<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250</id><updated>2010-03-10T19:56:34.841-05:00</updated><title type='text'>I am LoW</title><subtitle type='html'>Keepin' it rated E for everyone</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><link rel='next' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>403</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-9205115033815314484</id><published>2010-03-10T12:56:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-10T13:26:26.047-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='books'/><title type='text'>Junie B Jones for Grown Ups</title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5fdilXTOkI/AAAAAAAAGDE/MR-q3_V9C6A/s1600-h/zippy.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5447065860543035970" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5fdilXTOkI/AAAAAAAAGDE/MR-q3_V9C6A/s400/zippy.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My sister gave me this book, A Girl Names Zippy, for my birthday and I truly believe that if you love Junie B. as much as I do, you will love this book.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It's lighthearted, fun, and a quick read and I actually laughed out loud. I don't know if I've ever done that. (other than Junie B Jones, of course)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Let me list a few of my favorite lines from the book...... if that's okay with you-&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Zippy was procrastinating getting ready for church when her dad said,&lt;em&gt; &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;"I respect every way in which you are a troublemaker, now get up and do what your mother says."&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;After loosing terribly in a game of ping pong she writes-&lt;em&gt; &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;I later discovered that in order to be a good &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;athlete&lt;/span&gt; one must care intensely what is happening with a ball, even if one doesn't have &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;possession&lt;/span&gt; of it. This was ultimately my failure: my inability to work up a passion for the location of balls. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Verdana;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:georgia;"&gt;Another&lt;/span&gt;-&lt;/span&gt; &lt;em&gt;My fourth-grade teacher was named Mrs. Denver. She collected yogurt &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;cartoons&lt;/span&gt; for fun and was the most intellectually free of all the teachers I'd had so far. For instance, when the word &lt;/em&gt;caviar&lt;em&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;appeared&lt;/span&gt; in a story we were reading and she didn't know what it means, she didn't try to hide it or lie. She asked me if I knew and I lied and told her it was a kind of Alaskan cookies that no one knew how to make anymore, and she simply thanked me. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Verdana;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:Verdana;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-9205115033815314484?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/9205115033815314484/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=9205115033815314484&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/9205115033815314484'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/9205115033815314484'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/junie-b-jones-for-grown-ups.html' title='Junie B Jones for Grown Ups'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5fdilXTOkI/AAAAAAAAGDE/MR-q3_V9C6A/s72-c/zippy.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-6528238721774522385</id><published>2010-03-09T09:30:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-09T09:38:12.543-05:00</updated><title type='text'>5 Factual Facts About Today</title><content type='html'>1- The Allergy Fairy has sprinkled yellow allergy dust (pine pollen) about and I am suffering. My head is swimming.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;2- Gary, bless his heart, knew that I needed some alone time (and a break &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(two different things)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;) &lt;/span&gt;so he just left with the '&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;independix&lt;/span&gt; removal' patient Wes to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Gramma&lt;/span&gt; W's house.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;3- My house is suffering since I am suffering, if ya know what I mean.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;4- I was suppose to get my hair cut today, a whole new style, but it's been postponed until tomorrow. And now, I am having second thoughts about the hair cut. I don't usually do that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;5- Having friends from high school finding me on &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Facebook&lt;/span&gt; kinda freaked me out. Having friends from middle school (we moved when I was in 7&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; grade, so I am talking friends from before the move) finding me on &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Facebook&lt;/span&gt; is &lt;em&gt;really&lt;/em&gt; freaking me out.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-6528238721774522385?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/6528238721774522385/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=6528238721774522385&amp;isPopup=true' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6528238721774522385'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6528238721774522385'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/5-factual-facts-about-today.html' title='5 Factual Facts About Today'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-6854243264258661493</id><published>2010-03-08T08:11:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-08T08:59:27.342-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='foooood'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my rae'/><title type='text'>Thanks For Asking</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I got a bunch of emails requesting I share the menu from &lt;a href="http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/let-momma-show-you-how-its-done.html"&gt;Rae's surprise par-&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;tay&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;Okay, so not really. Truth be told, in 2009 I got a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;whoppin&lt;/span&gt;' 2 emails about my blog. And that was up from the year before! But can I just pretend I am one of those &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;bloggers&lt;/span&gt;??? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;Just for this one post?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;em&gt;Thanks.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;So I got a bunch of emails &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;requesting&lt;/span&gt; I share what foods were served at Rae's surprise party. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;First let me share that I did not make the gorgeous cake, her wonderful friend that I like to call &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;CatV&lt;/span&gt; did. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446253794704053106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T6-IX1U3I/AAAAAAAAGCs/lyA97jS-gXY/s400/0DSCF2017.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;Niiiiiiiiiiiiiice&lt;/span&gt;, &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;huuuh&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;? She's a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;rockstar&lt;/span&gt; when it comes to cake decorating!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;This here is the food table with almost all of the food that was served for the night. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446253784607613570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T69iwp4oI/AAAAAAAAGCk/XFCsylzjv04/s400/DSCF2022.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;This is what was on the drink table, which is cotton candy cups, there were little 6 &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;ouncers&lt;/span&gt; of Sprite chilled and waiting for the guests to pour over their cotton candy cups.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446253776364415042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 192px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T69EDUqEI/AAAAAAAAGCU/h79etWCHNKE/s400/0DSCF2024.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;The results- &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446259653511278434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5UATKIU72I/AAAAAAAAGC0/jRbBadB2g-w/s400/DSCF2038.JPG" border="0" /&gt;Pretty, they said, but it didn't taste different.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;I made Brownie Bites 3 Ways. (actually, a friend did the baking of the brownies and I topped)&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446252204378992466" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T5hj8yr1I/AAAAAAAAGBs/IZQw187A6D4/s400/DSCF2006.JPG" border="0" /&gt;Here on the right we have a Triple Berry Brownie bite with a little Raspberry Sauce and a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;Maraschino&lt;/span&gt; Cherry Brownie Bite with a Chocolate &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;Ganache&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446252213531807938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T5iGC_kMI/AAAAAAAAGB0/BViVL-_dyY8/s400/0DSCF2008.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;The third Brownie Bite was topped with a Cheesecake Creme and a chocolate R, for Rae. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446252242219941426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T5jw6xvjI/AAAAAAAAGCM/JzSUNHRNNgU/s400/0DSCF2015.jpg" border="0" /&gt;Then we had a jar of Whoppers. Not because they are Rae's favorite candy (that would be raspberry licorice) but because I could fill this jar for about a buck.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;You got me, I am a bargain shopper. Or something like that.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446252232256070770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 168px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T5jLzNJHI/AAAAAAAAGCE/Ko-zAVMfTfs/s400/0DSCF2011.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;Rae would have wanted healthy options, so I did chop some veggie sticks for her.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446252221928832450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T5ilU__cI/AAAAAAAAGB8/BCKBBvrAhRs/s400/DSCF2010.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Then I served some Sweet 16 Sugar Cookies.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And this is about when the party got started and being hostess took over being food photographer (as the hot foods started coming out of the oven and the whippersnappers were looking starved)....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446253779669864354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T69QXZz6I/AAAAAAAAGCc/5o2cRK2ggIQ/s400/DSCF2018.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;But I did get a picture of this, I served french fries with three different choices of sauce. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;Ever had fry sauce? &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;When I was in high school I mixed all sorts of condiments in search of the perfect fry sauce. &lt;/span&gt;Thank you &lt;a href="http://thetrainingtable.com/fries.html"&gt;Training Table&lt;/a&gt; for showing me the way!&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;I hope this post answered all the emails&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt; (that I didn't get).&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Until next time.....&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-6854243264258661493?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/6854243264258661493/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=6854243264258661493&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6854243264258661493'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6854243264258661493'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/thanks-for-asking.html' title='Thanks For Asking'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5T6-IX1U3I/AAAAAAAAGCs/lyA97jS-gXY/s72-c/0DSCF2017.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-5121182848323146254</id><published>2010-03-05T09:06:00.008-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-07T21:56:42.287-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my wes'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my zoe'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my Nolan'/><title type='text'>LoW, RN</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Wes is home resting. I am his nurse.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Well, that's the role I should have..... &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But there isn't much to do, since &lt;em&gt;he's &lt;/em&gt;not doing much, except sleeping. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;His stomach is covered with staples.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Staples in flesh just doesn't seem right, does it?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Wes had three different incisions. They tried to remove his 'independix' laparoscopically first, which took two smaller incisions, but when they couldn't they did another incision that's 5-6 inches long, starting right below the belly button and going straight down.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.iamlow.com/1989/03/blog-post.html"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Wanna see? Click here!&lt;/em&gt; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Ever heard of that? Until now I've only heard of it being off the the side, in a slant. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I'm sure there's a reason they did it the way they did but in the meantime, his stomach looks like a elementary school teachers cork board with staples scattered about.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Zoe made this little piece of art for Wes when he was in the hospital. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445154296878793666" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5ES-7ynA8I/AAAAAAAAGAc/SdcXgFBmmEw/s400/0DSCF2001.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt; .&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And Nolan made Wes one of his famous comic strips. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;If you don't mind, I'll add the words he's written below, because if you are like me, you may be struggling to read it, with his handwriting being.... well, ya know...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445154306519959346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 283px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5ES_ftPhzI/AAAAAAAAGAk/63LHyC_gh-k/s400/0DSCF2003.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445154311592643202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 284px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5ES_ymqioI/AAAAAAAAGAs/4y7kkKgHhA0/s400/0DSCF2004.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;*splat*&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445154316283705890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 229px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5ETAEFGeiI/AAAAAAAAGA0/XSLh4yfy4lo/s400/0DSCF2005.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;*pew*&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445154327851729858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 215px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5ETAvLIg8I/AAAAAAAAGA8/B0Kjl_Y5oWs/s400/0DSCF2006.jpg" border="0" /&gt;*&lt;em&gt;hee hee hee&lt;/em&gt;*&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5EVgnoaO2I/AAAAAAAAGBE/ACR2Xox6Qv4/s1600-h/0DSCF2007.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445157074606111586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 264px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5EVgnoaO2I/AAAAAAAAGBE/ACR2Xox6Qv4/s400/0DSCF2007.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;em&gt; Stop flinging pudding at me&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445157083848530418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 265px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5EVhKD-WfI/AAAAAAAAGBM/rOMi2-3VZj0/s400/0DSCF2008.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Pssh. What are you gonna do? Hit me with your-&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445157095391796690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5EVh1EGndI/AAAAAAAAGBc/Bo3XR9pm_Dk/s400/0DSCF2015.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;*Tonk!*&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5445157089651889906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5EVhfrmlvI/AAAAAAAAGBU/F4VdMDLyvko/s400/0DSCF2013.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;em&gt;Can I get some of that morphine?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-5121182848323146254?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/5121182848323146254/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=5121182848323146254&amp;isPopup=true' title='8 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/5121182848323146254'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/5121182848323146254'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/low-rn.html' title='LoW, RN'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S5ES-7ynA8I/AAAAAAAAGAc/SdcXgFBmmEw/s72-c/0DSCF2001.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>8</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-782998628489543925</id><published>2010-03-04T08:18:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-04T08:56:23.759-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my Gary'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='love'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my zoe'/><title type='text'>Another Big Day</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Happy Anniversary to my honey!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My sister Darla is grossed out by this picture (as you may be).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444769246295139714" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4-0yClkpYI/AAAAAAAAGAU/9LxIeH33LNM/s400/GaryandLo.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But it's my all time favorite of us. It represents.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Sadly, I don't have the usual nostalgic feeling on this anniversary. I'm usually petering out by now anyways, after my birthday, Valentine's, Rae's birthday and then Zoe's. &lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;(see why I don't much care for Valentine's? It's just one more thing...) &lt;/span&gt;But this year with it being a&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt; big &lt;/strong&gt;birthday&lt;/span&gt; for me (40! gasp!)&lt;em&gt; and&lt;/em&gt; Rae (16! gasp-er!) &lt;em&gt;plus&lt;/em&gt; Wes getting his 'independix' removed (that's what Zoe said)..... I am just too pooped to think on our marriage like I usually do, where we've been........ where we are going.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;(except&lt;em&gt; I will&lt;/em&gt; be thinking of where we are going to dinner tonight!)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Maybe I should go back and read our &lt;a href="http://www.iamlow.com/2005/02/my-love-story.html"&gt;love story&lt;/a&gt;. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I hope Gary writes me a poem today. That's our tradition and it's my most favorite thing EVER! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But I love this man. And he loves me. Even though. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I ask him almost daily... (yes, I am one of those wifes)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;"Do you love me?" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;"Yes"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;"Even though?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;"&lt;em&gt;Even though&lt;/em&gt;."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Even though what, you ask? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Heck if I know, depends on the day. Even though I made Hamburger Helper for dinner. Even though I got snarky. Even though I am getting crinkly and wrinkly. Even though I've done and will yet do some stupid stuff. Even though, even though, even though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I would like to close this post with some pictures of the birthday gift I found for my birthday girl that I was &lt;em&gt;most excited&lt;/em&gt; to give her. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;A vintage Fisher Price School House which, I am &lt;em&gt;SO&lt;/em&gt; excited to report, &lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;she loves&lt;/span&gt;!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444769239178057314" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4-0xoEulmI/AAAAAAAAGAE/4pfJcjax8BI/s400/0DSCF2023.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Zoe doesn't play with toys much, like my other kids did. Maybe she just didn't have the right ones. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444769243917879490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4-0x5uyiMI/AAAAAAAAGAM/0fGD5y9HU_w/s400/DSCF2016.JPG" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;Rae took this picture of Zoe through the school house window. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Today closes our almost month long celebration of birthday's and love. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;And I could use the break!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-782998628489543925?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/782998628489543925/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=782998628489543925&amp;isPopup=true' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/782998628489543925'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/782998628489543925'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/another-big-day.html' title='Another Big Day'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4-0yClkpYI/AAAAAAAAGAU/9LxIeH33LNM/s72-c/GaryandLo.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-2237045684785829020</id><published>2010-03-03T09:15:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-03T09:26:36.083-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my zoe'/><title type='text'>March 3, 2001</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S45vebY3mgI/AAAAAAAAF_8/GqSjkjBoWAM/s1600-h/zoewu.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444411568076331522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S45vebY3mgI/AAAAAAAAF_8/GqSjkjBoWAM/s400/zoewu.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Happy Birthday to my Zoe Lu!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My Zoe Wu.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My Zoe WuWu.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My Zo-Zo.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My Zobey.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My  ZoBo.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My Birthday Girl.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;She's &lt;em&gt;SO&lt;/em&gt; nine and &lt;em&gt;SO&lt;/em&gt; mine! I love her with all my might. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And she's spoiled and I don't care. (yet)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-2237045684785829020?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/2237045684785829020/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=2237045684785829020&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2237045684785829020'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2237045684785829020'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/march-3-2001.html' title='March 3, 2001'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S45vebY3mgI/AAAAAAAAF_8/GqSjkjBoWAM/s72-c/zoewu.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-13881189850597233</id><published>2010-03-02T06:55:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-02T15:01:54.189-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my wes'/><title type='text'>The Day I Received Both the Best Mom Award &amp; Worst Mom Award</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Friday.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;That was the day that I was at home throwing my daughter &lt;a href="http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/let-momma-show-you-how-its-done.html"&gt;a surprise birthday party&lt;/a&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Best Mom, right?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But here's where the Worst Mom comes in.... my son was &lt;em&gt;suffering&lt;/em&gt; from appendicitis all the while. &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(the word suffering may be too mild of a word)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5444004449253068066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4z9M_lgDSI/AAAAAAAAF_0/EjK1gcyM5EM/s400/DSCF2004.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Sure, his dad was with him. But I was not. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It was just too late to cancel the party, I didn't even have the guest list, if there ever was an actual list, Rae's friends took care of that part. But I would have cancelled the party, if I felt I had to. &lt;em&gt;Or&lt;/em&gt; I could have had went with Wes and had Gary stay and throw the party, if he only knew how to decorate a food table. He said he would have though, if I just gave him the word. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;The guilt though&lt;/em&gt;......&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;oh&lt;/span&gt;,&lt;em&gt; &lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;the guilt!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;The next morning, before going to visit Wes, I showed Gary the pictures and video from the party and he said, "Oh, I didn't realize the party was that big and that involved. There was no way you could have cancelled." (not that he ever suggested I should) And I felt like I had his approval &lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;(which is usually all that ever matters to me)&lt;/span&gt; of my decision and it lifted some &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(if only a teeny tiny bit)&lt;/span&gt; of guilt. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Meanwhile, it's Tuesday now and he's still in the hospital. He's just not recovering like he should be. His organs, after the &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(old fashioned 6 inch incision)&lt;/span&gt; surgery, are just not kicking back in and doing their thing. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;If you are one that prays, can you throw some of that our way? If you don't mind.... Cause now it's not so much guilt that I suffer from, but worry.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;Thanks.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-13881189850597233?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/13881189850597233/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=13881189850597233&amp;isPopup=true' title='6 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/13881189850597233'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/13881189850597233'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/day-i-received-both-best-mom-award.html' title='The Day I Received Both the Best Mom Award &amp; Worst Mom Award'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4z9M_lgDSI/AAAAAAAAF_0/EjK1gcyM5EM/s72-c/DSCF2004.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>6</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-7063765071497843350</id><published>2010-03-01T06:54:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-03-01T07:11:23.138-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my rae'/><title type='text'>Let Momma Show You How it's Done</title><content type='html'>&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Last Sunday was Rae's birthday but &lt;a href="http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/her-birthday-but-my-surprise.html"&gt;she surprised me, or tried to, remember&lt;/a&gt;? &lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;object height="344" width="425"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Mouh_J48zPA&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1&amp;amp;rel=0&amp;amp;color1=0xcc2550&amp;amp;color2=0xe87a9f"&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Mouh_J48zPA&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;rel=0&amp;color1=0xcc2550&amp;color2=0xe87a9f" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Well, Friday night, I showed her how it's done.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.S&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;Rae was doubly surprised by the blond that opened the door, a friend who used to live here but moved away about 5 years ago. She took a 5 hour drive to come add a surprise to the surprise.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443636280060882498" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4uuWud1LkI/AAAAAAAAF_s/ehTXKi-v8Uk/s400/DSCF2059.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;I got a surprise myself that day, that surprise was by her brother.... more on that tomorrow.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-7063765071497843350?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/7063765071497843350/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=7063765071497843350&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/7063765071497843350'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/7063765071497843350'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/03/let-momma-show-you-how-its-done.html' title='Let Momma Show You How it&apos;s Done'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4uuWud1LkI/AAAAAAAAF_s/ehTXKi-v8Uk/s72-c/DSCF2059.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-2703810864040159089</id><published>2010-02-26T05:34:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-26T05:34:00.442-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my rae'/><title type='text'>Pop Quiz!</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Rae had an art assignment in which she had to draw a person using different peoples different features. Get it? &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Someones&lt;/span&gt; eyes? &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Someone elses&lt;/span&gt; nose, etc.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4dCDygCl2I/AAAAAAAAF_k/VNYurfWggxY/s1600-h/rae%27s+bubble.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442391307563734882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4dCDygCl2I/AAAAAAAAF_k/VNYurfWggxY/s400/rae%27s+bubble.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; She did however use the same person for the hair/ear/eyes.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But the nose and mouth is different.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;So the first person to guess what feature belongs to what famous person wins....&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;ONE MILLION DOLLARS!!!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Before you get too excited, make sure you read the fine print.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(just kidding about the million)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But you &lt;em&gt;will&lt;/em&gt; win braggin' rights.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And that's even better.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;So, whose hair/eyes/ears are those?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And whose nose?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And mouth?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;Do you think you know???&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;On your mark, get set..... &lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;GO!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-2703810864040159089?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/2703810864040159089/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=2703810864040159089&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2703810864040159089'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2703810864040159089'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/pop-quiz.html' title='Pop Quiz!'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4dCDygCl2I/AAAAAAAAF_k/VNYurfWggxY/s72-c/rae%27s+bubble.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-4934740234424211134</id><published>2010-02-25T07:10:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-25T09:25:05.558-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my naomi'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my zoe'/><title type='text'>Blobs</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;This started when the weather turned cold back in '09. For about 5 minutes every morning, Naomi and Zoe turn into blobs on my floor. It always occurs after breakfast and before getting dressed.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4ZqAaOzENI/AAAAAAAAF_c/dMTLIwb1Y_0/s1600-h/DSCF2014.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442153754997756114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4ZqAaOzENI/AAAAAAAAF_c/dMTLIwb1Y_0/s400/DSCF2014.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4Zp_1kMGMI/AAAAAAAAF_U/hbbPwcpGbeQ/s1600-h/DSCF2013.JPG"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-4934740234424211134?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/4934740234424211134/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=4934740234424211134&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4934740234424211134'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4934740234424211134'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/blobs.html' title='Blobs'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4ZqAaOzENI/AAAAAAAAF_c/dMTLIwb1Y_0/s72-c/DSCF2014.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-1221766869330855751</id><published>2010-02-22T07:55:00.012-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-23T13:17:44.085-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my rae'/><title type='text'>Her Birthday but MY Surprise</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Sunday was my daughter's 16&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; birthday, and for&lt;em&gt; her&lt;/em&gt; birthday she surprised&lt;em&gt; me!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;She received her &lt;a href="http://www.lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?hideNav=1&amp;amp;locale=0&amp;amp;sourceId=dae6af79ec2b5210VgnVCM100000176f620a____&amp;amp;vgnextoid=024644f8f206c010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD"&gt;Young Woman's Medallion&lt;/a&gt;. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;She never told me she was working on her &lt;a href="http://www.lds.org/ldsorg/v/index.jsp?hideNav=1&amp;amp;locale=0&amp;amp;sourceId=f1afbe335dc20110VgnVCM100000176f620a____&amp;amp;vgnextoid=d6371b08f338c010VgnVCM1000004d82620aRCRD"&gt;Personal Progress&lt;/a&gt;. She was doing it in secret.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;That is &lt;em&gt;eight&lt;/em&gt; &lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;10&lt;/span&gt; hour projects&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt; (among &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;lotsa&lt;/span&gt; other things)&lt;/span&gt; behind her &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;momma's&lt;/span&gt; back. All because she wanted to surprise me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Here is her first journal entry-&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441063747868385202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KKppPzX7I/AAAAAAAAF9s/mMt8D0Jxs_o/s400/0DSCF2018.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Did you catch that? Her first words in her journal are "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;haha&lt;/span&gt;". Bless her heart.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And this is her journal, to explain why she wrote-&lt;em&gt; I know this diary is super lame but it was my only option&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441063742178476130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 337px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KKpUDOQGI/AAAAAAAAF9k/U7SFZlggj5c/s400/00DSCF2017.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;This is what she said next.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441063761177016802" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 165px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KKqa00-eI/AAAAAAAAF98/k0-o4UiaFME/s400/00DSCF2020.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;What's so cute about this is that she may love being sneaky, &lt;em&gt;but she stinks at it&lt;/em&gt;. I was&lt;em&gt; so&lt;/em&gt; on to her. She's the worst liar in the world! &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;She really thought she was pulling it off though, here is another journal entry a few months after she began.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441065879014102706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 205px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KMlsYiVrI/AAAAAAAAF-U/6mfJtpoPjZw/s400/0DSCF2027.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;And then there is this.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441065883598535538" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 124px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KMl9djO3I/AAAAAAAAF-c/-NNodfR_aM4/s400/0DSCF2029.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Now, truth be told, her dad &lt;em&gt;was &lt;/em&gt;oblivious to her &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;sceams&lt;/span&gt;. &lt;em&gt;And&lt;/em&gt; her schemes. But..... well... bless his heart too. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;So I wasn't completely surprised in a &lt;em&gt;SURPRISE!&lt;/em&gt; sort of way but yet I still was because I was suspicious but not 100% sure of anything. You know what I mean? Even though I was 99.9% sure.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Sunday night Rae and I got to sit down and chat about it, she told me about who all was involved in helping her, what her 10 hour projects were, "Remember when I made dinner for you for 2 weeks and then suddenly stopped?"..... and she showed me her journal. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;I &lt;em&gt;love&lt;/em&gt; her journal&lt;/span&gt;. Her sharing that with me was the icing on the cake. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;This one cracked me up- &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441068738807468146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KPMJ8aEHI/AAAAAAAAF_M/NBSPD0c6TsE/s400/DSCF2022.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Then she wrote-&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441065874054664402" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KMlZ6HUNI/AAAAAAAAF-M/T67euimN9oY/s400/0DSCF2025.jpg" border="0" /&gt;An&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;And these two entries are the reality of Personal Progress (and life)......&lt;/span&gt;.H&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441067455134039074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 193px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KOBb4z_CI/AAAAAAAAF-0/21_Y72t_ces/s400/0DSCF2031.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441067449395159634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 110px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KOBGgjolI/AAAAAAAAF-s/2Lbh0QnI51Q/s400/0DSCF2030.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;Ain't it? &lt;em&gt;Ain't it&lt;/em&gt;?! Sometimes we do good, and sometimes we try and it's a big thumbs down. But the point is to never ever ever give up.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;So here is the date she started this adventure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441065863578660642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 270px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KMky4cLyI/AAAAAAAAF-E/t6JHEULrspw/s400/0DSCF2021.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.A&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;And she completed it on February 21st. Her 16&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; birthday. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;She was wanting to finish it sooner, by the end of 2009. Her cousin &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(who inspired her to do this)&lt;/span&gt; did it over the summer &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(before her 14&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; birthday!!)&lt;/span&gt; and so she wanted to do it in the same time frame. But I reminded her that she had a heavy load in school last semester and also passed off all 25 Scripture &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;Mastery&lt;/span&gt; so &lt;em&gt;she done good&lt;/em&gt;! It's all good!!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;She closed her Personal Progress Disney Princess journal with her testimony. And I'll keep the sacred, sacred. But I'll share this-&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441067462382257122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 206px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KOB247A-I/AAAAAAAAF-8/Tx0hz-huLa4/s400/0DSCF2033.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441067467912952626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 116px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KOCLfiuzI/AAAAAAAAF_E/graIOyWAr-M/s400/0DSCF2034.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Because I am so grateful for good leaders. &lt;em&gt;Righteous leaders&lt;/em&gt;. It makes all the difference &lt;em&gt;and I know it&lt;/em&gt; and &lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;so does Rae&lt;/span&gt;. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;I am so pleased with my Rae of Sunshine. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441063736002233570" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KKo9CsROI/AAAAAAAAF9c/wbD0KZvSKFg/s400/0DSCF2011.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;She's most definitely living up to her name and I am so appreciative of it. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;She's an example to me. When I grow up, I want to be like Rae. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-1221766869330855751?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/1221766869330855751/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=1221766869330855751&amp;isPopup=true' title='7 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/1221766869330855751'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/1221766869330855751'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/her-birthday-but-my-surprise.html' title='Her Birthday but MY Surprise'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S4KKppPzX7I/AAAAAAAAF9s/mMt8D0Jxs_o/s72-c/0DSCF2018.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>7</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-4027354962586992305</id><published>2010-02-19T09:14:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-19T09:43:55.229-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Rounding Off the Week</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I've been the biggest fan of Survivor since the beginning of time. Since before the very first episode of the very first season aired. I was a fan the moment I saw the first commercial for it. I don't think I have missed an episode of any season. I love it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I was thrilled when this years season started on my birthday. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;See, me and Survivor were meant to be.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And Villains versus Heroes?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Hello!&lt;/em&gt; Are you kidding me?!?!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I am &lt;em&gt;all &lt;strong&gt;over&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/em&gt; that!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S36dIMSgbOI/AAAAAAAAF88/meyEabIFF_I/s1600-h/survivor-heroes-vs-villains-cast.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439958163973500130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 237px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S36dIMSgbOI/AAAAAAAAF88/meyEabIFF_I/s400/survivor-heroes-vs-villains-cast.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt; .&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Going into the season already knowing the people let's one skip past the "I don't know if I'll like this season" stuff. &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(I always know I will like a season, but I always hear &lt;em&gt;others&lt;/em&gt; say that)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But......&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Did you watch last night?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;James!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439958152561079410" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S36dHhxktHI/AAAAAAAAF80/qo538RtITbY/s400/james_clement_240.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;James, the grave digger, the funny light hearted one, &lt;em&gt;what are you doing???&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Does this 'social experiment' mean that if you stick a bunch of heroes together, someone has to become a villain?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And you too Rupert! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439963221467865426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S36huk7IIVI/AAAAAAAAF9U/wDk25Vqu-oA/s400/Rupert_Boneham.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;(who by the way, is supposedly America's favorite contestant ever, but not mine, just so you know)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;I can say though that I love the music this season. Which isn't something I normally notice. But the hero music cracks. me. up!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;In other news, this is the last picture I took of what was once Naomi and Zoe's Snow Girl. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439961081717276130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S36fyBu1PeI/AAAAAAAAF9E/EMjPV-RT9vs/s400/0DSCF2001.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And today I am organizing the game &lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(slash movie slash puzzle)&lt;/span&gt; closet.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439961086261069938" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S36fySqKCHI/AAAAAAAAF9M/_UOW0NmJxik/s400/0DSCF2005.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;Do you have one of these?&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;If so, what's the trick to keeping it organized? &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Less games?&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Meaner mom?&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;It's always a mess and cleaning it is sooooo overwhelming!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-4027354962586992305?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/4027354962586992305/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=4027354962586992305&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4027354962586992305'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4027354962586992305'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/rounding-off-week.html' title='Rounding Off the Week'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S36dIMSgbOI/AAAAAAAAF88/meyEabIFF_I/s72-c/survivor-heroes-vs-villains-cast.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-1682017470834888774</id><published>2010-02-18T07:05:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-18T07:09:47.553-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Spicey</title><content type='html'>&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;I saw this two nights ago and I asked my Super Bowl watchin' son, "Was this one of the commercials at the Super Bowl?"&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;He said no. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;object height="340" width="560"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/owGykVbfgUE&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1&amp;amp;rel=0"&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/owGykVbfgUE&amp;hl=en_US&amp;fs=1&amp;rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;It should have been.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-1682017470834888774?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/1682017470834888774/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=1682017470834888774&amp;isPopup=true' title='9 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/1682017470834888774'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/1682017470834888774'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/spicey.html' title='Spicey'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>9</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-2893888829858589021</id><published>2010-02-17T08:23:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-17T10:01:54.112-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my naomi'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my zoe'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my Nolan'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my rae'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my kids'/><title type='text'>After 14 Years, Snow at Last!</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;For the first time in 14 years, Savannah Georgia had measurable snow. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Zoe had never seen snow and Naomi was a wee &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;wittle&lt;/span&gt; baby when we left Salt Lake City. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;So when the news said snow would be here at 3 PM, they were waiting and watching. As the weather person kept making the time later and later, my children were getting more and more impatient. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;After dark Zoe would go out on the porch and yell, "Get on over here SNOW!!!"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And at last, around 7:30, it did.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Immediately&lt;/span&gt;, &lt;em&gt;from the very first flake&lt;/em&gt;, my kids were outside &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;a-hoopin&lt;/span&gt;' and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;a-hollerin&lt;/span&gt;'.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439204527077301154" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vvswEjm6I/AAAAAAAAF7c/3fzlpG88dXU/s400/DSCF2006.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;"Snow at last!! Snow at last!!!"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vy2yAveBI/AAAAAAAAF8c/af_IkBN4_jk/s1600-h/DSCF2028.JPG"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439204532011220130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vvtCc5PKI/AAAAAAAAF7k/w7j6t4MwE8A/s400/DSCF2011.JPG" border="0" /&gt;Nolan, who hadn't seen snow since elementary school, went back to his elementary school ways.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439204506409223074" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vvrjE5w6I/AAAAAAAAF7E/rQlRdsr2q2w/s400/DSCF2003.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;We are so ill prepared for snow here in Georgia, that we didn't have mittens enough to go around, so Rae had to settle on work gloves to make snow balls.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439204518349554370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vvsPjswsI/AAAAAAAAF7M/amY5TDNrD3g/s400/DSCF2013.JPG" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;And make snow balls, they did!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439204526909829042" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vvsvcoL7I/AAAAAAAAF7U/nRSEhoaKHxo/s400/DSCF2015.JPG" border="0" /&gt;Nolan so badly wanted a picture of him throwing a snow ball. I mean, he wanted the snow ball in air in the shot. After a million tries, we gave up. (stupid digital camera delays) &lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;The kids didn't play in the grass, in hopes that over night lots more would accumulate and they would have all the more to play with the next morning. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Sadly there was more snow the night before than in the morning. They were out playing at 8 AM and so much had already melted.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Naomi and Zoe walked out in the snow and said, "It's crunchy, I didn't expect it to be so crunchy." &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439206284678615474" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vxTDpXUbI/AAAAAAAAF78/1wpsZtZvl3M/s400/0DSCF2015.jpg" border="0" /&gt;Oh yeah, I reckon they wouldn't have known that.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Then they dropped and gave me two.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439206291116051922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vxTboKzdI/AAAAAAAAF8E/kElJTJx2rG4/s400/0DSCF2016.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Two snow angels, that is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439206296827512642" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vxTw54x0I/AAAAAAAAF8M/We1TMqTfBN4/s400/0DSCF2019.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;They didn't have long to build a snow girl. I am telling you, the snow was melting &lt;em&gt;and fast&lt;/em&gt;!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439207996652021858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vy2tPoaGI/AAAAAAAAF8U/LZjUXN1UCXo/s400/DSCF2036.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt; &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Once there was a Snow Girl, Snow Girl, Snow Girl.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439211048954647874" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3v1oX9SVUI/AAAAAAAAF8s/xhKnAt4p3l0/s400/0DSCF2039.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;Once there was a Snow Girl, not that tall. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;In the sun she melted, melted, melted. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;In the sun she melted, small....&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439208880797742722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vzqK8ZdoI/AAAAAAAAF8k/XUD1V7jLQI8/s400/0DSCF2001.jpg" border="0" /&gt; &lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:85%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;small......&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439206273565527426" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 303px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vxSaPzDYI/AAAAAAAAF7s/o-5RMoQ9CQo/s400/0DSCF2003-1.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;&lt;em&gt;small.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5439206279735177250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vxSxOwcCI/AAAAAAAAF70/2I2RvS5XF5o/s400/0DSCF2005-1.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-2893888829858589021?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/2893888829858589021/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=2893888829858589021&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2893888829858589021'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2893888829858589021'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/after-14-years-snow-at-last.html' title='After 14 Years, Snow at Last!'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3vvswEjm6I/AAAAAAAAF7c/3fzlpG88dXU/s72-c/DSCF2006.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-5880996562957492599</id><published>2010-02-14T09:17:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-14T09:28:14.521-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my naomi'/><title type='text'>Special Sunday Edition</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Ordinarily, I do not post on the Sabbath. Not that I think it's irreverent to do so. I just take that day off to live &amp;amp; be. (and oft times, nap)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Today is a special day.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It's not my favorite, because I am busy celebrating my birthday and anniversary, so this one gets looked over. But I don't mind it. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary and I are known to write each other Roses are red poems on this day.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Here is the one I've written for him, that awaits him (it's on his dresser).&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;(his lazy bum is still in bed)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"&gt;Roses are red,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"&gt;Plants are green.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"&gt;I love you,&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"&gt;Even though I've been mean.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Speaking of Valentine's..... look at this sweet gift!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438103887508733490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3gGrGKg_jI/AAAAAAAAF60/QnOzyKHjbE8/s400/DSCF2001.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;For me? No.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My teen aged daughter? Nuh-uh&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5438103891567297586" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3gGrVSJxDI/AAAAAAAAF68/PO3PkTa2q4g/s400/DSCF2002.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My fifth grader!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;What is wrong with this world?!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-5880996562957492599?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/5880996562957492599/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=5880996562957492599&amp;isPopup=true' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/5880996562957492599'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/5880996562957492599'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/special-sunday-edition.html' title='Special Sunday Edition'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3gGrGKg_jI/AAAAAAAAF60/QnOzyKHjbE8/s72-c/DSCF2001.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-4439772803863282786</id><published>2010-02-12T14:35:00.006-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-13T09:10:35.438-05:00</updated><title type='text'>My 40th Birthday in Cell Phone Pics</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My 40&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; birthday was&lt;em&gt; so&lt;/em&gt; amazing. My husband kept me busy and full of sweet compliments that I rarely remembered that I was the big &lt;span style="font-family:verdana;font-size:130%;"&gt;four - oh&lt;/span&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;We went to &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Summerville&lt;/span&gt; SC where my &lt;em&gt;all time&lt;/em&gt; favorite eatery is.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It's called &lt;a href="http://theredpepper.com/"&gt;The Red Pepper&lt;/a&gt; and it's authentic, as in the real Italian deal!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I ordered Mozzarella en &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Carrozza&lt;/span&gt; for our appetizer, which is fresh mozzarella cheese riding in a carriage of egg-encrusted bread, then lightly fried. Two Mozzarella en &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;Carrozza&lt;/span&gt; served with a honey mustard sauce. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Simply divine!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437444980876878386" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3WvZrrlojI/AAAAAAAAF6U/V4sv1al29OQ/s400/aabdayLo.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Then a bread was brought to our table that was moist and tender and delicious. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3WvZ-NtMuI/AAAAAAAAF6k/SE_-2h5oINU/s1600-h/abdayLo2.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437444985851818722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3WvZ-NtMuI/AAAAAAAAF6k/SE_-2h5oINU/s400/abdayLo2.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt; .&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Then Eggplant Parmigiana- The Red Pepper is where I discovered my love for the Italian dish.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3WvZ56DbzI/AAAAAAAAF6c/17ZTz3ECtnM/s1600-h/abdayLo1.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437444984695648050" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3WvZ56DbzI/AAAAAAAAF6c/17ZTz3ECtnM/s400/abdayLo1.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt; .&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I had intended to try the Creme &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Brulee&lt;/span&gt; Cheesecake, but I was one stuffed red pepper! &lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;We went to the movies and saw The Blind Side (loved it!) and for the first time ever.......&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;The&lt;em&gt; movie&lt;/em&gt; was better than &lt;em&gt;the book&lt;/em&gt;!!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;(and we are currently looking for a 350 pound 6 foot 5 inch teen aged boy to adopt, if you know of any.....)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Last night Gary said, "Only 1/2 hour left...."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I said, "half hour 'til what?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;He said, "Until your birthday is over and I can stop being nice."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;He thinks he is&lt;em&gt; so&lt;/em&gt; funny.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;p.s. And what does my photo's of only food say about me?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;p.s.s. It says I should have asked for a gym membership for my birthday, that's what.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;p.s.s.s. Gary's blog post was enough birthday love for me. &lt;em&gt;It warmed my heart!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;ps.s.s.s. Is this blog getting too mooshy gooshy?...... Yeah, I think so too.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="left"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-4439772803863282786?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/4439772803863282786/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=4439772803863282786&amp;isPopup=true' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4439772803863282786'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4439772803863282786'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/my-40th-birthday-in-cell-phone-pics.html' title='My 40th Birthday in Cell Phone Pics'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S3WvZrrlojI/AAAAAAAAF6U/V4sv1al29OQ/s72-c/aabdayLo.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-8886531955883606833</id><published>2010-02-11T07:46:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-11T07:46:00.032-05:00</updated><title type='text'>From LoW's Man</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I didn't realize the significance of this day in 1970. I was probably eating dirt and picking my nose. I was 4. But it was a special day. It was the day my future wife was born. I don't remember if I got that warm, fuzzy feeling but I'm sure I did (may have been around nap time). Anyway, our paths crossed in church where I saw her grow from a giggling kid to a beautiful woman. She is my talented, loving better half and I don't know what I would do with out her. Sometimes I tell her that she heals me. It's true. She makes our house a home. She tolerates my many weaknesses and takes care of our kids. I'm a lucky man.&lt;br /&gt;HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HONEY - AND MANY MORE.&lt;br /&gt;your husband&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-8886531955883606833?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/8886531955883606833/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=8886531955883606833&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/8886531955883606833'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/8886531955883606833'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/post-from-lows-man.html' title='From LoW&apos;s Man'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-7708409457111755414</id><published>2010-02-10T07:50:00.011-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-10T17:28:10.506-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my love story'/><title type='text'>My Love Story- part 6- And They Lived Happily Ever After</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary had tried to get me to commit, the last we saw each other. He wasn't expecting anything unreasonable, he knew I was young and he didn't want to take my freedom away, he wanted me to have fun. But he didn't want to lose me and he saw that he could possibly lose me to Jay. He sat me down and warned me that if I got back together with Jay, that would be it, I would be throwing away my chances with him. I didn't like hearing that at first, I got mad and stormed off. (It was a long silent walk from the library where we argued in a whisper) I'd made all sorts of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;commitments&lt;/span&gt; to guys (that I didn't keep) but I couldn't make one to Gary and not keep it. Everything about him was so different than all the rest. It scared me. In the end we did make up and in one of his letters afterwards, the fisherman in Gary wrote-&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;If the fish aren't biting on one side of pond, what do you do? Sit there and water log your worm? Not me baby, especially since I'm young and have lots of worms and lots of hooks. I&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;'d&lt;/span&gt; move to the other side of the pond and try my luck. You're a special case, though. The rules say that when there's a trophy fish involved you're allowed to stay longer and try a little harder to catch it. You know I think of you as a trophy, so you're going to be bugged by me a little longer, baby. &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But the letters proclaiming that my smile made him crazy and his phone calls filled with whisperings of sweet nothings became few and before I knew it, even after his warning to me, I was back with Jay. (his version is that my letters became few)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I most definitely had feelings for Jay. He was a good guy, very kind and &lt;em&gt;very present&lt;/em&gt;. (Gary was kind but was not present) Why did Gary have to go to school out so far away? Why did he always have to leave me? Jay didn't leave me. As a matter of fact, Jay had never left the state, he was born there, all of his people lived there, and he would probably die there. I could always count on Jay being there and Gary was always leaving me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I let it all get extremely serious. I let Jay put a diamond ring on my finger and not quite literally, but figuratively, we were at the altar. (and closer to literally 'at the altar' than you can imagine, as in "my uncle across the street could marry us&lt;em&gt; right now"&lt;/em&gt;) I had a fight with my parents and ran to Jay and we decided to just get married right away and move on. I was done with the frustrations of answering to parents, I was wanting to be an adult, I was figuring life out and tired of trying to figure Gary out and I thought maybe I should just jump in the water with Jay and hope I'd survive. I was THAT close to marrying Jay. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Then while 'at the altar' I had a thought-&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Every time&lt;/span&gt; Gary comes home to visit his parents and I see him at church, I am going to think, 'that's the guy I let get away'. &lt;em&gt;I would always wonder what could have been&lt;/em&gt;. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Sure, Jay was a swell enough guy. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But Gary was so much more. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Jay spoiled me and let me get away with everything. He wouldn't even argue with me, he let me win every (one sided) fight.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary made me want to be more and let me get away with &lt;em&gt;nothing&lt;/em&gt;. He argued with me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;If I married Gary, I'd forget Jay and any feelings I ever had for him.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;If I married Jay I would&lt;em&gt; never&lt;/em&gt; forget Gary.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;&lt;strong&gt;I loved Gary.&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:130%;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; He was tough on me, he was responsible in an aggravating way, he liked country music and cowboy boots and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;fishin&lt;/span&gt;', he was organized and a neat freak, he made plans and saw things through, he was manly and mature..... Despite all those flaws, this rebellious, sassy, irresponsible, country music &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;hatin&lt;/span&gt;', fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants girl was&lt;strong&gt; madly&lt;/strong&gt; and &lt;em&gt;deeply&lt;/em&gt; in love with that man! That man that kissed me&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt; (only)&lt;/span&gt; once in the middle of the street several months ago.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt; I knew I couldn't marry Jay, no matter what, and I ran from the altar, all the way home.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I went to my Branch President for guidance. He said, "I talked to Gary, he said he's written you off. He's moved on. I think you should marry Jay."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I talked to Gary's cousin, "Gary's moved on with his life."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I couldn't believe what I had done. My life had been filled with one &lt;em&gt;stubborn&lt;/em&gt; and&lt;strong&gt; stupid&lt;/strong&gt; decision after another and &lt;em&gt;he warned me that I better not go back to Jay!&lt;/em&gt; Why was I so stupid to do it anyway?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I went to stay with my aunt. I had to get away from that town. Jay found out where I was staying and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;unexpectedly&lt;/span&gt; came over for one last try. I was very angry that he found me, I didn't want to be found, I wanted to be alone.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;One day while on the phone with my mom, she said, "What would you say if Gary asked you to marry him?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:arial;"&gt;silence&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;"&lt;em&gt;I am not saying he will&lt;/em&gt;, but what if he did?"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I couldn't imagine. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;A few days later a letter came in the mail. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;Lorinda- what I'm getting ready to say is very serious! I &lt;strong&gt;still&lt;/strong&gt; want you! I've been on my knees for a week now asking God if I should still try for you and I got a good feeling about it. I want to know if you will marry me? I would ask you to marry me now but I've got army obligations in June and July, would you marry me in September? I know this is very sudden but I don't want to lose you to the world. Take your time and think about it. Gary&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;strong&gt;Yes!!&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/em&gt; Of course my answer was yes! I couldn't believe it but...... &lt;em&gt;Yes! Yes! Yes!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But wait, he told me to take my time and think about it. I decided that if I waited 2 weeks, I would look mature and grown up, like Gary was, it would appear as though I did as asked and really thought about it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Plus there was one issue I had. Put it off until September? That was 7 months away. Hadn't we spent enough time away? Haven't I sat here at home while he's been off at school long enough? I was SO tired of him being on the other side of the country. This had been going on for years now and it hasn't worked out so well. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;So after I waited my two weeks I wrote back, "Yes! But I want to get married &lt;em&gt;now&lt;/em&gt;."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;A few days later, when my reply letter arrived, he called me and fussed at me for waiting so long and then booked me a ticket. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;In a couple of weeks time I was in Utah and married.... &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:verdana;"&gt;To my one true love.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;And we lived happily ever after.....&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-7708409457111755414?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/7708409457111755414/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=7708409457111755414&amp;isPopup=true' title='9 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/7708409457111755414'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/7708409457111755414'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/my-love-story-part-6-and-they-lived.html' title='My Love Story- part 6- And They Lived Happily Ever After'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>9</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-7636050495059050455</id><published>2010-02-09T08:28:00.013-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-10T18:46:07.376-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my love story'/><title type='text'>My Love Story- part 5- Friends</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;. .&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;After my mother suspected (out loud) that it could possibly&lt;em&gt; be me&lt;/em&gt; that Gary was stopping by to see, I started to see him in a whole new light. Maybe he wasn't just picking on me as Darla's little sister, maybe he was flirting with me because I wasn't a little girl anymore, but a young woman. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;For the next couple of years he was back and forth from college out west to coming home for the holidays and summer break. I found a new hometown boyfriend named Ray. I was just having fun with that relationship and wasn't getting my heart too wrapped up with him as I did with Al. I had met him at a football game where he was dressed in tight Levi jeans and a white &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;tank top&lt;/span&gt; and I quickly fell for his bulging biceps.... er, I mean, for his great personality. His rock hard abs.... er, I mean, rock hard determination to be good to me was nice and I enjoyed his attention. It was all for fun and we did have fun. But &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;every time&lt;/span&gt; I caught wind that Gary was coming home for a visit, I broke up with Ray. And almost as soon as Gary left to go back to school, Ray and I magically made up. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;In those few years Gary and I became good friends. He (with a few of his tag along friends from church) would come over to watch MTV video's. We'd hang out at the beach. Once we all took a late night walk to a park near my house to hang out. He pushed me on the swing. Then we stopped by the local gas station for treats on the way home. I remember him giving me a piggy back ride home, all the while I fed him gummy worms for his good hard work of carrying me. I once invited him to come along with my family, to the beach. I also invited another guy friend. That was an interesting day. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Out of nowhere I was suckered into going out on a date with one of the young men from our church. The very next day Gary (with friend in tow) came to tease me, calling me Sis. H. "&lt;em&gt;Hi Sis H, how was your date last night??"&lt;/em&gt; I could have died that the word was out. I wanted it to be known that I had &lt;strong&gt;no&lt;/strong&gt; desire to be Sis H, all the while not wanting to speak meanly about a previous date. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;One day we all met up at the church to play basketball and at one point the ball was passed to me and Gary was running to me to get the ball. I played basketball in high school and yet I screamed like a girl and ran out the building with the ball in my arm like it was a football. He tackled me to the ground and while I was on my back laughing he leaned in and kissed me. Right on my teeth, since my mouth was wide open with laughter. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;When Gary went back to school he and I started writing letters. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;We had most definitely become very good friends. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I was still confused about his real feelings for me but I had a feeling that he may be my future husband and I even wrote it down in my journal. I somehow, deep down felt like no matter what, he'd be mine in the end and it was all okay. No matter the confusion I felt now. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But then Ray and I broke up (permanently this time) and a new guy came along and while Gary was away at school, it was looking like this new guy Jay may be the one guy that would get between me and Gary. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;That relationship started off innocently enough. I would call things off with him, just as I had Ray, when Gary came home. But after about a year our relationship got quite serious. Way way too serious. And when Gary caught wind he got even more serious. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;That is when Gary sat me down to make his intentions known. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;He loved me. He told me so. All of my past (3) boyfriends had told me the same but when Gary said it,&lt;em&gt; he &lt;strong&gt;really&lt;/strong&gt; meant it and I knew it&lt;/em&gt;. The other boyfriends were just that,&lt;em&gt; boys&lt;/em&gt;. Gary was&lt;em&gt; a man&lt;/em&gt; (and not just in age) and he would never ever say that unless he meant it. Gary was honorable and had never said it to another girl because he never meant it. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary spoke to me in earnest about how if I wanted a chance with him, I would have to call things off with the boyfriend (or the need to have a boyfriend in general). He wanted me to have fun and to date around but if I wanted a chance of him and me one day, I needed to stop getting so serious about someone other than him. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#000000;"&gt;Then he asked me if he could kiss me. I was offended. Shouldn't a gentleman know when a woman wants to be kissed? Then he told me that in Utah and Idaho (where he was attending school) the girls wanted to be asked first. I declared that I was a southern girl and I expected him to know when I want a kiss and went I don't! Confused, he gave it some time, about 20 minutes, while walking home (we'd been at that park again) he stopped me right in the middle of the street and kissed me good.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Most people at our church were unaware of the relationship Gary and I had developed but the word got out when one night we attended a church dance and the first slow dance, he asked me to dance, and he held me close and tight. I was sure a chaperone would tap us on the shoulder and let us know we were dancing too close but nobody did. I remember turning and seeing mouthes gaped open when people saw us and realized something was going on between us. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;/.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But he was leaving me &lt;em&gt;again&lt;/em&gt;. Always leaving. But with promises to write more often and to call me weekly. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;He did do that at first, (one morning I awoke to a rose that he had his cousin sneak over and leave on the front porch and he even managed to send me a braclet in a letter) but as a poor college student the phone bill was getting hard to pay. (no free nights and weekends in the 80's) And as a studious college student who also worked, having the time to write me often was proving difficult. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gradually things slowed down with Gary... and before I knew it, I was back with Jay. The one guy that Gary made &lt;strong&gt;very&lt;/strong&gt; clear could be the end of the two of us, and I knew it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;to be continued &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-7636050495059050455?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/7636050495059050455/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=7636050495059050455&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/7636050495059050455'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/7636050495059050455'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/my-love-story-part-5-friends.html' title='My Love Story- part 5- Friends'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-6442970231509982169</id><published>2010-02-08T11:57:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-08T18:16:12.020-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my love story'/><title type='text'>My Love Story- part 4- State of Confusion</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary's 2 years of serving and growing and learning and maturing had come to an end.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My 2 years of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;&lt;em&gt;im&lt;/em&gt;maturing&lt;/span&gt; and rebelling and wreaking &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;havoc&lt;/span&gt; on a loving home seemed to have no end in sight. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;As Gary had come home after completing a successful mission, I had just failed the 9&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; grade. I was already older that the other kids in my grade and was headed toward using a walker at my high school graduation. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;To complete my 9&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt; grade year I needed to go to summer school for either math or PE. I disliked them both, but PE seemed to be the lesser of the two evils. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;There are teacher success stories abound, many a people have had teachers change their lives, but who knew that the teacher who would do that for me would be a PE coach and who knew it would happen with a group of misfits during summer school? That summer I had a 3 hour workout from Monday to Friday with a very tough coach. When the high school football players missed a day of conditioning, they came to our PE class to make up the work and said our workout was harder than their football conditioning. What we did was more like &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;boot camp&lt;/span&gt;. We were pushed in ways that PE coaches don't usually push a PE class (coach admitted). We spent the first hour and a half running and the next hour an a half of calisthenics. Our coach didn't let us quit, didn't let us take breaks (until he said so), he didn't let us tell ourselves we couldn't. His motto was &lt;em&gt;mind over matter&lt;/em&gt;. He taught us, at least &lt;em&gt;he taught me&lt;/em&gt;, that I could succeed in anything if I put my mind to it. It's certainly a lesson I'd been taught before- by my parents, church leaders, other school teachers, but Coach Burke spoke my language. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Before I knew it I had muscles. I was an athlete. And I had the beginning of an attitude change. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;One day I was waiting (with my knew athletic body) for my mom to come and pick me up after summer school when Gary and another friend from our church Ed pulled up in &lt;a href="http://www.runwalkjog.com/wisconsincars/walworth/65_ford_galaxie_42409.jpg"&gt;The Blue Bomber&lt;/a&gt;. They said they were all headed to the beach, a big group of them, including my older brother and sister, and they got permission to come and pick me up, 'did I want to come to?' Of course I did! But before we got into the car, I asked if they wanted to see my new &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;biceps&lt;/span&gt; (they really were impressive) and they both busted out laughing, saying, "Your mom told us that you'd show us your muscles."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary's summer job was delivering ice cream. He was &lt;em&gt;an&lt;/em&gt; &lt;em&gt;ice cream man&lt;/em&gt;. He very often stopped by our house and all my siblings would gather around his truck with the music going, goofing off and teasing each other, until he remembered he had a job to do. One particular day after a normal visit around the ice cream truck he left and we all went inside the house. Darla and I were telling mom the latest silly conversation that was just had outside with Gary. My mom looked at us both and said, "You know, I am not sure which one of you Gary's coming by to see."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;That nearly took my breath away. What was she saying?? Surely he's coming to see Darla, right? Surely he is. She's all grown up, she's moved to California and is just home for the summer. I'm just little old me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Could it be? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It wasn't until then that I started taking notice of everything he said and did regarding me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Is he teasing me or is he flirting? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Oh, but it didn't matter. I still had a boyfriend, I still had Al. &lt;em&gt;WE&lt;/em&gt; were madly in love. Right?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Then the days before Darla was to fly back to California (where she was busy enjoying California boys)...... &lt;em&gt;I got dumped&lt;/em&gt;.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Al broke up with me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;The night before Darla was to leave she was out for the evening, I was home babysitting my younger siblings, it was late and they were in bed. I was down in the dumps with my break up and I pulled out the great big box of love letters Al had written me, I had Lionel &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;Richie's&lt;/span&gt; song Stuck on You playing on my record player, playing over and over and over. I had the lights dimmed- the song, the letters, and tears. Lots and lots of tears. I read, I listened, I sobbed. I had a big puffy red runny nose and swollen face........ when someone knocked on the door. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It was Gary. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;He had come to say goodbye........ &lt;em&gt;to Darla.&lt;/em&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;(with a little, "What's with the tears?!")&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;to be continued&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-6442970231509982169?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/6442970231509982169/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=6442970231509982169&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6442970231509982169'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6442970231509982169'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/my-love-story-part-3-state-of-confusion.html' title='My Love Story- part 4- State of Confusion'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-6585568669096321861</id><published>2010-02-05T09:32:00.009-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-05T12:56:22.214-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my love story'/><title type='text'>My Love Story- part 3- His Best &amp; My Worst</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary was 19 and for the young men in our church, that means &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mission_(LDS_Church)"&gt;serving a mission&lt;/a&gt;. And a good thing Gary chose to do so because as far back as I can remember, my heart was set on marrying a young man that did just that. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;The whole congregation, the very folk that helped raise him, was excited about his mission call. If not a tad bit confused though, as he was called to serve in Salt Lake City, Utah. &lt;em&gt;Weren't all &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Utahan's&lt;/span&gt; Mormon already?&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(the answer is no)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary's last Sunday before his mission was celebratory for the good work he'd be doing for the next two years, it was a nice send off, a heartfelt farewell. He spoke in church that day, along with his family. His family was very well pleased, as we all were. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;And he'd never been cuter. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My older sister Darla was still &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;crushin&lt;/span&gt;' on Gary, and was sure to miss him for the next two years. As she tried to snap a picture of him after church that day, I did as I always did when she tried to have a moment with him. I made my presence known. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434767522417590850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 311px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2wsRFqHwkI/AAAAAAAAF5k/oSeB-2xLeo4/s400/garyandlorinda.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:78%;"&gt;(picture taken at Gary's mission farewell)&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Gary spent the next two years serving, being selfless, focused on the important things in life, growing in many ways and doing good things. I, on the other hand, spent the next two year rebellious, confused, angry and grumpy. Doing miserably in school and making those around me miserable. Teenage angst? Yeah, I had that.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;I started 'going with' Al. I wasn't old enough to &lt;em&gt;go &lt;/em&gt;anywhere with him, but that's what we called dating in the 80's.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;Gary was in a good place looking in the right direction and I was doing the exact opposite. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;At last, after serving honorably, Gary's 2 years was up and he came home.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;to be continued&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-6585568669096321861?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/6585568669096321861/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=6585568669096321861&amp;isPopup=true' title='8 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6585568669096321861'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/6585568669096321861'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/my-love-story-part-3-his-best-my-worst.html' title='My Love Story- part 3- His Best &amp; My Worst'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2wsRFqHwkI/AAAAAAAAF5k/oSeB-2xLeo4/s72-c/garyandlorinda.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>8</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-5523653929241415084</id><published>2010-02-04T12:01:00.005-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-05T10:09:16.536-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my love story'/><title type='text'>My Love Story- part 2- The Date and Then Some</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I should not have been surprised that Gary asked my sister out on a date. All of the older boys from church seemed fascinated by this new 16 year old girl. And what wasn't to love about her? She was petite, she had big brown eyes, porcelain skin (compared to my freckle face) and she was easy going and kind. &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Besides&lt;/span&gt;, Gary- having grown up in this small town and church had many adults who knew him since he was a baby cheering him on, excited to be a part of this match making. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I had mixed emotions about this date. I was excited for my sister as I always was when her guys came around, and excited for the scoop on Gary and his dating ways, but jealousy was in full force. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;After Darla's and Gary's date they pulled into our drive way in the '65 Ford Galaxy named the Blue Bomber. I had been anxiously waiting for them and I made my presence known. Luckily where they parked was right by my bedroom window and being a mature 13, I pulled my window open and called out to them. "How was the date? Did you guys have fun? What did you do? Are you going to kiss her goodnight? Are you? Are you? Huh? Huh? Go ahead, you should. Kiss her!" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;A 13 year old sister makes a great kissing deterrent. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Time went on without any more dates between the two of them. He graduated high school and at 17 found himself at &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;BYU&lt;/span&gt;. That summer he came home before his &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mission_(LDS_Church)"&gt;mission&lt;/a&gt;. I had turned 14 and &lt;a href="http://www.lds.org/pa/display/0,17884,6902-1,00.html"&gt;Youth Conference&lt;/a&gt; came, my first and his last. I was busy &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;crushin&lt;/span&gt;' on the boys my age and picked out just the one for me. Greg. And life wasn't going to be complete if he didn't feel the same about me. I worked real hard flirting for 2 whole days and it was coming down to the final night and formal dance. We danced a few times and it was&lt;em&gt; the&lt;/em&gt; last dance. Oh how I wanted Greg to ask me. If he asked me for the last dance, I would know he felt the same. I spotted him and it looked as though he spotted me. He started walking my way. &lt;em&gt;Yes!&lt;/em&gt; I tried to look cool and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;nonchalant&lt;/span&gt; and he came closer and closer. I was ready to hop out of my seat and enjoy this last dance with him when he stopped one seat shy of where I was sitting and asked my friend (and Gary's cousin and neighbor) for the last dance.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;Noooooooooooooooooooooo&lt;/span&gt;!!!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It couldn't be! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My heart....&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My life..... it was over. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Just then I see my mom and &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;chaperone&lt;/span&gt; who had seen it all happen suggest to Gary that he ask me to dance. And he did. He was so very kind, sensitive to my feelings, he cracked a few jokes and made me feel good about my life almost ending. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;..&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Two months later he was gone, he headed out to serve a &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mission_(LDS_Church)"&gt;2 year mission&lt;/a&gt;. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;to be continued &lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-5523653929241415084?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/5523653929241415084/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=5523653929241415084&amp;isPopup=true' title='5 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/5523653929241415084'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/5523653929241415084'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/my-love-story-part-2-date-and-then-some.html' title='My Love Story- part 2- The Date and Then Some'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>5</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-4496831205600307492</id><published>2010-02-03T08:07:00.007-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-05T10:09:32.574-05:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='my love story'/><title type='text'>My Love Story -part 1- We Meet</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Since everyone (all 3) wants to hear my love story (I'll stop twisting your arm now)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;- &lt;em&gt;here goes.&lt;/em&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It was a dark and dreary night, except the dreary part (but&lt;em&gt; it was&lt;/em&gt; dark). My family had just moved from the capitol city of South Carolina to what we call 'the boonies', with the closest &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;South&lt;/span&gt; Carolinian town being a very small town about 20 minutes away. We left a home that had tall office buildings in the backyard, to a backyard that consisted of a pond and plenty of woods to discover. I was in the 7&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; grade and excited about the move. Some children seem to struggle with moving from school to school and town to town, but not me. I was always up for the adventure. We were settling into our new home and my dad was driving into town to our new church to meet with the &lt;a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ward_(LDS_Church)"&gt;Branch President&lt;/a&gt; (a Branch President is equivalent to a Pastor in other religions) and me and my sister tagged along. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My sister and I were excited to see where we would now be attending church. We pulled up to a much smaller building than we were used to. We entered the building and saw that yes, most definitely, this move was a good one. We were going to like this town and we were going to&lt;em&gt; love&lt;/em&gt; this branch, for there was a room full of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;teen aged&lt;/span&gt; boys playing basketball, half of them shirtless, which was how they identified teams. Oh yes, this move was looking good. Literally.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I, in my young 13 years of age, was a big fan of boys. I always had been. I never thought boys had cooties and they never grossed me out. In 3rd grade I sat across from Steve Lee.... and winked at him. In fifth grade I was fascinated by Billy &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;Whitmires&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; full lips, I was already imagining what kissing would be like. I am pretty sure that I was the #1 fan of boys. So sitting in the room full of basketball playing half shirtless boys was heaven, and I was scoping them out. The red headed guy with the chipped front tooth. The chunky fella that looked my age. The three brothers (the oldest being a bad boy, the middle one being the cute one, and the youngest being kind), to name a few. And my Gary was one of them. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Gary wasn't one of the tallest by any means, but he was most definitely an athlete. Baseball obviously had him out in the sun a lot and something about his olive complexion and blue/green eyes made him look Italian in my 7&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;th&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; grade mind. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But I can't pretend it was love at first sight. I mean, I loved them all as a group, for being boys. And I loved that there were a few of them to choose from that I put in the cute category. I loved the attention me and my sister were getting and that they seemed to be showing off for us, but Gary wasn't the first one in my line of who I would have a crush on. Mainly because Gary was out of my age range. It was like a second grader having a crush on her P.E. coach. However he &lt;em&gt;was&lt;/em&gt; the perfect age for my older sister. Handsome as heck but too old, not too old for me to notice, but too old for him to notice me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;The next day we attended school for the first time and I continued to enjoy the attention of being the new girl and enjoyed checking out all the new boys. When I went to gym that day a very chipper girl came to me and introduced herself saying, "Are you Mormon? Cause I am Mormon!" and that was that, fast friends were we. It turned out she was Gary's first cousin and next door neighbor. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;My &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;teen aged&lt;/span&gt; siblings and I quickly settled in with the teenagers at our church and over the course of the next year or so the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;teen aged&lt;/span&gt; boys from church especially enjoyed driving out to the boonies where we lived to swim and fish in our pond. Gary usually drove a &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;car full&lt;/span&gt; of friends over, he had a large older car that was called the Blue Bomber, which added to his cool factor. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Then there were the visits I took to his cousin and next door neighbors house, with a large family dinner.... and Gary. So handsome, so manly, so out of my reach. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Once my friend (and his cousin and next door neighbor) had a slumber party that I was invited to. We all slept in tents in her backyard and very very late that night Gary's younger sister declared there were cookies at her house, so we all gathered and tiptoed as quietly as any young teen aged girl could, in other words &lt;em&gt;loudly&lt;/em&gt;, to her sleeping house and snuck in. We tried to be quiet and not wake anyone, we really did, but someone did wake up dazed and confused by the ruckus. Someone wearing nothing but &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;tightie&lt;/span&gt; whites. Someone named Gary, who walked in the room we were all standing in and saw us and ran back to his bedroom. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Seeing Gary in his underwear sure seemed like bragging rights to take home to my older and also smitten sister. &lt;em&gt;Oh yeah!&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Only until she exclaimed that she had been asked out on a date, by Gary. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;to be continued&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-4496831205600307492?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/4496831205600307492/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=4496831205600307492&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4496831205600307492'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/4496831205600307492'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/my-love-story-part-1-we-meet.html' title='My Love Story -part 1- We Meet'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-8609325706671941430</id><published>2010-02-02T10:01:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2010-02-02T10:22:00.680-05:00</updated><title type='text'>One Lucky Girl</title><content type='html'>&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Sometimes I moan and complain but the fact of the matter is, I am one lucky girl. I have a man who loves me and I love him. Boy do I ever love him!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;For three mornings in a row last week I woke to my husband having left for work and having left me a love note.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2g_RSjuEgI/AAAAAAAAF5c/5cLCkgeYCA8/s1600-h/00DSCF2006.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433662516694487554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 177px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2g_RSjuEgI/AAAAAAAAF5c/5cLCkgeYCA8/s400/00DSCF2006.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt; .&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I've just been thinking, it's &lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;the month of love&lt;/span&gt; and although I am not a fan of Valentine's Day (how contradictory does that sound?) I love love. I mean to tell you, I &lt;em&gt;LOVE&lt;/em&gt; LOVE! &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;So I had a thought, have you ever read &lt;a href="http://thepioneerwoman.com/blog/category/black_heelstractor_wheels/the_night_i_met_marlboro_man/"&gt;Pioneer &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;Woman's&lt;/span&gt; love story&lt;/a&gt;? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;It's worth reading. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I am no Pioneer Woman and my husband may not be Marlboro Man. (he's better!)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But dare I write our love story?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;Or will it make you gag?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;"&gt;That's the question for the day.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="font-size:180%;color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2g-yzgC--I/AAAAAAAAF5U/58Mv50yKSXs/s1600-h/000DSCF2006.jpg"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-8609325706671941430?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/8609325706671941430/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=8609325706671941430&amp;isPopup=true' title='4 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/8609325706671941430'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/8609325706671941430'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/02/lucky-girl.html' title='One Lucky Girl'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2g_RSjuEgI/AAAAAAAAF5c/5cLCkgeYCA8/s72-c/00DSCF2006.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>4</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-849201202872359250.post-2616486811757920876</id><published>2010-01-28T07:08:00.003-05:00</published><updated>2010-01-28T08:37:15.787-05:00</updated><title type='text'>Jumbled</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2F-lKWmARI/AAAAAAAAF5M/A5x2lm1SvLY/s1600-h/00DSCF2005.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431761802484908306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2F-lKWmARI/AAAAAAAAF5M/A5x2lm1SvLY/s400/00DSCF2005.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; Last night I drove a few towns over to speak to a group of &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;teen aged&lt;/span&gt; girls and their parents. &lt;em&gt;Nervous!&lt;/em&gt; What you see above is the notes for my speech- or as I phrase it, &lt;span style="font-size:130%;"&gt;my talk&lt;/span&gt;. It took somewhere from 10 to 15 minutes to give the talk. Can you believe that I can get 10-15 minutes out of that small page of a jumbled mess??? Me neither. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;But it's the only way I know how. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;For one, if I write much more down, I'll be looking at the paper &lt;em&gt;the whole time&lt;/em&gt;. So this way forces me not to read to others. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;For two, well, I don't know what to tell you about the jumbled mess part. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;I just hope that my talk &lt;em&gt;wasn't&lt;/em&gt; a jumbled mess. But I realize that's very likely.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;span style="color:#ffffff;"&gt;.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/849201202872359250-2616486811757920876?l=www.iamlow.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.iamlow.com/feeds/2616486811757920876/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='https://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=849201202872359250&amp;postID=2616486811757920876&amp;isPopup=true' title='9 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2616486811757920876'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/849201202872359250/posts/default/2616486811757920876'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://www.iamlow.com/2010/01/jumbled.html' title='Jumbled'/><author><name>I am Lorinda W- you can call me LoW</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/01143055801646733494</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:extendedProperty xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' name='OpenSocialUserId' value='09647633404139617875'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mik5g-4dZ8E/S2F-lKWmARI/AAAAAAAAF5M/A5x2lm1SvLY/s72-c/00DSCF2005.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'>9</thr:total></entry></feed>