yet) in a light drizzle at the Cubby Bear. As soon as we got our envelopes containing the clues, our plan to take a few minutes to carefully map out the order in which we would complete the tasks went straight to hell.<br />Our first hurdle: choice of footwear. Kat, Rick, Ricardo and I all wore Converse All-Stars. One of the detours: Either find a *real* person wearing a tie-dye T-shirt and have team members pose with that person or have team members pose with a *real* person wearing ... you guessed it ... Converse All-Stars. We read that clue right at the beginning and didn't know if *real* person meant that we wouldn't count because we were participating in the race. Obviously, none of the other 10 billion teams around us knew, either, because we were swarmed with people wanting to pose with us and our shoes. After being stopped a few times before reaching our first task, I started telling other teams, "We are NOT real people."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On the way to Task No. 1</span>, we solved the insanely simple riddle: Mr. Reynolds is odd. He likes balloons but doesn't like parties. He likes books but doesn't like reading. He likes weeds but doesn't like flowers. He likes swimming but doesn't like water. He likes letters but doesn't like words. He likes noodles but doesn't like pasta sauce. He likes apples but doesn't like plums. He likes coffee but doesn't like tea.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Take a picture of team in front of a street sign that Mr. Reynolds would like:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXErTlny8WQyP3Pj7D9f0Ad1ExRoe9PunUgOac6kBdbpmM0f4Xjd22CSNL8QVF0GszPT49rMa9iGHbXYRLkUkOT7wkvWzg-yJl9buXhMieD6SyNCW7p5P25oT-FkhGcgBGI4MU8xeY-_Y/s1600-h/IMG_4260.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXErTlny8WQyP3Pj7D9f0Ad1ExRoe9PunUgOac6kBdbpmM0f4Xjd22CSNL8QVF0GszPT49rMa9iGHbXYRLkUkOT7wkvWzg-yJl9buXhMieD6SyNCW7p5P25oT-FkhGcgBGI4MU8xeY-_Y/s320/IMG_4260.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365545123504405810" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Next up:</span> Go to Comedy Sportz and play charades. I SUCK at charades, but Kat decided I'd be better at the guessing part. All three of our teams were doing this at the same time, and I could see Rick/Ricardo and Col/Meg on either side, all finishing before us. PANIC. The fear must've helped because I quickly guessed our word: ruler. Task finished and a stamp was affixed to our clue sheet. (Remember this stamp. It's going to be *crucial* later.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On the way to our planned next task</span>, I spot what we need for a detour. Either return to the finish line with a job application from a business in Chicago. Or have team pose in front of a "now hiring" or "help wanted" sign.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyy7LPUqEnUECiHfTMGWduh09SBO0BJNfGCrCoioxuew-6FZNSsH2UWNB0gHwmpY7sSR_ikaFGAEGne32Kiw74pAqt4wNGYRCObVHztPGXRvq1YIer_B4Gn6jqFHAASRiihBisVWpurg/s1600-h/IMG_4265.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilyy7LPUqEnUECiHfTMGWduh09SBO0BJNfGCrCoioxuew-6FZNSsH2UWNB0gHwmpY7sSR_ikaFGAEGne32Kiw74pAqt4wNGYRCObVHztPGXRvq1YIer_B4Gn6jqFHAASRiihBisVWpurg/s320/IMG_4265.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365547234640554818" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Up next:</span> Make your way to Chicago's famous tattoo shop owned by Dale Grande. Take a custom rub-on tattoo from the box inside the door. Take a picture of team in front of the shop with the tattoo applied to one teammate's face. Sounds easy, right? This task cost us some serious time. No matter what we did, none of us could get the little buggers to stick to our faces. Yeah, the clue said to only take ONE tattoo from the box. We ended going through about 15 trying to get this to work.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvl5QpiTFWW7dyRWaTfQCHd8lEg95vjlCrrt0a6kDQc7U2UGK8iKdG1ekEMZN4iyhBpaNiLI4n-0ktDP2jMR1JYWUs45UGZvj05K4g1iVClyciktlXoMh58OU3vMJYo4InAWhUEon2ZwU/s1600-h/IMG_4266.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvl5QpiTFWW7dyRWaTfQCHd8lEg95vjlCrrt0a6kDQc7U2UGK8iKdG1ekEMZN4iyhBpaNiLI4n-0ktDP2jMR1JYWUs45UGZvj05K4g1iVClyciktlXoMh58OU3vMJYo4InAWhUEon2ZwU/s320/IMG_4266.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365548423820329874" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On our way to the next clue</span>, I spot a random guy getting on the train, and he's wearing ... Converse All-Stars! A *real* person, thank God. I think he was a bit taken aback by our enthusiasm in wanting to have our picture taken with him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfo0qDygxKYP0Lijz-a2sPLBS2l6tgQYEWCO_CeApezE8-CB0WdIq2qTPqUPDfSgzVAIWefRFjbrJ6TWP_H6BAPIu2fpGxw9xCI8zgcKm5pA1QdD3t_fcDBAzlUNNf2pwiudhbrLGYKME/s1600-h/IMG_4267.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfo0qDygxKYP0Lijz-a2sPLBS2l6tgQYEWCO_CeApezE8-CB0WdIq2qTPqUPDfSgzVAIWefRFjbrJ6TWP_H6BAPIu2fpGxw9xCI8zgcKm5pA1QdD3t_fcDBAzlUNNf2pwiudhbrLGYKME/s320/IMG_4267.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365550409922780626" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Next:</span> A hot dog is waiting for you at Chicago's Dog House. Take a picture of one teammate feeding a hot dog to another teammate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkSCbeWWSB5TeDUXQAHsfhyphenhyphenpNBJko7Ida_oh3MakxQ_5kRBNJr7S9YYm79mjnB8ra2UK5p_y6N-Iiako5LhtPbmh6NljlrhgYmp0GEhA0sL0e1PerZvV6boWL4pj8hiaup_W3dpTysGA/s1600-h/IMG_4268.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmkSCbeWWSB5TeDUXQAHsfhyphenhyphenpNBJko7Ida_oh3MakxQ_5kRBNJr7S9YYm79mjnB8ra2UK5p_y6N-Iiako5LhtPbmh6NljlrhgYmp0GEhA0sL0e1PerZvV6boWL4pj8hiaup_W3dpTysGA/s320/IMG_4268.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365551279952034738" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Our picture's OK, but the one of Rick and Ricardo is priceless:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgompk2XBVl89w_jgvSs6b2N0mHCMy7kRGBVGKYa7jO0nmxX9Xrt3qQ3_-65GTvD6hlC5B0sjA17-yAa-V3Ure3Nag_SrxvHw1bPoxPvZDusUT0Xfzpxjsv_IOsnOfHkIK85Wxx0EuMxIE/s1600-h/5332_138317625750_698010750_3634173_2462411_n.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgompk2XBVl89w_jgvSs6b2N0mHCMy7kRGBVGKYa7jO0nmxX9Xrt3qQ3_-65GTvD6hlC5B0sjA17-yAa-V3Ure3Nag_SrxvHw1bPoxPvZDusUT0Xfzpxjsv_IOsnOfHkIK85Wxx0EuMxIE/s320/5332_138317625750_698010750_3634173_2462411_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365551861320248114" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thank God there are no pictures of the next task: </span>Make your way to Kingston Mines. All teammates must complete a short dance lesson. You will receive a business card from your dance instructor once you complete the lesson. This dance instructor, I think, enjoyed screwing with us. We would think, "OK, we're done." And then he'd start right back up again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">On to the next task </span>(Seems like we walked about 15 miles to get there. I'm not prone to exaggeration or anything): There is a park in Chicago dedicated to a 1939 movie directed by Victor Fleming. Make your way to this park and take a picture of team in front of the statue of the character played by Jack Haley in the original movie. I have to admit, I never even knew there was an Oz Park in Chicago.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMmMFVC7hT_p_76Jg1YPk2wvrAYe-dsibzO3Tnfzz1L6EGRg8MQZNaai-rIFkWgfVmHmpuPm_-FOWFLyNI3fPLtaGVf-CrObsWRA-P9PxyNUuswkZXi6Q2xt7WSnNVdj6_SHU-Cc3RdM/s1600-h/IMG_4269.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMmMFVC7hT_p_76Jg1YPk2wvrAYe-dsibzO3Tnfzz1L6EGRg8MQZNaai-rIFkWgfVmHmpuPm_-FOWFLyNI3fPLtaGVf-CrObsWRA-P9PxyNUuswkZXi6Q2xt7WSnNVdj6_SHU-Cc3RdM/s320/IMG_4269.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365555745392071458" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The bus ride.</span> Pardon the phrase, but this is where the wheels began to fall off. It started off great. A couple of teams on the bus and a bunch of *real* people gawking at us. It was nice to relax, drink some water and look at the photos we'd taken so far. Plus, the bus ride allowed us to see the number of flags hanging in front of the Palmer House Hilton, which we needed to complete another clue. Sweet.<br /><div style="text-align: center;">And there were a couple of pictures of Rick and Ricardo on the bus looking very ladylike (Part one of the rest of us saying, "It's a good thing they didn't *really* go commando."):</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzMRZC_tza_docXGEysUR3GB0-vVZZA4_jza8B-v0ekhnxUssKlcSqHE5oT4VTLYTcBA1UAjYxTJIPOyqsR1tTfOH27ijO3mirrFe1ClLxOVBw2Dhxh2uRWVtnLJpH8OpuE8wq3-sKeU/s1600-h/IMG_4271.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfzMRZC_tza_docXGEysUR3GB0-vVZZA4_jza8B-v0ekhnxUssKlcSqHE5oT4VTLYTcBA1UAjYxTJIPOyqsR1tTfOH27ijO3mirrFe1ClLxOVBw2Dhxh2uRWVtnLJpH8OpuE8wq3-sKeU/s320/IMG_4271.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365559638091592610" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJodxkjzk1wE9HrBYIEKpuHTGoeTnP_2QbdOLfJ-BZbUN1QKihQbSt7QgBkLKhadnDzT247FK-nRHdIcJRs5ZL4X5atx-RUepI8Sk98TtHvmo2pwRXGzvjKgywYD-Ck9gYCX8tGQiAezQ/s1600-h/IMG_4273.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJodxkjzk1wE9HrBYIEKpuHTGoeTnP_2QbdOLfJ-BZbUN1QKihQbSt7QgBkLKhadnDzT247FK-nRHdIcJRs5ZL4X5atx-RUepI8Sk98TtHvmo2pwRXGzvjKgywYD-Ck9gYCX8tGQiAezQ/s320/IMG_4273.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365560352345889746" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Disaster, part one:</span> The bus ride ends, we get off and cross the street. The light turns and I realize I don't have my camera. Rick, my hero, leads me back across the street. Mind you, the traffic -- including the bus carrying my camera -- is starting to move. But how can traffic *not* stop when you have a 6-foot-7 dude in a kilt and a chick in pink pajama bottoms running wildly across the street, yelling at a driver to stop? Camera saved and first disaster averted.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Next clue: </span>Find the restaurant owned by Herman Joseph _______, which is famous for its Dortmunder-style beer. Take a picture of 10 people (including teammates) under the restaurant's tall vertical sign doing Molly Shannon's "Superstar" pose.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIpftVzmgC9sWb1pA5XhCNxR25YE37RL_6CGcu-XNbT62yVcaDnBL1a07ah5kXLNLQQUKCZ5kZGKFuttVkQCw1RHuQ-LR9BP1uHW4bxgDE9E4tSk1d90zM6kR85qU4w0cJJAxjejHIzo/s1600-h/IMG_4274.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGIpftVzmgC9sWb1pA5XhCNxR25YE37RL_6CGcu-XNbT62yVcaDnBL1a07ah5kXLNLQQUKCZ5kZGKFuttVkQCw1RHuQ-LR9BP1uHW4bxgDE9E4tSk1d90zM6kR85qU4w0cJJAxjejHIzo/s320/IMG_4274.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365562067543189746" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Disaster, part two.</span> On our way to the next task, I realized I'd lost Team Doppelganger's clue sheet. We NEED this sheet to finish because it has a stamp on it from the Comedy Sportz task. Feeling utter shame.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Crisis averted?</span> OK. So we have no clue sheet, but ... BUT since there are 12 clues and we only need to complete 11, Kat and I figure we can just do the clue we intended to skip, finish the race and tell the check-in folks that we skipped the Comedy Sportz clue -- the one that required a stamp. Our goal: On our way to our last task, find a place that has what we need to complete the now, not-skipped one. We needed to buy one of the following four things: one pack of eight or markers and a coloring book; one miniature Matchbox car; one item of Barbie clothing or an accessory; or one hardcover children's book. Then we need to go to 30 E. Adams to donate the item to the Starlight Children's Foundation. Good cause. We can do this. And there's a Walgreens on our way. Unfortunately, it was the most crappy Walgreens on the face of the planet, and it didn't have any of the things we needed. Feeling defeated again, but pushing onward.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Crisis averted? Part two:</span> Go to the tennis courts at Daley Bicentennial Plaza. All teammates must complete the three challenges given to you there, including a crab walk, a leap frog and the wheelbarrow. After completing this challenge, you MUST receive a stamp on your clue sheet (uh, which my team no longer has) to receive credit for this clue. Kat and I, knowing we're out of the race, decide to just take pictures of Rick/Ricardo and Col/Meg making fools of themselves. And then ... Col comes through ... She walks up to me, in drug-dealer fashion, and says, "Here, take this." I look at her hand and it's a crumbled-up clue sheet. It's not OUR clue sheet, but it's a clue sheet. Back in business. Screw the poor losers who dropped their clue sheet! So Kat and I start doing the crab walk. It was brutal. Kat looks at me and says, "You wanna quit? We've done almost everything, we've had a great time ..." I say, "Aren't you going to feel disappointed if we don't ACTUALLY do this?" A resounding "Eff that." So we started taking pictures ... (Part two of us saying, "Thank God they didn't *really* go commando.")<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyOhTKQOIiRKTvbiU1BdFemGG4y07rGn4HN5P9WQdNu9BAG_px-nZeutVjuvfkmnj06eH_nx05Yd2AfUcc30nBXWtLCrOnKFqyUimrY7Y4L9Jmu4bnlzHqnXEWe7spSvSWLUR3wQuTNw/s1600-h/IMG_4278.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWyOhTKQOIiRKTvbiU1BdFemGG4y07rGn4HN5P9WQdNu9BAG_px-nZeutVjuvfkmnj06eH_nx05Yd2AfUcc30nBXWtLCrOnKFqyUimrY7Y4L9Jmu4bnlzHqnXEWe7spSvSWLUR3wQuTNw/s320/IMG_4278.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365572883305353730" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmB5yW1j4za6Zi93MC-5LGhaQghSDsnainXQ7O2UGhvy1J-8Syyi1XswYqKvAooFVfb6CkTvH5tZy4UJd2KfFI2c66RahDiVwdB7mJ524m_AheRqCtSo-rxPwuRnIV7U3KFWd1LWtSJk/s1600-h/IMG_4280.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 209px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmB5yW1j4za6Zi93MC-5LGhaQghSDsnainXQ7O2UGhvy1J-8Syyi1XswYqKvAooFVfb6CkTvH5tZy4UJd2KfFI2c66RahDiVwdB7mJ524m_AheRqCtSo-rxPwuRnIV7U3KFWd1LWtSJk/s320/IMG_4280.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365573731470298258" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCOY3JJSjrg3nAjPeKwZ5hyphenhyphenTmpjQnnnbx0n115p0tULrRH7OtlVkd9KCjqi0Vl7rGsszSJiP3x5VAPxWZnDf_AoK6_rFUzcMzXhZlyvNNThIryvhsjL7rBBkaQO0V1Czlil2_EIszTBM/s1600-h/IMG_4283.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCOY3JJSjrg3nAjPeKwZ5hyphenhyphenTmpjQnnnbx0n115p0tULrRH7OtlVkd9KCjqi0Vl7rGsszSJiP3x5VAPxWZnDf_AoK6_rFUzcMzXhZlyvNNThIryvhsjL7rBBkaQO0V1Czlil2_EIszTBM/s320/IMG_4283.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365574813166173970" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAIQUgByz8raRCZLpDcOP1yJVOMrnEwM7YPei7EQhqBmQ-Ux-TsUc-JACF5pq61o_OEj2TSbvvSy5V8oOGA3zXDEoUjN5ww0-IQYlxKGVh1EdV1wYEvQGE98eCXa1y7fKPiUA0YEOmng/s1600-h/IMG_4294.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaAIQUgByz8raRCZLpDcOP1yJVOMrnEwM7YPei7EQhqBmQ-Ux-TsUc-JACF5pq61o_OEj2TSbvvSy5V8oOGA3zXDEoUjN5ww0-IQYlxKGVh1EdV1wYEvQGE98eCXa1y7fKPiUA0YEOmng/s320/IMG_4294.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365576871690105794" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-UEBVzgI87i9zyolnKZNh8mayUVPNCeX2ik7fWG1wbJ_lABdsZ-KfbQlusf3TrDaVtJQXiKO8YDH2eMU7KItUjsAEso1-tuCSD6RXG6mQAgDYmP5GJahqj78PB3iAylvd6PAt2o9-d4/s1600-h/IMG_4289.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-UEBVzgI87i9zyolnKZNh8mayUVPNCeX2ik7fWG1wbJ_lABdsZ-KfbQlusf3TrDaVtJQXiKO8YDH2eMU7KItUjsAEso1-tuCSD6RXG6mQAgDYmP5GJahqj78PB3iAylvd6PAt2o9-d4/s320/IMG_4289.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365576862597601778" border="0" /></a><br />So, those four finish the task and receive their stamp. And I thought, "Well, what's the harm in asking the guy to stamp our sheet?" Worst he can say is no, right? Kat refused to do it and handed me "our" clue sheet to give the guy. Whaddya know? He stamped it. Booyah! Walking out of the park, I say, "Well, we still have to go buy something and go donate it." Kat: "No we don't. Col, hand me your clue sheet." And the sneaky little woman LICKS the stamp we need from Col's clue sheet and rubs it on ours. It's a blurry mess that barely looks like a stamp, but what the hell? It's a good thing Meg was doing the race with us. She learned a very valuable lesson right before heading off to college: Lie, cheat and steal your way through life. God, I'm a great aunt.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Last stop (we're idiots):</span> Now we have to go to a certain Chicago landmark and pose in front of it holding up the number of fingers representing the number of flags we saw outside the Palmer House Hilton. Where did we go? The Art Institute lions. WRONG. Had any of us paid attention, the clue said: Count the number of Olympic flags hanging in the south-facing window at 22 W. Washington street. Then take a picture of team in front of the lion pictured (on clue sheet) to the right. OR Count the number of flags at the Palmer House Hilton, then take a picture of team in front of brown statue pictured (on clue sheet) to the left. Freakin' Picasso statue, NOT the lion.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6DqBV0AgvYlzRJc9J3EBrKma5uEMUPuhNSLRd7IPu7nic7MYLYPZixCAkcDScXIqXNWsasqmbSgLVZ81l3gSjEXeXJOoM-kZc5hd20dIVIgqN9sgpN7qeeJIjfyumcWVLfGu5fouzpU/s1600-h/IMG_4300.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiu6DqBV0AgvYlzRJc9J3EBrKma5uEMUPuhNSLRd7IPu7nic7MYLYPZixCAkcDScXIqXNWsasqmbSgLVZ81l3gSjEXeXJOoM-kZc5hd20dIVIgqN9sgpN7qeeJIjfyumcWVLfGu5fouzpU/s320/IMG_4300.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365578886316436754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The train ride back to Cubby Bear:</span> God bless transvestites, but the one we rode with on the train was not convincing us with "her" stories about "her" "husband," "kids" and "grandkids." We also got to hear about "her" MIT-educated daughter who's addicted to heroin, how "she" escaped New Orleans just before Katrina and about "her" house, which had just burned down. But we were treated to "her" extremely masculine features, "her" mustache, the incessant brushing of "her" hair and the track marks on "her" arms and legs. Jamie, wherever you are -- good luck, man (or woman, whatever.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">The finish line (otherwise known as the moment of truth): </span><span>We</span> crossed the finish line in a not-too-respectable time of about three hours. We'll find out in a day or two how we ranked, but I'm sure it won't be pretty. Didn't really matter in the end, though. We had a great time. That's what matters, right? And were we "officially" disqualified for our faked stamp? Nope. We had to show our pictures and our clue sheets at check-in. The man checking "our" clue sheet looked at the blue smudge and started to question it. Kat chimes in, "Yeah, that's from Comedy Sportz. Sorry, it got kind of blurred in the drizzle." "No problem," he says. Seriously, who says lying, cheating and stealing don't pay off?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8MG6hVcTNeOucnH0gEG3zI1ztMt-onCpMs3sVyWmyiebxWbjyPAvoC3xwGzJ20tTNslvzTC8RH8peIwDlE3cn9KpdGlQuqnmYH1v1VWOx_2etQkKRIlewHHgCAsUAG-Z5S5j6THNyek/s1600-h/IMG_4301.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE8MG6hVcTNeOucnH0gEG3zI1ztMt-onCpMs3sVyWmyiebxWbjyPAvoC3xwGzJ20tTNslvzTC8RH8peIwDlE3cn9KpdGlQuqnmYH1v1VWOx_2etQkKRIlewHHgCAsUAG-Z5S5j6THNyek/s320/IMG_4301.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5365578894272376914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Update:</span> The results are in. I think I counted 528 teams. Teams Non Sequitur, Doppelganger and Commando Kilts finished 291, 292, 293. No medals for us, but I'm sure we had much more fun than those losers who finished first.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-1626097762804472642009-06-16T23:15:00.004-04:002009-06-17T00:34:23.731-04:00So much the same, so much ... notAs a kid, summer meant playing softball, riding bikes with friends, hanging out at Highland Custard Shop and the annual canoe trip. We had a great group of family friends growing up and each year, the dads would load up the kids and head to the campground at Lake <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Waveland</span>. Meticulous planning went into these trips. OK, in my family it wasn't so meticulous. Mom basically bought whatever beer was on sale for my dad, hot dogs for dinner, a box of doughnuts for breakfast and some generic soda. (We all mocked a certain family for arriving in a camper and then dining on pancakes, eggs and sausages for breakfast. But really, we were just jealous because all we had was our soggy doughnuts.)<br />Sometimes it would rain and we would all have to sleep in the car. And June Cleaver, if you're reading this, I know you remember the time it rained and we all loaded into your dad's blue and white van for a not-so-restful night of sleep. (I think I can still hear our dads snoring.)<br />Looking back on it now, us kids pretty much had a free-for-all weekend: Our dads sat around camp drinking beer and the kids, well ... we pretty much did whatever we wanted to do. We'd wander down to the camp store and buy candy. We'd go swimming in the lake and see who could make it out to the diving board/raft first. We'd build huge campfires and see who could stay up the latest. On Sundays, our dads would drive us to the "modern" camping section and we'd all shower and then we did what you always do on camping trips: head to church.<br />When it came time for the canoe trip, we'd drive to the canoe rental place. From there, we'd load onto a bus in what seemingly was always 100 degree weather and travel the 15 miles upstream to our starting point. All the dads carried full-size coolers filled with beer (and maybe a sandwich for the kids to eat for lunch).<br />If it was your first year <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">canoeing</span>, you'd get stuck in the canoe with your dad. That wasn't fun for the kid or the dad. (The kid had no idea how long 15 miles actually is. And the dad got stuck steering and paddling 14.9 miles on his own.) Rest assured, the trips became more enjoyable after that first year.<br /><br />So last weekend, I went <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">canoeing</span> with my sister, my sister-in-law and my two nieces. We met at the place where, as kids, we always stopped on the way to Lake <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Waveland</span>: Short Stop in Attica. It was exactly how I remembered it. The only difference was that we seemed to fill up a booth a lot easier than when we were kids.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweT5d-2E6szhloYWr7ga89FWed-c6kr55R1dzoW0wXm4LyFdvMz8AFaceZU_SYZKHCKiji9qEgL9Lpc7UluRdqjzwYsHwC1xgIzWMNSPfLWGUpbtwDC7O_E7X5Icx8l1jr8gdFWccLv0/s1600-h/IMG_0274.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhweT5d-2E6szhloYWr7ga89FWed-c6kr55R1dzoW0wXm4LyFdvMz8AFaceZU_SYZKHCKiji9qEgL9Lpc7UluRdqjzwYsHwC1xgIzWMNSPfLWGUpbtwDC7O_E7X5Icx8l1jr8gdFWccLv0/s200/IMG_0274.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348137508974541138" border="0" /></a>Then we headed to our old stomping grounds: Lake <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Waveland</span>. We set up camp not far from the spot where we always did as kids. The shelter there looked a little worse for wear. And the playground where we spent a lot of time as kids had definitely seen better days. The tennis court had no nets. We went to the camp store to buy ice and I was sad to see that the store no longer existed. We went to the lake for a swim and realized the lifeguard stand we used to climb was gone. The diving board/raft was gone, too. The lake bottom was still covered with seaweed (small comfort). The "bathroom" was exactly as I remembered it, although I'm happy to report the smell was not so bad. There was actually toilet paper in the stalls (how posh).<br />We set up our tents, one to sleep in and one to change in (or an "exile" island, if necessary). I got to experience once again the joy of changing clothes in a tent. Then going to sleep and hearing the buzz of that single, annoying insect that had made its way inside the tent. I got to wake up, look at the roof of the tent and see the dreaded daddy long legs. I could see the look on that spider's face and it was taunting me, I swear.<br />In the morning, it was time for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">canoeing</span>. Well, for two of us. My sister and I chose to go old-school <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">canoeing</span>. The other three opted for kayaks. The canoe disadvantage: We were the "carriers of the crap." (You want something to eat? Something to drink? Well, I guess we have to carry it because you have no room in your kayaks.)<br />The river was high this year after so much rain, and we finished 11-1/2 miles in hardly any time at all. When I saw the bridge where our trip was supposed to end, I groaned. I wanted to paddle back upstream and do it all over again. Maybe next year, maybe next year ...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffxiQG-I7yUvjEeYKZVFsMJ6g_kEX3krqWBKCSY2p2curX0rYvc_fMA7kOO6Cii_CBUm5HA-4ZgwjCBznz4tY84ixzxS8nYA4oyKDFQl6HJW7cSm80OXHIzWKFCHynhTMyUNn6bkjO6U/s1600-h/17A_2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgffxiQG-I7yUvjEeYKZVFsMJ6g_kEX3krqWBKCSY2p2curX0rYvc_fMA7kOO6Cii_CBUm5HA-4ZgwjCBznz4tY84ixzxS8nYA4oyKDFQl6HJW7cSm80OXHIzWKFCHynhTMyUNn6bkjO6U/s200/17A_2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348130561259042642" border="0" /></a>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-4351847632491195482009-03-23T12:24:00.001-04:002009-03-23T12:25:58.228-04:00W.H.O. -- May 10, 1942 - March 23, 1999Never far from my mind.<br />I miss you.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-41657222084001467342009-03-17T11:49:00.007-04:002009-03-29T23:58:42.918-04:00When in doubt, go random* Why does 68 degrees feel great outside but cold inside my apartment?<br />* I can't decide which is more annoying: the freecreditreport.com commercials or the Hillshire Farms "Go meat!" commercials.<br />* Why must muscle weigh more than fat? <br />* Why did I ever need to learn calculus?<br />* Those people who don't own a TV? I wonder about them.<br />* Ever stop to look at all the cereal choices in the grocery store and feel guilty about the excesses of America?<br />And: <br />* How grossed out would we all be if we could *actually* see dust mites?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzA9P7ANxeeEStczaxe5hFRcYS14AlbkSb58AbQJxUsDRh6QG13ZzzwmllqTHm5W84VcSjmg_w-las7Tg13ijH3qNEl3k2VVR1s8fdGW6t2xOTvQpAsuX6zzbuR1Jg_huGzQ8kwEh1cI/s1600-h/250px-House_Dust_Mite.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwzA9P7ANxeeEStczaxe5hFRcYS14AlbkSb58AbQJxUsDRh6QG13ZzzwmllqTHm5W84VcSjmg_w-las7Tg13ijH3qNEl3k2VVR1s8fdGW6t2xOTvQpAsuX6zzbuR1Jg_huGzQ8kwEh1cI/s200/250px-House_Dust_Mite.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5318822595541487586" /></a>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-5807707227486519402009-03-13T01:56:00.001-04:002009-03-13T01:58:44.676-04:00Thank you, John LennonInstant Karma's gonna get you,<br />Gonna knock you right on the head,<br />You better get yourself together,<br />Pretty soon you're gonna be dead,<br />What in the world you thinking of,<br />Laughing in the face of love,<br />What on earth you tryin' to do,<br />It's up to you, yeah you.<br /><br />Instant Karma's gonna get you,<br />Gonna look you right in the face,<br />Better get yourself together darlin',<br />Join the human race,<br />How in the world you gonna see,<br />Laughin' at fools like me,<br />Who on earth d'you think you are,<br />A super star,<br />Well, right you are.<br /><br />Well we all shine on,<br />Like the moon and the stars and the sun,<br />Well we all shine on,<br />Ev'ryone come on.<br /><br />Instant Karma's gonna get you,<br />Gonna knock you off your feet,<br />Better recognize your brothers,<br />Ev'ryone you meet,<br />Why in the world are we here,<br />Surely not to live in pain and fear,<br />Why on earth are you there,<br />When you're ev'rywhere,<br />Come and get your share.<br /><br />Well we all shine on,<br />Like the moon and the stars and the sun,<br />Yeah we all shine on,<br />Come on and on and on on on,<br />Yeah yeah, alright, uh huh, ah-.<br /><br />Well we all shine on,<br />Like the moon and the stars and the sun,<br />Yeah we all shine on,<br />On and on and on on and on.<br /><br />Well we all shine on,<br />Like the moon and the stars and the sun.<br />Well we all shine on,<br />Like the moon and the stars and the sun.<br />Well we all shine on,<br />Like the moon and the stars and the sun.<br />Yeah we all shine on,<br />Like the moon and the stars and the sun.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-21994219111728572052009-03-03T17:00:00.000-05:002009-03-03T17:01:15.657-05:00Dear anonymousGrow some class.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-4523737790119475162009-02-27T02:18:00.007-05:002009-02-27T02:42:49.557-05:00The future is now, and it's petrifying<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLwaF-aISmByZVqkg6wgYbQyI8S51M2tCCs0f_en8pNfZezr2To6wPsiz0cVzuDQVB8cSKQ1FAiWJyVGeWT2vOTnO2Qh7hMlxxW90y73osnMtoAf-gTUV1Rj92_ymtUUOSlyKye2ZUMI/s1600-h/Picture+1.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 125px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLwaF-aISmByZVqkg6wgYbQyI8S51M2tCCs0f_en8pNfZezr2To6wPsiz0cVzuDQVB8cSKQ1FAiWJyVGeWT2vOTnO2Qh7hMlxxW90y73osnMtoAf-gTUV1Rj92_ymtUUOSlyKye2ZUMI/s200/Picture+1.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307373363648871618" /></a><br />Click on this picture. If the Web site still exists when you see this post, go to http://www.rockymountainnews.com/ and look at the slideshow. This is the future of my industry. The Rocky Mountain News has been around for 150 years. It covered the Civil War. It covered Colorado gaining statehood. As of Friday, it will exist no more.<br /><br />If you think you don't need newspapers, think again. All the blogs and cable TV stations in the world can't replace the paper that arrives on your doorstep each morning. (And if a newspaper doesn't arrive on your doorstep every day, please get a subscription. You might just help save someone's career, someone's calling, someone's lifeblood.)<br /><br />There was a time when the thought of newspapers fading into oblivion would have never occurred to me. That time was not all that long ago. Now, the industry is in crisis. Each day brings worries about layoffs, about unpaid furloughs or word that another newspaper has declared bankruptcy. Or, in the case of The Rocky Mountain News, an announcement to employees on Thursday that the next day will be the final day. <br /><br />I'm 15 years and three newspapers into my career, and I can't fathom working anywhere but in a newsroom. <br /><br />I wish I didn't have to think of a life after newspapers.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-30763429298140469782009-02-15T22:12:00.005-05:002009-02-17T17:57:22.675-05:00Migraine misery<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jhHJfSM8jv5h5qmK6NLGxtW5-yIzmUKRCOApXNCKbaYCq4guqGdwEG3CmAVJTBNCrOswxgrFM2WXsXF_1B44FQquYf7FltJf4DNI6Erutz6xUiMB-n99rHT1OH3DSTwab2WtPumdGOo/s1600-h/2189803492_8ef3b28667.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 151px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jhHJfSM8jv5h5qmK6NLGxtW5-yIzmUKRCOApXNCKbaYCq4guqGdwEG3CmAVJTBNCrOswxgrFM2WXsXF_1B44FQquYf7FltJf4DNI6Erutz6xUiMB-n99rHT1OH3DSTwab2WtPumdGOo/s200/2189803492_8ef3b28667.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303227898691770034" border="0" /></a>This is how I've felt the past few days, minus the flowing hair, sparkly purple top and gleaming blue eyes.<br />I remember when I was a kid and happily migraine free. I hated that I had to tiptoe around the house when my sister had a migraine. Then I started to get them and I understood.<br />I spent most of Thursday hidden away in my walk-in closet. It was too bright anywhere else in my apartment. On Friday, I still had what I call the dregs, not as bad as a migraine, but still a small, nagging pain. On Saturday, the throbbing pain had returned to the right side of my head. Pain in the right side of my head is always a bad sign. Pain like my head is in a vise. Pain that makes me vomit. Pain making me think I'm going to have an aneurysm at any moment. Pain that brings the sweats and then the chills. Pain that I fear is never going to leave me. It's now Sunday night and, thankfully, I'm back to the dregs. It's weird to be thankful that I just have a "regular" headache, but I am. Here's hoping I wake up tomorrow with a brain that's not bursting.<br /><br />Monday evening: Still have a headache. Curses.<br />Tuesday evening. Still have a headache. Curses.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-59637716471244428072009-02-02T10:06:00.011-05:002009-02-02T11:10:25.388-05:00Reminiscing about the campaign trail<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">I guess since the election is over, it's about time I posted pictures from the time I spent on the campaign trail. Have I mentioned it was a great year to move back to Indiana? Hopefully it's not another 40 years before we matter again. Here we go, in no particular order:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZpe7Te7aKYqHRZKgl1YhHAKap80gB9NbOhGbUHBHNZuSPGg7gn20J4dxNp2A2pEVicOP_72amYz4ImtRgfvZtYo_Su5zyZjzzAd4wMcvUkhmZxrX5b_IlbZxyJ2hFreOROsCp9mGs0Q/s1600-h/OMalley.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyZpe7Te7aKYqHRZKgl1YhHAKap80gB9NbOhGbUHBHNZuSPGg7gn20J4dxNp2A2pEVicOP_72amYz4ImtRgfvZtYo_Su5zyZjzzAd4wMcvUkhmZxrX5b_IlbZxyJ2hFreOROsCp9mGs0Q/s200/OMalley.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298228432537383170" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Photo courtesy of Zbigniew Bzdak, a friend at The Chicago Tribune who had a knack for spotting me in the crowd and getting a shot. This was shot in Plainfield, the first time I saw Obama in person.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbTDFcnxb7huyr_6V5KrUM52cdfyecf3ffh9O5Y8HVkoPwHGGurpm4QBwbpNF-rAI_NneMycctgq70SllSC0eTikeZUiYFWe7fe5xqXpJHtCrb6mD-8crLWPTuG_pin6uypnyzYBE5fA/s1600-h/Obama002.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxbTDFcnxb7huyr_6V5KrUM52cdfyecf3ffh9O5Y8HVkoPwHGGurpm4QBwbpNF-rAI_NneMycctgq70SllSC0eTikeZUiYFWe7fe5xqXpJHtCrb6mD-8crLWPTuG_pin6uypnyzYBE5fA/s200/Obama002.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298228428589762962" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Photo courtesy of Zbigniew Bzdak. This one's from the Indiana State Fairgrounds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIlEgfxWCN0mZi4Vmefq80iKIZzBPo9BsfaM2tWfiJZPNy3C1GEPYkop3hpEkkfwgxTBDUQisJx1DIV849MjnTkuXUVtI9Pemr-uXq4I1k9A07Uyjh2YoloA2lvM5Eogd_hojh6Ncg_0/s1600-h/MeandChelsea.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicIlEgfxWCN0mZi4Vmefq80iKIZzBPo9BsfaM2tWfiJZPNy3C1GEPYkop3hpEkkfwgxTBDUQisJx1DIV849MjnTkuXUVtI9Pemr-uXq4I1k9A07Uyjh2YoloA2lvM5Eogd_hojh6Ncg_0/s200/MeandChelsea.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298228430104728002" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with Chelsea Clinton in Indianapolis. I was struck by how much she resembles her mother.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhQ13qGwsQ3wVu54-MhhYkFVc1b8CaK-P9Eb5JZ74Hf-O2KWD3pfaw8N7aJopTMUSBZd8Mm6KdjWyLnLc87Q3mOQW810f9ginr0TwK9Potbm0blO4W0FIcVF4yYuAxG-cLgtJNZ5myOE/s1600-h/3001049595_e12b518929_o.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 156px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQhQ13qGwsQ3wVu54-MhhYkFVc1b8CaK-P9Eb5JZ74Hf-O2KWD3pfaw8N7aJopTMUSBZd8Mm6KdjWyLnLc87Q3mOQW810f9ginr0TwK9Potbm0blO4W0FIcVF4yYuAxG-cLgtJNZ5myOE/s200/3001049595_e12b518929_o.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298228426956677538" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with Joe Biden in Zanesville, Ohio. A pretty sizeable road trip to meet Biden. Well worth it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaugJCCkvnsj_eMgwu_-hR6harhadxn5ix4NcZVnbR9VXfa53XzUI6E7toef2ZkTCK6TeEvFvWriP7y1mghJp98MN4qNvwZBpw9-KRdKv6F2HHzVkhBeojmjSXq9P5GJAJSxMA6iDyMU/s1600-h/3000814627_38d27edb66_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsaugJCCkvnsj_eMgwu_-hR6harhadxn5ix4NcZVnbR9VXfa53XzUI6E7toef2ZkTCK6TeEvFvWriP7y1mghJp98MN4qNvwZBpw9-KRdKv6F2HHzVkhBeojmjSXq9P5GJAJSxMA6iDyMU/s200/3000814627_38d27edb66_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227874747557394" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Joe Biden in Zanesville, Ohio.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgctG9j0KS_35toNrglLwwWSJmsTFSDBYX6zwVYxsyZG3vWF3BFk8_Q1jEpsqvnPLQH3wYBfBt7_zHiND9i3WsNUddcyfdXbME4j_TClctAOVp9nX-UQxgg-7gmy_LZo-GXxZil4IfVuY/s1600-h/2943413353_87abb60937_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgctG9j0KS_35toNrglLwwWSJmsTFSDBYX6zwVYxsyZG3vWF3BFk8_Q1jEpsqvnPLQH3wYBfBt7_zHiND9i3WsNUddcyfdXbME4j_TClctAOVp9nX-UQxgg-7gmy_LZo-GXxZil4IfVuY/s200/2943413353_87abb60937_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227869292570818" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with Obama's "body man," Reggie Love, at the Indiana State Fairgrounds. Reggie helped me get a lot of things autographed, so thanks to him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa78HnSpz5uGWAo4myuLQlaN9SsBF5m1upCiiDiifBP6PrSE1k7nlsA218XjJqlINjDWFMdDtOE5UFk0D_oaiGv_-c9n85V3Wm-9S8dmK5MpiQ0PCP0CBDXzEZOm99u7mDI_6ncEJ5_w/s1600-h/2936820081_0715509579_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHa78HnSpz5uGWAo4myuLQlaN9SsBF5m1upCiiDiifBP6PrSE1k7nlsA218XjJqlINjDWFMdDtOE5UFk0D_oaiGv_-c9n85V3Wm-9S8dmK5MpiQ0PCP0CBDXzEZOm99u7mDI_6ncEJ5_w/s200/2936820081_0715509579_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227869182676978" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Obama at the Indiana State Fairgrounds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0WXndHT7YPL3t0t4-CkmVm1F7K1OhWMWgJ-3x7BAOpE_mFMPXHhBhbfknF0Gb1370MCWNajnBLiwjUZNDgapPFxyKi9T3uCd75Qa1lSdeIBek4g06ecSYLEoDJZGLmA_waKq4nRjQ7E/s1600-h/2936815999_801a00c433_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 70px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW0WXndHT7YPL3t0t4-CkmVm1F7K1OhWMWgJ-3x7BAOpE_mFMPXHhBhbfknF0Gb1370MCWNajnBLiwjUZNDgapPFxyKi9T3uCd75Qa1lSdeIBek4g06ecSYLEoDJZGLmA_waKq4nRjQ7E/s200/2936815999_801a00c433_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227872065786370" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Former Sen. Birch Bayh, Rep. Andre Carson and former Indiana first lady Judy O'Bannon at Obama rally at the Indiana State Fairgrounds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYSdwixiTS5mWquXIP5RuqGxk3qYEshNNQzDdiixdweZAleWKzb3BH0iqHaOuP2HINq9LbAcFZwfonVe8mE678EhSYY6MK_-tdHrQQ992YGTLISWcDBxLY3k697Y1RCVVSF-YDP-7ky0/s1600-h/2476564204_8ae1e90771_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghYSdwixiTS5mWquXIP5RuqGxk3qYEshNNQzDdiixdweZAleWKzb3BH0iqHaOuP2HINq9LbAcFZwfonVe8mE678EhSYY6MK_-tdHrQQ992YGTLISWcDBxLY3k697Y1RCVVSF-YDP-7ky0/s200/2476564204_8ae1e90771_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227866525046578" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Barack Obama on primary eve in Indianapolis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvU20H-MIShmw0ujePx-xoGtDXgnUqs3dPNHlrM08ylzOBI65b56jqqBDAl1k1XzvF9lvoCQyaKXQROh4OU4pBOfXVjAYe-ejkRK2M_8GF4PGvFW1uGMIXbjbDLqee3UouSsaSv40PG44/s1600-h/2476539416_a0d8b9ea36_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvU20H-MIShmw0ujePx-xoGtDXgnUqs3dPNHlrM08ylzOBI65b56jqqBDAl1k1XzvF9lvoCQyaKXQROh4OU4pBOfXVjAYe-ejkRK2M_8GF4PGvFW1uGMIXbjbDLqee3UouSsaSv40PG44/s200/2476539416_a0d8b9ea36_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227387287955714" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Stevie Wonder warming up the crowd on primary eve in Indianapolis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd_5S4miZAddHPsoPI7drM6pOdTeO-YjUH6601zMbris4Ww0ZJ8Vhppz1n18XZSRsUQrGL_UR57ZJY_4DnkFs9xxVxFHemsGPlNV9jEZBOmbidF2wuKqKYbMyQhZfnblqwCXumZmyzx0/s1600-h/2463884963_ee16f9d0f6_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzd_5S4miZAddHPsoPI7drM6pOdTeO-YjUH6601zMbris4Ww0ZJ8Vhppz1n18XZSRsUQrGL_UR57ZJY_4DnkFs9xxVxFHemsGPlNV9jEZBOmbidF2wuKqKYbMyQhZfnblqwCXumZmyzx0/s200/2463884963_ee16f9d0f6_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227384748054706" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with Tim Russert after "Meet the Press" taping in Indianapolis. A little more than a month later, Russert died.<br />RIP Tim.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9HKT6DHaz1SwZDebLmoOyO1WHt6mls672ZNFmha6gU0CUrBPb9NeMqQRwKckqTrL-xcBp28XaDfiNK_Wlz2jr5J4mMWGEBHxU2-8soz5tgLpjq0-9CGg4mH5vQnLpY9jMvW2AkgbdiAs/s1600-h/2463879129_4f2d070b19_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9HKT6DHaz1SwZDebLmoOyO1WHt6mls672ZNFmha6gU0CUrBPb9NeMqQRwKckqTrL-xcBp28XaDfiNK_Wlz2jr5J4mMWGEBHxU2-8soz5tgLpjq0-9CGg4mH5vQnLpY9jMvW2AkgbdiAs/s200/2463879129_4f2d070b19_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227381520683202" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Barack Obama after his appearance on "Meet the Press" in Indianapolis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_o6qh0aNwD0ikbpQPDfAn9MjwREN9w5vF0-ev3zPQ7FowhTcz1iZohf31Qo6S2PojaP9I4IEJFeSHkzOPkBGOLkQuhqiMhZJpc8iKSoXayqPXNKsJVoDuOaqyUz-9Jh_JC0dvqC_iNHU/s1600-h/2449579246_ffa1be236b_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_o6qh0aNwD0ikbpQPDfAn9MjwREN9w5vF0-ev3zPQ7FowhTcz1iZohf31Qo6S2PojaP9I4IEJFeSHkzOPkBGOLkQuhqiMhZJpc8iKSoXayqPXNKsJVoDuOaqyUz-9Jh_JC0dvqC_iNHU/s200/2449579246_ffa1be236b_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227372468643442" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with Bill Clinton in Carmel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVr0fsxOT53LePGB2i7uG0p1b2HkmTRsD_7I77cPBU1gAvefVmOk-b_XdQBtdRbgS9TQdbr-1SdR5Ld3lAW1q9wgUqRJnKOrX1LmIAButDyw-FeWwzbtXasDT6kgpzNb90pvypULTn3Q/s1600-h/2449539892_f0a2afce37_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNVr0fsxOT53LePGB2i7uG0p1b2HkmTRsD_7I77cPBU1gAvefVmOk-b_XdQBtdRbgS9TQdbr-1SdR5Ld3lAW1q9wgUqRJnKOrX1LmIAButDyw-FeWwzbtXasDT6kgpzNb90pvypULTn3Q/s200/2449539892_f0a2afce37_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298227374941772162" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Bill Clinton in Carmel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hyphenhyphenNGuRmuH_uMyWHitM6U2cPg_zVgOj1fI0CO9I9Ax2L8UgwmjmXWQgCn3K06gw45kCetNyXNHuHzQKCO3ZVM2ygNUs_FISbegcOIABWhOlMrRh1ku-HIcdmSlfN6fUdxJXH-yPUqhGs/s1600-h/2445820038_ac2c1e2ac9_o.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 144px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8hyphenhyphenNGuRmuH_uMyWHitM6U2cPg_zVgOj1fI0CO9I9Ax2L8UgwmjmXWQgCn3K06gw45kCetNyXNHuHzQKCO3ZVM2ygNUs_FISbegcOIABWhOlMrRh1ku-HIcdmSlfN6fUdxJXH-yPUqhGs/s200/2445820038_ac2c1e2ac9_o.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226724143731890" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The day Barack Obama came to The Indianapolis Star.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFAwHmMw6517ZuE2Vr484aQXYAh-DZUH8eWtkXbJt4_0sON4H3ZKp5oB3LHy3Bxv1EMbstdz3E2kP01PHy9-xH3O7xeUZIx2GfiqIK7DohsBXrkNoLvs3roGU5jpr2DuAUNS1SYbyY5Y/s1600-h/2444189336_dd6c39e1d7_o.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsFAwHmMw6517ZuE2Vr484aQXYAh-DZUH8eWtkXbJt4_0sON4H3ZKp5oB3LHy3Bxv1EMbstdz3E2kP01PHy9-xH3O7xeUZIx2GfiqIK7DohsBXrkNoLvs3roGU5jpr2DuAUNS1SYbyY5Y/s200/2444189336_dd6c39e1d7_o.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226718978546914" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with CNN's Jim Acosta at Obama rally in Anderson.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEr-7o_T8ENGdvIcXEZQPolnAyswVaSvU207DGBXvBzfA6p4ecfJ9MQayE6OEqwSwhO3YnDPCxQay7bwY07BqFp5RQRfV-h8j-sN-VuyAFh6r_uXVKOM8QaWIfXlmVIgdMzjkBE5zGmU0/s1600-h/2443440533_39e1c29c3f_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEr-7o_T8ENGdvIcXEZQPolnAyswVaSvU207DGBXvBzfA6p4ecfJ9MQayE6OEqwSwhO3YnDPCxQay7bwY07BqFp5RQRfV-h8j-sN-VuyAFh6r_uXVKOM8QaWIfXlmVIgdMzjkBE5zGmU0/s200/2443440533_39e1c29c3f_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226720114907186" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Person next to me trying, and not succeeding, to get a good picture of me with Obama in Anderson.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjls6cM3sJGPbgqqga0ouliKu8JMTCH7FZ8487EKxfLyMdBnyykM2gKnxgYNhPYdPEnpaZiDJZk7hljdxryHE-zWegnKrrAhaAwaQRJOPE8vSvEy8sh5sye1PfT0vL_pXUB1DvVDb3eZbY/s1600-h/2443418845_e91aff1663_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjls6cM3sJGPbgqqga0ouliKu8JMTCH7FZ8487EKxfLyMdBnyykM2gKnxgYNhPYdPEnpaZiDJZk7hljdxryHE-zWegnKrrAhaAwaQRJOPE8vSvEy8sh5sye1PfT0vL_pXUB1DvVDb3eZbY/s200/2443418845_e91aff1663_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226714522178130" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Barack Obama in Anderson.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyShudK7DSQX8IaGExx05ela6xdw5JRLVMSrL2kmHnp6f6KbnD39u6B-NMVVzSw1S006okdGRtyLBwZrv3-Lkv2XFuhcLUBJNOsLQ0RibyN0mdDGL6bz6egqCuzhl1VOyp2jY4iHqUYSM/s1600-h/2438250878_04352067dc_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 136px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyShudK7DSQX8IaGExx05ela6xdw5JRLVMSrL2kmHnp6f6KbnD39u6B-NMVVzSw1S006okdGRtyLBwZrv3-Lkv2XFuhcLUBJNOsLQ0RibyN0mdDGL6bz6egqCuzhl1VOyp2jY4iHqUYSM/s200/2438250878_04352067dc_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226717038628978" border="0" /></a><br /><br />John Mellencamp at Obama rally in Evansville. The dude is really short.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemtk3QUwTH-Z8fUi-yzOEYnU0ZP0qk2c0K4m4vdAEHui_63uKymgiXAc_N6ujUzjgI7rnACw6BPZhIdllHOH-i7YYGazBYDSBPwnb5DLNx7cLW_FSdcsg6-TlmyRCuFIFqPJDm03N6so/s1600-h/2438232164_c3caba42ea_o.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiemtk3QUwTH-Z8fUi-yzOEYnU0ZP0qk2c0K4m4vdAEHui_63uKymgiXAc_N6ujUzjgI7rnACw6BPZhIdllHOH-i7YYGazBYDSBPwnb5DLNx7cLW_FSdcsg6-TlmyRCuFIFqPJDm03N6so/s200/2438232164_c3caba42ea_o.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226225021260050" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with CNN's Suzanne Malveaux at Obama rally in Evansville. She had just finished her live shot.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2xgcbfDPz3-RhS5OuElc1tLl_TlWvn4iXY8sardzWr8oWuxS9kTTBm0Fm5_fZNgszl1M9yYs5Xlt6EbKlw1hZwUKLwQ24DS8t5rle1bhVdg9K9m0KqfdadoqA3xadek4zlyJTHCCzA8/s1600-h/2437437857_a68e409c33_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ2xgcbfDPz3-RhS5OuElc1tLl_TlWvn4iXY8sardzWr8oWuxS9kTTBm0Fm5_fZNgszl1M9yYs5Xlt6EbKlw1hZwUKLwQ24DS8t5rle1bhVdg9K9m0KqfdadoqA3xadek4zlyJTHCCzA8/s200/2437437857_a68e409c33_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226224506524706" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Barack Obama in Evansville.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKei59sbbN1eDl5oogrOXYU2o6yWgwxF6h7Cm85TwqUJikCWMY54FB2d1G3z3v7oc2XjH5Xj4-AxBCnQfU7OahCH8gqxq9J48QlnvriwU-m3t-q7ojXjDTSn67Q7VwOoYKcoN9pPzPHI/s1600-h/2398995903_d6e4a5ed2b_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjKei59sbbN1eDl5oogrOXYU2o6yWgwxF6h7Cm85TwqUJikCWMY54FB2d1G3z3v7oc2XjH5Xj4-AxBCnQfU7OahCH8gqxq9J48QlnvriwU-m3t-q7ojXjDTSn67Q7VwOoYKcoN9pPzPHI/s200/2398995903_d6e4a5ed2b_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226223269865506" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Chelsea Clinton in Indianapolis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_f8BI4cg8fuBq0oqtrRnAYkFT2TsJLn9vs0UQNlPho6P_Hj1Qp5mlAEzkrJ8Zb3fRzAaSo-Qmy5v3LQR5VgmOZk099KwCZiepN3FT_V_cBEog5y8XElrH9KQ7sER6a2CSNvRSt0lYeI/s1600-h/2388559467_a14517936e_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_f8BI4cg8fuBq0oqtrRnAYkFT2TsJLn9vs0UQNlPho6P_Hj1Qp5mlAEzkrJ8Zb3fRzAaSo-Qmy5v3LQR5VgmOZk099KwCZiepN3FT_V_cBEog5y8XElrH9KQ7sER6a2CSNvRSt0lYeI/s200/2388559467_a14517936e_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226219973288930" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Hillary Rodham Clinton in Indianapolis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWMkz4dWPR96j72O9L7qF9e1q45AmdELy6bXkPvw74ByJ40F7Um-fAgNpxzysgz-gW8YND9Gje949GlbddoCn39Dv5CdRkAhQPJqwPxYqm5ZS8o2iXmBG2Q1cdt8orO3SUCm1ZfVZyBE/s1600-h/2388515389_83b92339c8_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiWMkz4dWPR96j72O9L7qF9e1q45AmdELy6bXkPvw74ByJ40F7Um-fAgNpxzysgz-gW8YND9Gje949GlbddoCn39Dv5CdRkAhQPJqwPxYqm5ZS8o2iXmBG2Q1cdt8orO3SUCm1ZfVZyBE/s200/2388515389_83b92339c8_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298226213980138210" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Barack Obama shaking my hand.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-7Y5kYIqK_oRpqflDnlgOmmX0fpTtkjcr0A6IsKBDRJo8twPvo696EkJ0Fv2lsHira-dbzBnXvvrF1MyMVSMY2xK2q96XksQwhQxB1shQqcSHaQX16PayKaoOXa-goBKXoxA4CwrEbY/s1600-h/2383925873_56b038f368_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG-7Y5kYIqK_oRpqflDnlgOmmX0fpTtkjcr0A6IsKBDRJo8twPvo696EkJ0Fv2lsHira-dbzBnXvvrF1MyMVSMY2xK2q96XksQwhQxB1shQqcSHaQX16PayKaoOXa-goBKXoxA4CwrEbY/s200/2383925873_56b038f368_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298225534894115138" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Former Indiana first lady Judy O'Bannon introducing Bill Clinton in Columbus.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbcSFRR3ZWDYR9gFCv1pd9d-KZfHbLNeShRHEqJYU3lha9Rt8PLuF9dO-TWwzQcOfaUSqJK8iPfi3MUQI4_ZZZw7pIiPDVPuU0GOp8zHZFJHlTQQXCPTy7Z_gpj1-9rcMIvdxbewjIGA4/s1600-h/2353957198_1c3f37aa47_b.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbcSFRR3ZWDYR9gFCv1pd9d-KZfHbLNeShRHEqJYU3lha9Rt8PLuF9dO-TWwzQcOfaUSqJK8iPfi3MUQI4_ZZZw7pIiPDVPuU0GOp8zHZFJHlTQQXCPTy7Z_gpj1-9rcMIvdxbewjIGA4/s200/2353957198_1c3f37aa47_b.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298225534075744146" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Bill Clinton in Richmond.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCmTrYVXVaR52q7nplLUIWheLZbkzzb3TRWvyqEzGO6ttcpzv4NOjzCW-gG4EupkgkhdLDIsIDTSbfl5D3lmy4opCDDg5Kj0gE4VaBQXReNzdO9VBrDK0ls-h5GSYTPNiksiVRfa9F2YQ/s1600-h/8A.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 175px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCmTrYVXVaR52q7nplLUIWheLZbkzzb3TRWvyqEzGO6ttcpzv4NOjzCW-gG4EupkgkhdLDIsIDTSbfl5D3lmy4opCDDg5Kj0gE4VaBQXReNzdO9VBrDK0ls-h5GSYTPNiksiVRfa9F2YQ/s200/8A.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298225535346341842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with Hillary Rodham Clinton in Indianapolis.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqHQrTC1VNaSPataf8EMoLLjkSTSLTKmQDzmF3Tjie2GGraVc5k_cPuDfZ3Oirf7VeutTs0vUZtWnP3e3xKooveAoIvI_67hLvzBODT4Ebbvqrdvn-4rBsd3-WRJ5KWN5X_8HbH6gkK0/s1600-h/-1.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNqHQrTC1VNaSPataf8EMoLLjkSTSLTKmQDzmF3Tjie2GGraVc5k_cPuDfZ3Oirf7VeutTs0vUZtWnP3e3xKooveAoIvI_67hLvzBODT4Ebbvqrdvn-4rBsd3-WRJ5KWN5X_8HbH6gkK0/s200/-1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298225525724215074" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Me with Sen. Evan Bayh at the Indiana State Fairgrounds.<br /><br /></div>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-91202534011922640002009-01-27T15:40:00.003-05:002009-01-27T16:10:35.207-05:00Wonder where Martha is nowIt's not often I initiate the "let's go have a beer after work" conversation. So recently, after a relatively crazy night, I did just that. So there I am with Amanda at the Slippery Noodle, a beer in my hand a Pinot in hers when Martha plopped down at our table.<br />Martha looked like she hasn't had the easiest life. Who am I kidding? Martha didn't look like she'd had an easy day. The right side of her face was covered with cuts and bruises. Her hair was a mess. She had layer upon layer of clothes on. She had a Budweiser in her hand and was ready to talk to someone -- anyone. And so there she was at our table, talking to us as if we were her best friends.<br />Turns out that Martha is homeless and had been struggling all day to find a place where she could get out of the cold. She was leery of the guys sitting at the bar behind us and thought they were trying to steal her coat. We were leery of her because ... well, she just kind of sat down at our table. A couple of guys who work at the bar gave us the "Are you guys OK?" and "Who is that woman?" looks. When part of my beer spilled on the table, she told me not to get napkins and wiped it up with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.<br />She was chain-smoking and upset with herself that she was smoking at all because she had quit for the five years she had been in prison. Turns out she had been stabbed while she was locked up, too.<br />She talked about her former life in Arizona, when she drove 18-wheelers and rode horses in her free time. She told us about the transvestite hookers at the Flying J and her desire to skip town before her parole was up in June. And there I was, wishing this woman would leave our table but transfixed by her at the same time.<br />I wanted to know what she had been in prison for, but thought it rude to ask. I wanted to know about her childhood. I wanted to know who had caused all the cuts and bruises on her face. I wanted to know what she was doing with all that Vicodin in her sweatshirt pocket. I wanted her to find a warm place to sleep, but I didn't want to be the one responsible for helping her find one. She wanted to buy us a round, but we declined.<br />In the end, Amanda and I snuck out the back door to avoid Martha asking me for a ride ... somewhere. I kind of wonder where Martha is now. I felt bad about ditching her there, but ... but ...Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-74780436474271809812009-01-18T03:01:00.002-05:002009-01-18T03:02:22.389-05:00Bound for D.C.<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOnrQ_8XrYoooEvlGG5_f99DzdjcAldxsauPzcpy9lfCDiCzLgplvQv1Cko3dsIlRdarmV2lFEfXjoQG6v-2jLXYOmFRrkBiN2nDVxhOBXrv7D_M8iEjpzuoIGza8GVHQBt9c5GPNvOnE/s1600-h/PH2009011604742.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOnrQ_8XrYoooEvlGG5_f99DzdjcAldxsauPzcpy9lfCDiCzLgplvQv1Cko3dsIlRdarmV2lFEfXjoQG6v-2jLXYOmFRrkBiN2nDVxhOBXrv7D_M8iEjpzuoIGza8GVHQBt9c5GPNvOnE/s200/PH2009011604742.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5292540788386122466" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div>Inauguration Day, here I come. Will not be drinking any fluids for three days.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-56508482623660071972009-01-09T02:00:00.003-05:002009-01-09T02:42:30.189-05:00Happy birthday, mini-meEighteen years ago, this picture was taken.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKo-JAKCYZoOG5uIwS9UwHvdGRtuMbjogofOp7gSGKrQ-fYSDuBfOAgx5Y9FffIKvhVO6ssFEiUGGFhV_1f0vkhSsw29zKZ2bFYZn3hQ8xFHU8oyKOBNWcOll7z458tIWs4-Bdp7R9eB8/s1600-h/00000097_2.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKo-JAKCYZoOG5uIwS9UwHvdGRtuMbjogofOp7gSGKrQ-fYSDuBfOAgx5Y9FffIKvhVO6ssFEiUGGFhV_1f0vkhSsw29zKZ2bFYZn3hQ8xFHU8oyKOBNWcOll7z458tIWs4-Bdp7R9eB8/s200/00000097_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289186655499794306" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It was the first time I saw you, the first time I held you, or any newborn for that matter. I remember babysitting you for the first time and going into a panic when you got hiccups that would not go away.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrT5fRLKW_mVM2lBHvxPc5S2NkNdLPcmtXjZFl4vh4xL50iH4hDqXSdX3QOWtHesnR26LmNwopofdFtKfRA-XiqyffTOCvjfaX29mP0dy4Gq6BasZINbt8Eu10mIZzXP06f0EZev4xpbo/s1600-h/00000047_2_1.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrT5fRLKW_mVM2lBHvxPc5S2NkNdLPcmtXjZFl4vh4xL50iH4hDqXSdX3QOWtHesnR26LmNwopofdFtKfRA-XiqyffTOCvjfaX29mP0dy4Gq6BasZINbt8Eu10mIZzXP06f0EZev4xpbo/s200/00000047_2_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289187006452624258" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember taking pictures of you at inconvenient moments such as this, and then holding my nose as I changed your diaper afterward.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh94yMgc53lMR9-_zLbMe6iI4tXjaGIe7mAw-LPpOXHxCcMiHwWIeTF6ujCFB9nr0lt06xDNhUDW75pjuIQYs4ehrhwJd_jy7RAKd4lKoppMRUUelP6YK9BkVkPJ48e8ueRWOtQy8ZgyM/s1600-h/00000058.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 143px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh94yMgc53lMR9-_zLbMe6iI4tXjaGIe7mAw-LPpOXHxCcMiHwWIeTF6ujCFB9nr0lt06xDNhUDW75pjuIQYs4ehrhwJd_jy7RAKd4lKoppMRUUelP6YK9BkVkPJ48e8ueRWOtQy8ZgyM/s200/00000058.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289187002095549922" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember your unnatural love of Winnie the Pooh and Barney. I remember accidentally breaking the "rumbly in my tumbly" squeak in your Pooh doll on Christmas and never being able to get the Barney "I Love You, You Love Me" song out of my head.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrmALU7xkeOQFLypakDlLHfuOgBR4N0cAXKM6RxSd0DQy6DTTYyLJy18tykI4PSMEaD-6qksqS8HCkoMA9NDT4z1i6GdlA0UbhT78woiioG_urh5tuxEdzTnZ_PjLaRSkVSy10BsiA-I/s1600-h/00000023_1.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 141px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivrmALU7xkeOQFLypakDlLHfuOgBR4N0cAXKM6RxSd0DQy6DTTYyLJy18tykI4PSMEaD-6qksqS8HCkoMA9NDT4z1i6GdlA0UbhT78woiioG_urh5tuxEdzTnZ_PjLaRSkVSy10BsiA-I/s200/00000023_1.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289192795721969778" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember going to Ireland with you for the first time and thinking: God, I really hope Grandpa Benny's gun isn't loaded.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2slLLb55532W1GePn3ELfnNpLUMCVM0S51oqjRTL-1M95Zt_cIYmvG_fNPgkTNg9xIB9-DeXXs82phQeTLTgxgZ5URiYNBBjudsBt1NXo6TFXpcwi5MkkCcSAJjQNlAnMflzl9g8EQmE/s1600-h/00000028_2.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 132px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2slLLb55532W1GePn3ELfnNpLUMCVM0S51oqjRTL-1M95Zt_cIYmvG_fNPgkTNg9xIB9-DeXXs82phQeTLTgxgZ5URiYNBBjudsBt1NXo6TFXpcwi5MkkCcSAJjQNlAnMflzl9g8EQmE/s200/00000028_2.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289192801438946322" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember how "helpful" you were when I moved. It was great to have you there, but -- girl -- you seriously need to work on your bathtub-cleaning skills.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitP7C8NOVNLb_Ghmcp72yId7saCjl9tHJpBi7B6Pbn3e7mqCWshYyzYEeDdg8CGoqj3YS4Jq41_jFQ2GjUaTvmYZC6cgkAI3VFDyAJ-gvBYEYf-9KYR2qziBj3nkLmJ3cT2zeHY0GDlnM/s1600-h/00000051.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitP7C8NOVNLb_Ghmcp72yId7saCjl9tHJpBi7B6Pbn3e7mqCWshYyzYEeDdg8CGoqj3YS4Jq41_jFQ2GjUaTvmYZC6cgkAI3VFDyAJ-gvBYEYf-9KYR2qziBj3nkLmJ3cT2zeHY0GDlnM/s200/00000051.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289192805920526034" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I remember taking you canoeing for the first time. Your reaction to the luxurious bathroom accommodations was priceless and you were *really* instrumental in getting us 15 miles downstream. I won't even dare tell the story of how you nearly killed me and your mom on the drive home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JUQYkYUJq-Rp1yWk4gnS78nlbOuvZqIY37QDca09A7Vw40Oer7nBUbdUX2oWuuSC86bZiv6PUO2cSJUg6r6wamFEXes4JbLjVslQdHkadB7aVCPacFkqDM1l6ky6ldM5_R-C7YqQL_Y/s1600-h/00000086_3.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9JUQYkYUJq-Rp1yWk4gnS78nlbOuvZqIY37QDca09A7Vw40Oer7nBUbdUX2oWuuSC86bZiv6PUO2cSJUg6r6wamFEXes4JbLjVslQdHkadB7aVCPacFkqDM1l6ky6ldM5_R-C7YqQL_Y/s200/00000086_3.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289192812438510546" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Oh, and I remember doing my best to replace the Winnie the Pooh doll I had "destroyed" so many years earlier.<br /><br />Happy 18th. I love you as if you were my own.<br /><br />(P.S.: You may want to kill me right now, but at least I didn't post the nekkie bathtub pictures!)Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-5809204861251387562009-01-05T17:36:00.005-05:002009-01-05T18:00:18.650-05:00The thumbs<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCr77E4Tq9JaQomkCMdWKIqotFl5mYSrRCUViL6oyUc_clolCo8RCWpbBD9R4hUZ3dAFda_28TJsTrRSIzPTwXIaJ9jxmkEhJHA-B_-nNHWzl9NDDTr6FJdsI8GbeAM9xgGXrTOYyXqAw/s1600-h/IMG_3099.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCr77E4Tq9JaQomkCMdWKIqotFl5mYSrRCUViL6oyUc_clolCo8RCWpbBD9R4hUZ3dAFda_28TJsTrRSIzPTwXIaJ9jxmkEhJHA-B_-nNHWzl9NDDTr6FJdsI8GbeAM9xgGXrTOYyXqAw/s200/IMG_3099.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287943304805348594" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><div style="text-align: left;">When I was a kid, this was a common hand position for me, thumbs tucked beneath my fingers so nobody could see them. My mom used to tell me I had Irish thumbs. Or that I had my dad's thumbs. Neither thing made me feel any better. And really, my dad's thumbs were nowhere near as freaky as mine. My sister was once asked by a doctor if her thumbs "impaired her." (Sorry, Col.) I was never asked that question, but probably because that same doctor never noticed my thumbs.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My thumbs are like big toes on my hands.<br />My thumbs look like Vienna Sausages (The owner of the "impaired" thumbs once sent me a can of the sausages just to reinforce this belief. Jerk.)<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOJuhXZn-PcWy9YcC6K2RgtqlSdq5ppq36ZLfEG5lP4b8Nq2vejRrCrTOd0uktyLLUrfxPnu0gZTGBuJ-Eka8l_zwqrQVCD3JwhRZbhVOBEp0MMQumDhmeM_yAc6ITH6_JG_gh5ULoZU/s1600-h/180px-Vienna_sausage_tasty.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTOJuhXZn-PcWy9YcC6K2RgtqlSdq5ppq36ZLfEG5lP4b8Nq2vejRrCrTOd0uktyLLUrfxPnu0gZTGBuJ-Eka8l_zwqrQVCD3JwhRZbhVOBEp0MMQumDhmeM_yAc6ITH6_JG_gh5ULoZU/s200/180px-Vienna_sausage_tasty.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287945984851864562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">It's time, finally, for my thumbs to be shown to the world, in all their glory. So here it is, a thumb untucked and in all its glory:<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiYRYgt_wsiqgw8hlHkEGokFYjelDMD-aphuBTKzPsU7cBKnHJtIP0lsxgZgJ0jmhYY7sQrmAGUyQOxM2dnrhj5zo32u5XqN-3DIHtd_UDupPgDD55iC_PrhWZYQVu9RM0a3oFgMyqMc/s1600-h/IMG_3098.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXiYRYgt_wsiqgw8hlHkEGokFYjelDMD-aphuBTKzPsU7cBKnHJtIP0lsxgZgJ0jmhYY7sQrmAGUyQOxM2dnrhj5zo32u5XqN-3DIHtd_UDupPgDD55iC_PrhWZYQVu9RM0a3oFgMyqMc/s200/IMG_3098.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5287943298519288754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The only good thing about having these things attached to my hands is that I never had the option of hitchhiking. My thumbs are so short and stumpy nobody would ever see them.<br /></div></div>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-64284102640612396362009-01-04T19:37:00.004-05:002009-01-04T20:09:47.089-05:00How did this happen?I'm typing this on my laptop. There are four tabs open on my browser: Gmail, Twitter, Facebook and this blog site. Hiding behind this browser is my iTunes window. Resting on the table next to this laptop: an iPod, a cell phone, a digital camera loaded with photos I need to download and the remote for my TiVo, which at the moment is recording some obscure show because it thinks it "knows" me.<br />I have my trusty bookmark toolbar at the top of this page: Chicago Tribune, Washington Post, New York Times, MediabistroDC and, of course, the Indy Star, among others.<br />I also have two books on the coffee table in various stages of being read.<br />How in God's name am I supposed to keep up? I want to be able to take in every morsel of information. I want time to catch up with those 263 people who I'm connected with on Facebook. I want to read inane Twitter updates. I want time to edit 14,039,204 (approximately) photos. I want time to find a song in the iTunes store that will give me goosebumps. I want time to watch that "West Wing" episode from Season 2 that TiVo has recorded for me.<br />I want time.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-62650043102349715592008-12-25T00:16:00.001-05:002008-12-25T00:17:25.192-05:00My own Christmas miracleFINALLY. I caught a green light at Meridian and Fall Creek Parkway! Merry Christmas to me.<br />(Oh, and to the rest of you, too.)Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-77289992855097057282008-12-18T11:21:00.006-05:002008-12-18T11:31:41.090-05:00Say it ain't so<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PEzM8ys8vn8WgkArZPMTmRMqVD27CZcDRZ8mQOpE3qZLRevgyvqhnM8gTGqC0Y3qf2IL-sLhAawSFDUVlvYpM3GqcIMWJqfktb6ulPNrjahKi2TuMQ34BB5n3cXgOeO-Yk-88ofvxKI/s1600-h/Untitled.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 140px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1PEzM8ys8vn8WgkArZPMTmRMqVD27CZcDRZ8mQOpE3qZLRevgyvqhnM8gTGqC0Y3qf2IL-sLhAawSFDUVlvYpM3GqcIMWJqfktb6ulPNrjahKi2TuMQ34BB5n3cXgOeO-Yk-88ofvxKI/s200/Untitled.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281168297367793714" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">My mom, calling me way too early this morning, reports she can no longer find Salerno Butter Cookies on store shelves. Listen closely and you just might hear my mournful wails.<br /></div></div>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-28380296895235688222008-12-18T01:52:00.008-05:002010-06-15T01:18:20.952-04:00Stuff me with fillingThis past weekend I went to my mom's for the annual ravioli-making festivities. Give or take a year or two when I was unable to make it home, I've been making ravioli every year for ... as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, we made them in my grandma's basement. After grandma died, my mom insisted we continue the tradition (umm, we TOLD her that we were going to continue the tradition and that we would be making ravioli at her house.)<br />Last year about this time, my mom's house was on the market and she didn't want to make ravioli there because we would create too much of a mess. She lost that battle.<br />This year, she didn't want to make ravioli at her house because it's brand-spankin' new and we would get too much flour on the hardwood floors. You guessed it. She lost the battle again.<br /><br />So, here we have the highlights from Raviolipalooza 2008:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xaz4M4ZK_kzvKc7IH93FCvppgkYpVpWSitYCbhU3qrhI5wvMJxXoJDS8gunZujnIzy0XvSniijvtR8A5eRkoXxQjsa0sbvnbB0sal0LjckWmeR3RTsS8uK02uGldS-EnLKIGt6EEAOo/s1600-h/IMG_3043.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-xaz4M4ZK_kzvKc7IH93FCvppgkYpVpWSitYCbhU3qrhI5wvMJxXoJDS8gunZujnIzy0XvSniijvtR8A5eRkoXxQjsa0sbvnbB0sal0LjckWmeR3RTsS8uK02uGldS-EnLKIGt6EEAOo/s200/IMG_3043.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281025900729668914" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Mom instucting Meg to get more "manly" while mixing the filling.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbtOyEnp9vCHtdEblNQYLiIXHGzUmpMluUuZigsHe1qCpfgaqzZzGDSEL7ajO-gQ4FXUHQefbys88Q5HJAj4ltYKQ9ZrNgZRi01XjIiTX45uuLD-POsMm7mr19Am0jYRx_DDPq-wepJ38/s1600-h/IMG_3046.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbtOyEnp9vCHtdEblNQYLiIXHGzUmpMluUuZigsHe1qCpfgaqzZzGDSEL7ajO-gQ4FXUHQefbys88Q5HJAj4ltYKQ9ZrNgZRi01XjIiTX45uuLD-POsMm7mr19Am0jYRx_DDPq-wepJ38/s200/IMG_3046.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281020107640737106" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div>If it weren't for the 18 raw eggs, I could've eaten the entire bowl.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-FdvzwNLwSYPRVt6yDg3og9MZbgSseGxyQ_1V3icYLxxrXqnVvGiGcdKTuceMHqf-Pgb0oo8EC97KbmLW4okyb3K4rKBpHc9A9rqAlWe99ocJbOxIbuNdd4QpiRiS1a0yiUwK5jgXJcI/s1600-h/IMG_3062.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-FdvzwNLwSYPRVt6yDg3og9MZbgSseGxyQ_1V3icYLxxrXqnVvGiGcdKTuceMHqf-Pgb0oo8EC97KbmLW4okyb3K4rKBpHc9A9rqAlWe99ocJbOxIbuNdd4QpiRiS1a0yiUwK5jgXJcI/s200/IMG_3062.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281027437829065250" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">An arm made of dough.<br /><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshlgdB-u3NBir0c3XJnpeazhCHoCj89MIHU1rNJs35OKvEJeGTA6K2jnAYTPdvZ4e-mk4p4BUZVH6c0b70NMqvT88E77ff1PgSZed9vDbSU4ILHFckOr2t7wWPeU4IVFuabL-OfIljI0/s1600-h/IMG_3048.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhshlgdB-u3NBir0c3XJnpeazhCHoCj89MIHU1rNJs35OKvEJeGTA6K2jnAYTPdvZ4e-mk4p4BUZVH6c0b70NMqvT88E77ff1PgSZed9vDbSU4ILHFckOr2t7wWPeU4IVFuabL-OfIljI0/s200/IMG_3048.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281027451608114722" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div>I am the queen of ravioli filling spreading.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUv2rxMxW2m127r7sJjKXcgS4V_eiMiRNF2SgVI0cwM_FRzrxBYPTOQyQCCsGip4_BXHi9GfQEx9TuuieCtEYJxXK0Sj3uu523ZqcuSZ0bAvNPjJsoMl4j9VAZrcTVtDh9RtxNs0128Wg/s1600-h/IMG_3071.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUv2rxMxW2m127r7sJjKXcgS4V_eiMiRNF2SgVI0cwM_FRzrxBYPTOQyQCCsGip4_BXHi9GfQEx9TuuieCtEYJxXK0Sj3uu523ZqcuSZ0bAvNPjJsoMl4j9VAZrcTVtDh9RtxNs0128Wg/s200/IMG_3071.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5281028850135987698" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Best part about this photo is that Meg and I are screwing around while Col labors in the background to get all the semolina off the floor.<br /></div></div>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-42909784870196529622008-12-12T02:29:00.001-05:002008-12-12T02:31:57.914-05:00A very tiny rantCan someone (anyone) please tell me why -- in 11 months -- I have never (ever) caught a green light going northbound at the intersection of Meridian and Fall Creek Parkway?<br />Never. Not one single time.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-54695804459979817532008-12-09T16:38:00.004-05:002008-12-11T02:53:09.454-05:00Is there such a thing as a butt sling?Late last week while I was at work, I twisted as I stood up from my desk and immediately felt a twinge. I said to my co-worker: I think I just pulled a muscle in my ass. I was only half-kidding. Yesterday, the dull ache bothered me all day. It was my day off and I did absolutely nothing. The furthest I walked was from my living room couch to my bathroom. Today, I rationalized and allowed myself to go get a massage. As I walked down the block to the salon/spa, I was hit with shooting pain across my lower back and down the side of my leg. And again. And again. When I got in the door and sat down to wait for the massage therapist, I realized that sitting wasn't much more comfortable than walking. And then I had an hour of bliss. I was even feeling semi-cured as I walked home. Well, that lasted all of about 20 minutes and now I'm in the land of the dull ache again. I'm really looking forward to putting ice on my ass, as the massage therapist suggested. Good thing I'm not being taped for a reality TV show.<br />So, yes, it's official. I'm old and I broke my butt. The only potential bright spot I can think of (and it's not so bright considering I'd be in pain for the next week) is that I won't be forced back into the crawlspace to look for mice when I go to my mom's this weekend (scroll down for that story if you haven't read it yet.)<br />So, Col, if my butt's still broken, the crawlspace job is ALL yours. Love ya, sis.<br /><br />Post(erior) script: OK. Two people have pointed out to me that I didn't make it clear what kind of massage I was gettin'. There was no skin on skin butt massaging going on here. There was butt kneading going on, and there were three layers of blanket between massager and massagee. Jeez. You people have dirty minds.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-25231370581105661312008-12-09T16:32:00.002-05:002008-12-09T16:38:16.493-05:00Poetic justice?<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhBiJfjPK2dfUVctFrmIK_tyIKxJZX97DFReIIAPjMN6y-XRRV4SOLZldKfifHyM-VIgXEl6HjU2s1dGbore5iOKIxgvO3SdxalLWCtmpYpucV__BmVeL2ci7MqLKJqta5j20bdAjt3Y/s1600-h/images-1.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 80px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirhBiJfjPK2dfUVctFrmIK_tyIKxJZX97DFReIIAPjMN6y-XRRV4SOLZldKfifHyM-VIgXEl6HjU2s1dGbore5iOKIxgvO3SdxalLWCtmpYpucV__BmVeL2ci7MqLKJqta5j20bdAjt3Y/s200/images-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277907766609018178" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bnlcJ9QZ9N7hU3YNCbo83AtPtogkGEBegFAP0Zv_m_f9qOTRv0AeUiYUUyWPl_fQiWz60NpDk-Hy7oMxRlmOiW-ghn2WFndzF3DFYnv-m6rDbBgTUQaFzAkM_d_CTO8PtOZgLXDNVV4/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 84px; height: 110px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5bnlcJ9QZ9N7hU3YNCbo83AtPtogkGEBegFAP0Zv_m_f9qOTRv0AeUiYUUyWPl_fQiWz60NpDk-Hy7oMxRlmOiW-ghn2WFndzF3DFYnv-m6rDbBgTUQaFzAkM_d_CTO8PtOZgLXDNVV4/s200/images.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277907769935065570" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />Wouldn't it be somethin' if these two bright shining stars of Illinois politics ended up sharing a prison cell?Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-29087373274575219312008-12-04T03:16:00.001-05:002008-12-04T03:18:52.472-05:00A toast ...... to my friends who lost their jobs today. It was too sad a day at The Indy Star for words.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-35835101402113137412008-12-02T21:22:00.007-05:002008-12-02T22:33:41.497-05:00Home, sweet homeProving that karma gets ya every time ...<br />My sister and I consulted the day before I was to drive home for the weekend and she came up with the perfect plan: Wait until mom leaves the house and then we will put up the Christmas tree for her. At first I was really irritated. How dare Col so blatantly go after mom brownie points? Why didn't I come up with the idea first? Then my sister shared her pure evil, twisted genius logic: Umm, Kathleen, would you rather put the tree up while mom is home or while mom is NOT home? Duh. We had evil intentions, but we'd win the brownie points anyway.<br />First sign that our plan would not go well: My mom, supposed to be leaving the house to go see a play, had gotten the date wrong. OK, fine. We'd still put the tree up, but we'd lock my mom in her walk-in closet for the duration. (OK, not really, but you get the point.)<br />And then I had to open my big, dumb mouth. (Surely I was attempting to win *extra* brownie points.) I suggested to Col that we go into the crawlspace and try to solve the mystery of the missing d-CON. My mom had put some of the mouse poison in the garage closet above the crawlspace. Lo and behold, she checked it sometime last week and discovered the box was completely empty. And when we opened the closet door Sunday, there were tufts of insulation everywhere. Not a good sign.<br />So, fully equipped with a broom, dustpan, garbage bags and flashlights, we made our way down into the crawlspace. It smelled like death down there. Mouse death. I shined the flashlight across to the other side and saw two corpses. Don't come complaining to me that this picture is out of focus. Give me a break. I was in the depths of hell with dead mice, people ...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3HFor8mLdX7JNcYsziUd0m_6-rcc_EFvaZtmMYL-r7K9ZeXpxp3pt1NOZX3J3ZDC03dtMyjLdLQC0dGfZnfCA8Qkaw9N9eiZ1UtICZGIgOxWnH-pUW4v6IxIfLx6Dxn7AtXW_AXcvEk/s1600-h/IMG_2997.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP3HFor8mLdX7JNcYsziUd0m_6-rcc_EFvaZtmMYL-r7K9ZeXpxp3pt1NOZX3J3ZDC03dtMyjLdLQC0dGfZnfCA8Qkaw9N9eiZ1UtICZGIgOxWnH-pUW4v6IxIfLx6Dxn7AtXW_AXcvEk/s200/IMG_2997.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275390831678178498" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br />And if that wasn't enough, there was poop everywhere. I mean everywhere. On the floor, in the insulation, on the ledges ...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1mJQCkafCmY6629aU4r8n3lEEN7qm7k92Dsvh1eXloTEI_fEOuW8UrmNHpv74U99oRXLxKlSHWvKOEnMcZ5RoZ54SuabL3qoXkhHnqMblriBC9r7WbyEKN6Bvxhu6v6fkbpJhhh0BFk/s1600-h/IMG_2998.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI1mJQCkafCmY6629aU4r8n3lEEN7qm7k92Dsvh1eXloTEI_fEOuW8UrmNHpv74U99oRXLxKlSHWvKOEnMcZ5RoZ54SuabL3qoXkhHnqMblriBC9r7WbyEKN6Bvxhu6v6fkbpJhhh0BFk/s200/IMG_2998.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275392095153463106" border="0" /></a></div><br />Oh, and there was a third dead mouse. The only good thing about the experience was that I somehow persuaded Col to pick up all three of the dead bodies. I figured she has kids and a dog so she's used to this kind of thing. (Not so much the dead bodies part, mind you. I was thinking more of the poop cleaning.)<div style="text-align: left;">The fun didn't end in the crawlspace. (Oh, did I mention that we were down there exposing ourselves to the hantavirus for an hour and a half???)<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">Of course, my mom would not let us step foot in the house with our infected clothes and shoes. She made us strip in the garage and gave us some really fashionable digs ...<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3C7oJU7wMv3eiHpeRGhkhLXvWXnWh64EXbMsMafBkK-qapBwLv3cR5unxHdgOIBaaarFawtPdRkrtkzB-FD4mQLhLlYy1y1pDDuJvHsrsHy8EE4BALslKKFDbC_DtBdaAiTNv9CRr9xA/s1600-h/IMG_3004.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3C7oJU7wMv3eiHpeRGhkhLXvWXnWh64EXbMsMafBkK-qapBwLv3cR5unxHdgOIBaaarFawtPdRkrtkzB-FD4mQLhLlYy1y1pDDuJvHsrsHy8EE4BALslKKFDbC_DtBdaAiTNv9CRr9xA/s200/IMG_3004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275394691367326962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The pants were about four inches too short on me and Col got stuck with the pink and white sweatshirt and grandma's pants. And we both got some really lovely sandals to wear.<br />All of this put us in the perfect mood to put up the Christmas tree. We weren't able to lock mom in her closet, so she was there to instruct us *how* to put up a tree -- you know, because we've never done it before ...<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXrk0w1CM7ZqGgzXeTjG3ExjXoYS3dvRXOsloZpGkm6un5rczviQKvkaWxIMjv3yOZ3sPJjZ1YSr8PgOEOXCJnfQEdbuimMPqNNWphlAMdz-avSFuajV1_H1FSaAuE-ia7fUkqPCiexs/s1600-h/IMG_3009.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvXrk0w1CM7ZqGgzXeTjG3ExjXoYS3dvRXOsloZpGkm6un5rczviQKvkaWxIMjv3yOZ3sPJjZ1YSr8PgOEOXCJnfQEdbuimMPqNNWphlAMdz-avSFuajV1_H1FSaAuE-ia7fUkqPCiexs/s200/IMG_3009.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275398109612358786" border="0" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;">And what happened to the poor angel on top of the tree pretty much summed up the day ...<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgRDdA2KgiDLfZNOgxmc3iBbc1bLkoigch2EkvSNYjmxYce_9kCNcbUMghdao65nm5fKWwi2TSA7o82vw4o9iLySkerdFSBfhTPG-Y7vc3ynaBzYpZAyTp8h1jHw1y39XkVv3_ZwKbasg/s1600-h/IMG_3018.JPG"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgRDdA2KgiDLfZNOgxmc3iBbc1bLkoigch2EkvSNYjmxYce_9kCNcbUMghdao65nm5fKWwi2TSA7o82vw4o9iLySkerdFSBfhTPG-Y7vc3ynaBzYpZAyTp8h1jHw1y39XkVv3_ZwKbasg/s200/IMG_3018.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275398118169844578" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br />I love my family. (And I love that my mom is so computer illiterate that she will never find this blog post.)<br /></div></div></div></div>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-58308236122050841232008-11-21T02:13:00.004-05:002008-11-21T02:35:08.361-05:00When I was a kid ...... I never wanted to be an astronaut.<br /><div style="text-align: left;">The first "I remember exactly where I was when that happened" moment in my lifetime was the Challenger blowing up. I was on a grade school field trip to the bowling alley and we were walking through the bar. (OK, a trip to the bowling alley and a walk through the bar?? On a Catholic school field trip? I dunno what the educational value was, either, so don't ask me.) Anyway, I looked up at the TV in the bar at the precise moment Challenger blew up.<br /></div>Then I remember watching at work as the Columbia disintegrated on its way back to Earth.<br />So there are two good reasons to *not* want to be an astronaut. (Although one could argue that journalism wasn't such a good choice, either, as that seems to be a field that's disintegrating -- although at a somewhat more slow, painful rate.)<br />As if the fear of instant disintegration wasn't enough, now we have this:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0DGVhcLiIbtXEj4J93-9GkKsUqHwy1WekqOCiPWmlSfcRVdDTvc0_XoAen2v3lxfI__q8zlQs9ezL8fQsaQarhJxKhoQZtu5dq19oy7RwPbBSIYh8hL04njp6uAWVDZjZ_3yo8TU85s/s1600-h/urinee.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 148px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU0DGVhcLiIbtXEj4J93-9GkKsUqHwy1WekqOCiPWmlSfcRVdDTvc0_XoAen2v3lxfI__q8zlQs9ezL8fQsaQarhJxKhoQZtu5dq19oy7RwPbBSIYh8hL04njp6uAWVDZjZ_3yo8TU85s/s200/urinee.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5271007727635310866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">This dandy little machine is the "Water Recovery System" and it was carried up to the International Space Station by Endeavour last week. Don't let the name fool you.<br /></div></div><br />Here's a description from Wired Science:<br />"The machine will use a distillation process that compensates for the absence of gravity to remove impurities from urine. Then the water will be combined with fluid from showers, shaving, tooth brushing and hand washing, as well as perspiration and water vapor that collects inside the astronauts' space suits. <p class="MsoNormal">All this reclaimed water will go through a processing system to extract free gas and solid materials such as hair and lint. Afterward, the system will remove any remaining contaminants through a high-temperature chemical reaction."</p><p class="MsoNormal">GREAT. I would get to drink my pee, my fellow astronauts' pee, my shower water, their shower water, my sweat, their sweat, my spit, their spit ... Oh, but thank God: The lint and hair will be filtered out.<br /></p> And I always thought that accidentally swallowing a mouthful of Lake Michigan water was disgusting ...<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8910158485635687563.post-63981891584095088882008-11-19T00:35:00.004-05:002008-11-19T01:13:25.984-05:00All I wanted for Christmas ...... Was my one (sort of) front tooth.<br />And I got it today. Merry (early) Christmas to me.<br /><br />(Let me just say, I can't believe I'm going to blog about this. How utterly embarrassing. Read on, and you'll understand.)<br /><br />So, let's start from the beginning, about a year ago in D.C. I went to my dentist for a root canal. Root canal went fine, or so I thought until I went to have the crown put on. The dentist took an X-ray and the spot where I had the root canal done was infected. He put me on some antibiotics and told me to come back in two weeks. I went back and had another X-ray done. Still infected. Like really infected. Like traveling to my sinus cavity to my brain and potentially killing me infected. He had to take my tooth. And we're not talking back-of-the-mouth, nobody-will-notice tooth. We're talking right near the front of my mouth. I refused to walk out of the office that way while I waited for the dentist to create something semi-permanent for me, so he basically cemented a temporary crown in my mouth. Then came the semi-permanent something I could stick in there until I went to an oral surgeon to have a permanent implant.<br />And then I moved. First order of business: find a new dentist and an oral surgeon. I found both and then found out I'd be buying the equivalent of a Toyota Camry for my mouth. And then, I managed to break the somewhat delicate semi-permanent tooth while on vacation in Arizona. I spent half a week barely opening my mouth -- not even to gape in wonder at the Grand Canyon. I tried "fixing" it myself with Krazy Glue, but all I accomplished was cementing my own fingers together. I managed to have an emergency fix done when I got back from vacation. Since then, I've *really* been waiting for this day. The day when I could eat a bagel and laugh -- and say "HA! I've eaten you, Mr. Bagel and you have not cracked my somewhat delicate semi-permanent tooth while on vacation in Arizona."<br />OK. So I didn't eat a bagel today, but I did get my tooth. My dentist actually serenaded me with a few bars of "Beautiful Day" by U2.<br />Now had I gone ahead with my plan to sue the D.C. dentist, I probably could have used his money rather than my own to complete Phase 1 of my Camry purchase.<br />I hate hindsight.Kathleen's worldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10591015199628101637noreply@blogger.com3