tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-310575052024-03-07T05:51:05.682-08:00THE SECRET LIVES OF ROLANDA AND STUARTWhy 'Rolanda'? Why 'Stuart'? If we told you, it wouldn't be a secret.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-60088080212413077712013-02-23T23:05:00.001-08:002013-02-23T23:06:24.567-08:00Extra, ExtraRead all about it.<br />
<br />
In keeping with my weekly commitment to blog, yet in full admission that I am completely uninspired to write this evening, I am going to merely going to touch on the headlines for this week.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Naughty Ronnie Adopted, New Family To Teach Him Nice"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Roller Derby Welcomes Newcomers 'Rockonda' and 'Chele on Wheels'" </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Kaiser Fail: Steve's Skin Graft Sloughs Off" </i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Ronda Gives Notice, Four Weeks Until New Life"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Home & Garden Show: Garden Serenity vs. Hawker Hell"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Pizza Connoisseurs Pass On Juliano's in Vancouver"</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>"Friend's Mom Passes Away, Suicide Likely"</i></div>
<br />
Until next week's edition.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-42506928093587552972013-02-16T22:50:00.000-08:002013-02-16T22:50:11.892-08:00Ronnie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXrxxZMepI2X9iq449EZ08XWR0Zp7e8uDwMPbQH3vv8QwijgQ9eQ780TswfhTkZcxgtq3CNhG54vciSQkqlIGBIrRn-801X5mr7LNQ_MJFaM4W1_pNLoN8XTYsu41CSXl_8IE5ng/s1600/Ronnie.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXrxxZMepI2X9iq449EZ08XWR0Zp7e8uDwMPbQH3vv8QwijgQ9eQ780TswfhTkZcxgtq3CNhG54vciSQkqlIGBIrRn-801X5mr7LNQ_MJFaM4W1_pNLoN8XTYsu41CSXl_8IE5ng/s320/Ronnie.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
This is Ronnie, a ridiculous little terrier poodle mix currently available for adoption at the shelter. Ronnie was a stray, dropped off at the shelter last weekend, and he was the recipient of my first vaccination. Unlucky for him. Lucky for me, he has a very sweet disposition and gave me lots of kisses afterwards.<br />
<br />
Tanya, the animal care aide training me that day, said we had to name him after me since he was my "first". We decided the male version of "Ronda" was "Ronald" ... but that's a little old man name, and this guy is a young punk. "Ronnie" it was.<br />
<br />
This morning, Ronnie had his neuter surgery. I didn't get to work until noon as I was training in surgery. It took me a while to spot him looking down at me woozily from his top row kennel in the recovery room. When it came time to transfer him to the adoption floor, I was supposed to leash and walk him, but this little lovebug wanted to be held and even rested his head on my shoulder.<br />
<br />
I have no doubt that Ronnie probably loves on all the shelter staff equally, but I'm always going to have a special spot for him in my heart.<br />
<br />
There are some things that I have true anxiety about at the shelter. Poking unfamiliar, scared animals with needles is one of them. Ronnie helped my through my first poke. I know it will take me a while before I feel comfortable with this skill, but at least it will never be my first time again.<br />
<br />
Here's Ronnie's "All About Me" write up on the shelter website:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span id="_ctl0_ContentPlaceHolder1_Label2" style="width: 573px;"><i>I k</i><i>now I
am almost too cute for words! But I have a secret to tell you...lean a
little closer...don't tell anyone, but I can be naughty. I know, hard
to believe but true. I may look like a fuzzy little lap dog but I am a
smart and active guy in need of training and lots of daily exercise. I
have been known to growl at dogs and sniff others politely. I know! I
don't get it either but the shelter staff have faith in me and feel that
a good program of reward based training and lots of jobs to do will
help tone down my daily naughtiness. If you want a dog who will make
you smile everyday, then ask about me! I am looking for a cat free home
and may need to be the only pet. If you have another dog already, a
social adult dog may be the best match. I am just about 2 years of age
and I weigh a healthy 11lbs.</i></span></blockquote>
<span id="_ctl0_ContentPlaceHolder1_Label2" style="width: 573px;"> Hope your find your forever home soon, little buddy! </span>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-4154267946149645802013-02-09T20:31:00.000-08:002013-02-09T20:31:01.969-08:00I Am What I AmFor a short time after high school, I was a server in a restaurant. It taught me two important lessons: how to appreciate servers, and how I hope to never again be one. I'm not ashamed to admit that I was once a server. So, I'm puzzled by my own reluctance to admit to anyone that I'm currently a secretary. There shouldn't be any embarrassment associated with this work - it's important, necessary, and I have the opportunity to positively support and impact a great number of people on any given day.<br />
<br />
Maybe, once I can say that I<i> was</i> a secretary, and not that I <i>am </i>a secretary, the shame will disappear. There's nothing wrong with being a secretary ... but there must be something wrong with <i>me</i> being a secretary, because being one for this length of time has been unsettling to my soul. It is not who I am meant to be. That is a not a judgment on the profession or those who choose it and excel at it - it is a judgment on myself, and how long I have been willing to settle for safety and comfort, and how long I have shied away from challenge and dream-chasing and sacrifice and the unknown.<br />
<br />
I want to be one of those people who proudly proclaims "I'm a ________". Someone who feels connected to her work; someone whose career identity is in line with her values, talents, and passions.<br />
<br />
I want to be a zookeeper, and I will be so excited and proud to tell people when I am one.<br />
<br />
That's a few years away, but I'm already proud of the steps I've taken over the last 18 months to get the plan in motion. I'm excited to know that in just 8 weeks, the plan will be accelerated. And, the more I talk to people about my future, the more at ease I feel in my soul.<br />
<br />
I think it's about living life genuinely, and not feeling like a fraud. I think that's where the current shame comes from.<br />
<br />
I can't wait.<br />
<br />
<br />Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-86060294652916516642013-02-02T20:11:00.003-08:002013-02-02T20:14:42.070-08:00To Do: Matzo Ball SoupI'm finding that keeping lists works for me. I need the pointed focus, and I relish the sense of satisfaction that comes from crossing things off.<br />
<br />
I make impossibly long and ambitious lists, however. I always have. I stopped making lists when I was younger because items left undone would cause copious amounts of guilt and anxiety. Is it possible that I'm mellowing with age? Now I look at my long, ambitious lists ... and prioritize. What a concept! Items left undone are re-evaluated: move them to another day? delete them because, ultimately, they aren't that important?<br />
<br />
I have daily lists: do laundry, work out for 35 minutes, take my BA131 test, add zoo internships to my vision board. A yearly list of goals with the number of items "to be done" matching the number of my years ... goals selected from a much longer list of potential goals for that year: run in two 5Ks, finish eating the last of the remaining NutriSystem food, try Heidi's Restaurant, finish reading my grandpa's journal, start school full-time in April. A bucket list for lifetime dreams and ambitions: become a bone marrow donor, go ziplining, swim with dolphins, get a college degree, see Josh Groban in concert.<br />
<br />
Almost 20 years ago, an acquaintance invited me over for dinner. She served matzo ball soup, and I loved it. About 10 years ago, I saw a box of matzo ball soup mix in the grocery store and impulsively bought it. I never made it. Until tonight ... because I put in on the potential "38 Things To Do in 2013" list, and then moved it to my daily list ... and I prioritized it.<br />
<br />
And even though matzo ball soup was remarkably more delicious in my memory, it made an incredibly satisfying dinner for my soul.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-59405550775624976512013-01-28T21:59:00.000-08:002013-01-28T22:01:03.461-08:00Oh, HenryI expected to come home from the shelter on Sunday and cry for a bit. I had seen and touched my first dead animal. "Baby's first Henry", my trainer Lauren gently teased. Someone brings a dead animal to the shelter, and the front desk pages animal care staff over the intercom to let us know there is a "Henry" for us to deal with.<br />
<br />
I was nervous, because I didn't know how I was going to react. I didn't like it. But I looked at him, and asked questions about him, and touched him, and helped throw him into the incinerator. And I didn't cry. Not then, not later.<br />
<br />
Earlier that morning, I had to shovel the ashes out of the incinerator from the prior day's burn. I didn't expect to hear the tinkling of little bone fragments, sounding like windchimes made of tiny seashells. It was disconcerting, and interesting. It didn't make me feel as awful as I thought it would.<br />
<br />
My first Henry was a black and white border collie. No collar, no microchip. No way to know who was missing him. We took notes of his most distinguishing features, in case the owner contacts the shelter. Will they? I'll never know.<br />
<br />
These are the unpleasantries that we have to deal with at our county-run shelter. I guess I'm relieved to find that I have the strength and composure needed for such tasks. But I fully expected to cry, and I wonder if it's okay that I didn't.<br />
<br />
<br />Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-39922838342743585472013-01-19T20:35:00.004-08:002013-01-19T20:41:22.976-08:00Peace, Be StillI have been a torrent of emotions lately. I've been doing too much and sleeping too little - working full-time at Springdale (wishing to quit), training on the weekends at the animal shelter, taking two classes at MHCC (wishing to go full-time), and trying to maintain my monthly volunteer commitment at the zoo (wishing to do much more). I'm neglecting my family, my friends, my husband, and my physical well-being, and the neglect walks hand-in-hand with its partner, guilt. I've been sick for over two weeks, and Steve for over three. Beeker has been ripping his fur out due to a skin condition, and the medicine I have to force down his throat makes him vomit. Steve's parents are both struggling with medical and aging issues, and his whole family is feeling the pressure and the strain. I could go on ... complaints and concerns and anger and angst rushing off my fingertips onto the keyboard like a bubbling, boiling, unceasing lava ...<br />
<br />
... but I do try to keep myself in check. "Perspective," I religiously write on my mental list of things-to-do each day: "check". <br />
<br />
But as religion can be bereft, so are my attempts at downplaying my current inner turmoil. My brain doesn't seem to communicate well with my gut or my heart, as those organs don't seem to keep checklists. <br />
<br />
I had the day off today. Other than homework, I had no true commitments. And because I could slow down and turn off the voice of the crazy woman, there was time for a chorus to work its way gently into my usually restless mind:<br />
<br />
"Peace, be still ... Peace, be still.<br />
Peace, be still ... And the wind and the waves,<br />
Peace, be still ... Peace, be still.<br />
Peace, be still ... And the ocean obeys."<br />
<br />
I first heard Twila Paris sing when I was living in Eugene, restless and conflicted with remaining in school. I saw her name on the marquee of a performing arts center I walked by each day, and knowing only that she was a Christian artist, I decided to go to her concert. Shortly thereafter, I made the decision to leave school. I can't say that those two events were connected ... but I find it remarkable that, all these years later, when what I want more than anything is to finally return to school, what I hear is Twila's voice is lilting gently through my conscience: "Peace, be still".<br />
<br />
And will Ronda obey?Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-1666556800851600632013-01-13T18:58:00.001-08:002013-01-13T19:01:22.262-08:00The Power of PooI have cleaned up lots of dog poo these last two weekends working at the animal shelter. I think my ability to clean it up without vomiting, gagging, or even making embarrassing faces has gone better than I expected. But the poo - oh lord, the poo - is so much worse than I expected.<br />
<br />
Dogs at the shelter - because of health problems, poor nutrition, a change in diet, or simply due to stress - have a lot of soft stool. If it's not so liquid they can paint with it, it's just. so. sticky. Angels sing from heaven when a solid stool is formed. <br />
<br />
This poo - the bad poo - is powerful stuff. Not just in stickiness, or in odoriferousness. This poo is so powerful it has practically cemented my resolve to only being a cat owner, where litter is life-changing. And if there was ever a doubt as to how I felt about potentially changing diapers for years, this poo could be the deciding factor.<br />
<br />
No dogs. No kids. Except for perhaps a goat kid, who would poo neat little pellets. And maintain my lawn.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-87166145491228479012013-01-06T18:54:00.000-08:002013-01-06T18:54:07.050-08:00Snooze AlarmI'm listening to my precious husband on the phone with his mom. Crawford followed him upstairs and whined a few times at the closed door - he has a difficult time sharing Steve with whomever is on the other end of any call. Beeker is curled up like a ball next to me on the couch and is snoring softly. The silence from the laundry room tells me it's time to fold my clothes.<br />
<br />
Sunday night. The sounds of this evening are cozy and comforting.<br />
<br />
The alarm of Monday morning will come too soon.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-35008365812619033682012-01-07T22:34:00.000-08:002012-01-07T22:53:23.432-08:00Stupid StudentI'm starting up with courses at Mt. Hood Community College again this term. Instead of immediately pursuing a degree in Biology (with the career of "zoo keeper" in mind), I am focusing on sharpening my current office administration skills and bettering my resume with certifications and proficiencies.<br /><br />The ideal plan would be to obtain these and an Associates Degree while employed by MTC, taking advantage of their Education Reimbursement plan (where classes need to be relevant to my current position, or applicable to any future positions within the organization). I should then have the necessary qualifications for an office job at the zoo, to get my foot in the door that way .. or to get an office job at a Portland-area college, where I could pursue a Bachelor's Degree in biology or zoology, and take advantage of employee tuition benefits there.<br /><br />An even more ideal plan would have been to start this plan 10 years ago.<br /><br />Because I am working full-time (and truly need to at this point), I anticipate only being able to take one class a term. Also, because I have a marriage I'd like to continue to nurture, a home to maintain, relationships I don't wish to relinquish, a figure that needs to be reclaimed, other life goals that need to be chased down .. all of those things will suffer if I take too many classes at once.<br /><br />But then I start laying out this plan, term by term, and I want to give up before I've even begun. A full-time student can obtain the most basic Office Assistant Certificate in 3 quarters. It will take me ....... four years. To obtain all certifications, I'm looking at the year 2020, easily.<br /><br />This is step 1 of my career plan???<br /><br />It is safe to say I am currently feeling full of regrets for the choices I've made the last 18 years.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-25174543351232369692011-11-12T11:42:00.000-08:002011-11-12T12:37:00.948-08:00Cattails<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulp0qRafrU8ECFIDA7qlCLRV_QimeZBE0PztGWaFoS7bGi_xFRFtebxuLxG3vQ0QtIhQQN4iIn-dKH1wUmKDh3ORt7biI_Zf150-AAZGDAdBlSBoEL9Jsp60ugykOf_R5IU6dvg/s1600/Cattails"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 194px; height: 259px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjulp0qRafrU8ECFIDA7qlCLRV_QimeZBE0PztGWaFoS7bGi_xFRFtebxuLxG3vQ0QtIhQQN4iIn-dKH1wUmKDh3ORt7biI_Zf150-AAZGDAdBlSBoEL9Jsp60ugykOf_R5IU6dvg/s400/Cattails" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674198073466202146" border="0" /></a>I've always loved cattails. I just got such a kick out of them when I was a kid. Now, I still love them - perhaps more for reasons of nostalgia than anything else. But they make me smile. They're quirky. Rustic but elegant. Their striking verticality juxtaposed against the soothing, flat water's edge.<br /> <br />One of my favorite things about the new home we've moved into is that it is situated across the street from a small pond, which is surrounded by wonderful cattails. In fact, this is one of the major reasons we even bought the home - for the pond, the bullfrogs, the ducks (and yes, I know bullfrogs can eat baby ducks, but I'm going to pretend I don't know that), the heron, the cattails and the red-winged blackbirds that cling to them. And a second floor office with a balcony I can step out on to enjoy all of it.<br /> <br />As I'm writing this, however, and staring at the picture inserted of these wonderful cattails, the more I'm realizing .. they look like corn dogs. How have I never noticed this before? Is this really why I love cattails? Because they remind me of corn dogs, which are wrongly delicious? Man. If I subconsciously love cattails because of my obsession with food rather than some poetic appreciation of nature, I'm very disappointed in myself.<br /><br />Which brings me to the reason for this post: I am. Very. Disappointed. It has never before occurred to me - until I looked out my window a little while ago - that you can blow cattail fluff the same way you do dandelion fluff. WHY HAVE I NEVER BLOWN CATTAIL FLUFF??? I just saw a family of 3 (plus a happy, jumping dog) having a cattail fluff fight, and it seemed like the perfect, quintessential fall thing to do. As perfect as kicking leaves as you walk through them, drinking spiced apple cider, and wearing turtlenecks. All of which I've already done this fall, so I need to go outside and add to my repertoire.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * * * *<br />(virtual cattail fluff, my gift to those of you without the real thing)<br /><br /></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-63943903364405413222011-11-10T20:08:00.000-08:002011-11-10T20:49:18.896-08:00Time CapsuleI thought I had given up on blogging. (Facebook, I shake my fist at you, you ruiner of more than two thoughts strung together!) But I've wandered back here, briefly reading a few of my entries from years past .. and I'm amazed at how little I remember from the events I previously blogged about. (Seriously? I ran past a flattened salamander on my first race? I totally don't remember that.)<br /><br />I'm enjoying having my memory jogged. And I'm starting to realize that creating this time capsule of sorts might be something I will thank myself for later in life. Because even if I don't exactly remember all those details, it is enjoyable knowing I experienced them so completely at the time.<br /><br />I lost a co-worker a couple of weeks ago. Donna Patrick, Springdale's Center Director, passed away from cancer. She was 48. She lived life fully, and she died far too young. In addition to the multitude of friends, family and co-workers who adored her, she has left behind a legacy at Job Corps that is remarkable.<br /><br />I dream sometimes about what my legacy could be. To be perfectly honest, I make myself sick about it - lamenting time wasted, fretting about time running out. I don't have children, so wholeheartedly investing myself in them as my legacy isn't an option, as I suspect it is for most people. And yet .. nothing has called to me. Am I merely supposed to choose, somehow, from all the worthwhile causes and people in the world? Make a list, close my eyes, point my finger at the paper and commit to where it lands?<br /><br />While the options seem too limitless at times, NOT leaving a legacy doesn't seem to be one. What's the point of living if you don't do it in such a way that it leaves pleasant ripples after you're gone?<br /><br />I'm under no false impression that my writing is anything that will be passed on for generations. In fact, I'm finding this current post to be more "mud bog" than "reflective lake" or "cool, refreshing stream". But it might help me reflect on my life when my time comes. It might be the mirror that shows me how much more I need to do to consider that life one well lived. It might just be a silly blog, but it might lead me to my destiny.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-70440425161079185372009-05-02T14:39:00.000-07:002009-05-02T15:33:44.588-07:001:38:39, One Black Toenail and One Giant Blister<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSACICdHhEhhnkE5WRR6rAGP_Av-xTIkdBqveJOlvhFNG8HF5o2RSbOwzO6UJM2y6WRmgv2x7-8X7QqfVrG3Bz-Jzav3Z6rdqbRXdZdcDHMfLO3vOew3oU14k-htzvqd4VmEapA/s1600-h/scan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 273px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigSACICdHhEhhnkE5WRR6rAGP_Av-xTIkdBqveJOlvhFNG8HF5o2RSbOwzO6UJM2y6WRmgv2x7-8X7QqfVrG3Bz-Jzav3Z6rdqbRXdZdcDHMfLO3vOew3oU14k-htzvqd4VmEapA/s400/scan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5331357866687707602" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br /><br />I participated in the 32nd Troutdale Trot and Walk this morning. I mostly walked it, had a goal of finishing in 2 hours (I had previously walked it on my treadmill in about 2.5 hours), and ended up crossing the finishing line near the front of the pack in 1 hour, 38 minutes and 39 seconds.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><br />First race.<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;font-family:verdana;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">First number thingy for my scrapbook.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">First sports injury (GIANT blister and a black toenail) ...</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">... unless you count the time at the Youth Group softball game when Tim </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" style="font-family:verdana;">Sivacek</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> barreled into me at 2</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" style="font-family:verdana;">nd</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> base, bending my thumb backward and giving me a slight strain. Tim, if you're reading this, I still maintain that that was completely unnecessary! Anyway, I don't count that, because Youth Group softball is supposed to be for fun and walking/running 6.7 miles clearly isn't.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I started at the back of the pack and thought this was going to be a healthy but leisurely stroll through downtown </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" style="font-family:verdana;">Troutdale</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> and along the scenic Historic Columbia River Highway. You know, where I'd have time to hear birds singing and admire spring flowers. (</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" style="font-family:verdana;">Oooh</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">! I did see a baby salamander, but he looked pretty flat so I think someone in the crowd accidentally stomped on him. And lots of slugs, since it had been raining. Slippery!) I sure was shocked when they fired the gun and </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" style="font-family:verdana;">everyone's</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> hips started swinging around in that way that only </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" style="font-family:verdana;">speedwalking</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> elicits. I felt instantly doomed. Since we would be passing my street around the 2 mile mark, I thought maybe I'd just take a little (race-ending) </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" style="font-family:verdana;">pitstop</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> at home.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">On the first big hill, I discovered I had a </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" style="font-family:verdana;">competitive</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> spirit. I started burning past people who were hotshots at first, and then started playing little games like "I have to pass the next group of people in less than 100 steps". I passed more and more groups until I had the front-runners in view. I got tired of walking and would jog for a while, then walk again. This helped to cure the boredom of no music and no walking buddy (Steve, you selfish jerk, heal already!), and the shin splits I always get when I walk quickly but don't get when I jog slowly. Not that there's a real </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" style="font-family:verdana;">discernible</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> difference between those two to the casual observer ..</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It wasn't my goal to win, but to complete as quickly as possible. I held back on the jogging when I realized some ladies were calling me a cheater. Good grief, gals! So while I'm absolutely confident I could have jogged more and come in first (What?? Crazy talk!!), out of respect for the walkers, I held back.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">What a crazy sensation. Walking, but itching to jog. Discovering a competitive spirit that could serve me well in future races. Even the fact that I'm considering future races .. who am I???</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">At the very end, I caught up to a hefty gal who was kicking butt. I told her she was amazing, because she was. I'd had my eye on her for a while and had finally caught up to her. She told me she was trying to beat last year's time, and was on track to do so by a good 20 minutes, and that she was walking it 75 pounds lighter this year. As if that wasn't enough, she's training to participate in the </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.hoodtocoast.com/">Hood To Coast</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> relay this year. What an inspiration! (I didn't let her beat me, though.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Next year, I'll trot. In the meantime, I'll look for other opportunities. And a new pair of sneakers, and some pretty nail polish to cover my disgusting toenail.</span><br /><br /></div><br /></div></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-76853081628576669052009-03-22T19:04:00.000-07:002009-03-22T20:07:18.057-07:00Math Whiz<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I've finished my second math class, and I'll be receiving the grade that I worked so hard for: a big, fat juicy "A". Feels good.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">It's funny how people want to make you feel bad about your success. I sat at a table with guys who - jokingly (or was it?) - would call me a bitch when I got my tests back with few or no errors. Hey, if I was actually being a bitch and flaunting my grade, they'd be right. They'd list a million excuses for why they scored poorly, or didn't finish their homework, or didn't understand the material. Like I asked.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Last Tuesday, I left the final at the same time as another gal in my class - a mom who works full-time and was taking another class. She was ecstatic to have found out that, prior to the final, she had a "B-" in the class. She asked me what my grade was. How do you sugarcoat that you're getting an "A"? And why should you have to? I left out the part where my average going into the final was actually over 100%.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">"But you're naturally smart at math," she protested. I didn't want to disagree, even though I do, because, why? To make her feel bad that she worked hard and got her grade, and I worked hard and got mine? I struggled over my math homework. The second the material got more difficult, my brain would turn off. I don't think that's really the sign of a mathy brain. And I've never once had a math instructor tell me I'm naturally gifted at math, and I think they'd know. The truth of the matter is, I deserved my grade. I did my homework. I turned in every extra credit problem. I studied for every test, and prepared like crazy for the mid-term and final. So I let her think that I'm naturally smart at math, because that makes her feel better, and it doesn't really change anything. But it was a weird predicament to feel like I wanted to prove that I wasn't so smart, and I worked hard too .. but to also feel like pointing that out might, in fact, make me the bitch that I was accused of being.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I have a co-worker who is recently married, has 3 kids, and is taking two courses. He calls me a wimp for only taking one course. He says I have "no excuse", because I don't have kids.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">No, I don't have kids. No, my attention wasn't divided over multiple courses. But yes, I do work full-time. And yes, my husband has had a knee injury which has required me to drive him around to consultations, surgery, appointments and physical therapy for the last 5 weeks, which means I have been thrust into the role of sole errand runner and the "not naturally smart at caregiving" caregiver as well.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I told my co-worker that some people thrive on stress and chaos. I am not one of them. I know my limits, and I want to enjoy my one life, and I choose to include or exclude things in a manner that benefits me. I've waited a long time to go back to school, and I'm paying for it, so I'm going to do what it takes to get the most out of my classes and to be successful in them.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I'm not denying that the odds are in my favor. But that's how I've stacked my deck, and that's how they've stacked theirs. I admire the courage of those adults who are back in school while working full-time and raising kids, and I don't quite know how they manage it. Good on them!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Next term, I'm taking a break from math. Originally I was going to take a complete break from school because we didn't know what the demands of Steve's injury/recovery would be. Now we know he will probably drive sooner than 6 weeks from now, which was the initial projection. And even if it takes that long, his physical therapy appointments will be at 7 am, which doesn't interfere with my work schedule or school schedule. I'm going to take some sort of computer literacy course and a health and physical education course (unless I find out that my dance courses from the University of Oregon from a hundred years ago will transfer), both of which are required credits for my degree. That should involve one night of reporting to a lecture, with the rest of the work being done on my own time.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">And I intend to work hard, and I expect that my hard work will be rewarded, and I will feel good about my success because I'll have earned it and have waited a long time for it! And I never want to have to feel apologetic about it, despite the fact that that's what others appear to want.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So even if no one else thinks it, I do: good on me.<br /><br /></span></span></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-84283933403124021812009-03-05T16:16:00.001-08:002009-03-05T17:54:14.924-08:00Betcha Greg Oden Doesn't Use Frozen Peas<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxuv8OeQCQsbJSQ93mwa1yg1o1ocFvEYQ9RT88dfoG3IXlitEjUkuptkzo6EXp11sbFsZv43fcSSfJO-FCQFrLpu631_i2SHDKs7ykX8iErm3pptpu4viVggZyxt1z60BCxnqnw/s1600-h/Knee+2.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 356px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjxuv8OeQCQsbJSQ93mwa1yg1o1ocFvEYQ9RT88dfoG3IXlitEjUkuptkzo6EXp11sbFsZv43fcSSfJO-FCQFrLpu631_i2SHDKs7ykX8iErm3pptpu4viVggZyxt1z60BCxnqnw/s400/Knee+2.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309869087066474274" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0Y3qwwde-DaCplLis93TF74KA7S38xQOjhK1daZBRifDDD7HdrOBsH_YOO1H1xgSii8ZRpELGY2WALzfG6IN9DZu2sAKVZRzpU9vN8D7WayHHO-QU6hTRU0H8gNmMvebpJ9D1A/s1600-h/Knee.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 343px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW0Y3qwwde-DaCplLis93TF74KA7S38xQOjhK1daZBRifDDD7HdrOBsH_YOO1H1xgSii8ZRpELGY2WALzfG6IN9DZu2sAKVZRzpU9vN8D7WayHHO-QU6hTRU0H8gNmMvebpJ9D1A/s400/Knee.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309869077257056962" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;">As the doctor said today, "Knees are like pregnancy. Either you're pregnant, or you're not. Either your knee works, or it doesn't."<br /><br />Not exactly profound, or terribly poetic for that matter, but true enough.<br /><br />And Steve's knee ... well, it doesn't work.<br /><br />But hey! We won't ever be posting any ultrasound images on our blog, so here are some freaky MRI images instead. (Is that redundant? What does the "I" in MRI stand for? Is it "Images"? If so, by saying "MRI images" am I really saying "MR Images images"?)<br /><br />It's like Steve saying "spinach salad" instead of just plain spinach and driving me crazy. Sort of. More accurately, like using the term VIN number. Vehicle Identification Number number.<br /><br />Anyway, Steve's knee doesn't work. He's scheduled for surgery next Tuesday morning.<br /><br />Oh, he's telling me the "I" stands for "Imaging". So just ignore that up above.<br /><br />Here's what's technically wrong with his knee: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Prepatellar</span> bursitis, partial tear of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">infrapatellar</span> tendon at the attachment sight on the patella, partial tear of the medial <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">retinaculum</span>, small knee effusion with a tiny Baker cyst with minimal subcutaneous edema. Get your <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">internet</span> research on!<br /><br />Surgery time TBA, but Tuesday morning. Should last about an hour and a half. Will be able to walk on it immediately but will have two separate knee braces on (I'll understand that one when I see it). If insurance won't cover the fancier of the two, then he'll be wearing frozen peas instead. Unknown when he'll be able to drive again. Won't be chasing bad guys (or softballs) for about six months.<br /><br />The good news is ... we totally saw Greg <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Oden</span> at the doctor's office.<br /><br /></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-23679309502664036012009-02-21T10:56:00.000-08:002009-02-22T17:56:05.534-08:00Tram-tastic<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">When it's windy here during the winter, you lay down at night - earplugs in - and say a prayer that the wind will be gone when you wake up. When you wake up and realize it's still windy, well, words can't really describe the disappointment.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Today it seems like it might be a little lighter. Not "go outside and have some fun" or even "go outside and do some work" lighter, but "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">hmm</span>, maybe I won't go completely insane if this is as bad as it's going to get" lighter. Or, "oh that's right, the forecast calls for rain, which is usually the only time the wind stops blowing in the winter" lighter.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But insane I'm starting to feel. Kind of a typical state for me in February, but exaggerated by the wind. A couple of years ago we visited friends in Arizona in February (you know who you are, the only two people who actually read this blog). That was an a-typical state for me to be in (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">heh</span>) and it was glorious. It was sunshine and expansive blue skies and warmth and puppies and kittens and rainbows and magical sparkle dust.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I want to go on vacation!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">In lieu of doing so, as we're saving our time for a trip to the east coast this summer (fingers crossed), we were reminiscing over our vacation photos from Colorado last year. Figured we'd finally share some. Consider this blog the first of several installments.</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg392VuIwUmAzOlwW8SULWWTfpqTzn18aSeWrOHel4NYn-Mv896o_6Aj2ro3cVC4LwJODtWT1TXREM8JcabpKXCdCjtDsZ-5FIp-gsmDocEhRmhyphenhyphenZ1xhgRvXF9EFrcfXRXU4jYmw/s1600-h/Table+009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg392VuIwUmAzOlwW8SULWWTfpqTzn18aSeWrOHel4NYn-Mv896o_6Aj2ro3cVC4LwJODtWT1TXREM8JcabpKXCdCjtDsZ-5FIp-gsmDocEhRmhyphenhyphenZ1xhgRvXF9EFrcfXRXU4jYmw/s400/Table+009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305798012508923874" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Above:</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> The tram (gondola, whatever) ride we took from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Glenwood</span> Springs, 4300 feet up to Iron Mountain. The views were spectacular. On the way down, we found out we were riding with a local celebrity, some middle-aged-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hottie</span>-with-a-great-voice newscaster whose daughter just had to spill the beans about who her dad was. We didn't recognize him, of course, so </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;" >neat</span><span style="font-family:verdana;">, kid.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Below:</span><span style="font-family:verdana;"> Some of the incredible views from the </span><a style="font-family: verdana;" href="http://www.glenwoodcaverns.com/index.html"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Glenwood</span> Caverns Adventure Park</a><span style="font-family:verdana;"> at the top of Iron Mountain.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7sianwy_Lj0GNa_k-9aEvDZbobhSAZKiAjhaT2bfEF4EdmLO2BeHeFDX7NdjwJYxGETkRcSvxQtCoyfZcdoAd2tT0vIvr4mtaYFVfWRuIme_I4D15Oa9jeV8jiESDdnmpA5ubw/s1600-h/Table+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr7sianwy_Lj0GNa_k-9aEvDZbobhSAZKiAjhaT2bfEF4EdmLO2BeHeFDX7NdjwJYxGETkRcSvxQtCoyfZcdoAd2tT0vIvr4mtaYFVfWRuIme_I4D15Oa9jeV8jiESDdnmpA5ubw/s400/Table+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305800399448805378" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFbkrGH6DrOT4Q8FlkiJcix3AtnOS4SqLexigc8gtyZv6a8CxShYXYjmJD7mr5Vw02pqk9V9vyHmoyTxneUJAIzLqOL2fqGiXg0ssGu5iM1ljLs5XdJMjCY74VrQvK4I5s2WZjQ/s1600-h/Table+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJFbkrGH6DrOT4Q8FlkiJcix3AtnOS4SqLexigc8gtyZv6a8CxShYXYjmJD7mr5Vw02pqk9V9vyHmoyTxneUJAIzLqOL2fqGiXg0ssGu5iM1ljLs5XdJMjCY74VrQvK4I5s2WZjQ/s400/Table+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305800398800827842" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_CUtifNn642khmZWUiRG65UMFLsyLzSzQFOyNEb6VlrE3wsjpMvualfJ4XD1OvhL8-9CaqWnyzo_kOI33hvvhsQsauXU2e7NRTIARftV3z5JHSTqA1Sh5candxmdna0DbWeecQ/s1600-h/Table+014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_CUtifNn642khmZWUiRG65UMFLsyLzSzQFOyNEb6VlrE3wsjpMvualfJ4XD1OvhL8-9CaqWnyzo_kOI33hvvhsQsauXU2e7NRTIARftV3z5JHSTqA1Sh5candxmdna0DbWeecQ/s400/Table+014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305801733747889378" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUlVp3xaFgrlcPNw9yoZERFWna_41J13A1jjDupMIm56dV3S4RbgawvBj_4ehx-F8UQE6lc4sySgvH3sjoYk7SfxGbpGPpq4Ft0fK-PG-ZcjakwnwZy5mhH9OMtutm2pRuq8KYg/s1600-h/Table+011.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjUlVp3xaFgrlcPNw9yoZERFWna_41J13A1jjDupMIm56dV3S4RbgawvBj_4ehx-F8UQE6lc4sySgvH3sjoYk7SfxGbpGPpq4Ft0fK-PG-ZcjakwnwZy5mhH9OMtutm2pRuq8KYg/s400/Table+011.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5305801727927823506" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;font-family:verdana;">If you enlarge the last picture, you'll see Steve floating in one of the rafts down the river. (Just kidding. Did you really do it?) He was on the mountain with me. Ridiculously, we ran out of time to go rafting. Next trip!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Next installment:</span> What's a girl to eat for breakfast while on vacation? Cave bacon.<br /><br /></div></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-31660105134898705182009-02-15T09:36:00.000-08:002009-02-15T10:16:45.788-08:00Ode to my Valentine<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Since I turned 34 in 2009, I made a list of 34 things to accomplish this year. Item #13: Blog once a week. For shame, I've already missed the last two weeks!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">But I have found myself exiled to the office this morning, and my options are: paperwork, more paperwork or computer work. I've already done my homework for Tuesday, and in fact, my homework for Thursday as well. (Item #1: Complete 4 college courses.)</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Steve is sleeping on the couch. He injured his knee at work on Friday night, falling down a hill chasing a suspected car thief, not realizing - in the darkness of the night - that he was running down a hill. Something about momentum in his torso being ahead of the momentum in his feet and ultimately going head over heels ... poor guy. He has his entire right leg immobilized by a giant brace, which is making sleeping difficult for him. He started in the bed last night, but at some point made the laborious move to the couch.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I'm stuck in the office. And the cats are stuck in the garage, so my darling, injury-prone husband can get as much sleep as possible.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Hopefully he can see the doctor tomorrow. The initial hospital visit was inconclusive due to massive swelling (picture a camel hump rather than a knee). I can't remember what all he said could be wrong with it - something in there is deformed, his kneecap may have been out of place, he might have a torn patella tendon? (I swear I listened to him when he told me .. but I make a better nurse in practice than in study. I'll even admit that I only remember the patella part because he did a Google search for it and it was still listed up in the little search window.) Anyway, we don't know yet the extent of the injury, so we don't know what's in his future: a knee brace with rest and physical therapy, or surgery.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My original plan for this Valentine's weekend was to surprise him with a trip to Timberline Lodge, and make him take me downhill skiing for the first time in my life (Item #10). Thank goodness they were booked by the time I called! I had downgraded our plans to hiking a waterfall (Item #14), but when I saw him at our front door, I knew the plans were a) watch TV, b) help him clean and bandage his road-rashed hands and knees, c) watch TV, d) help him with his socks (this is another reason I should never have a child - I simply cannot put socks on anyone but me!), and e) watch TV. Notice none of these are on my "34 Things" list?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Oh well. What better way to show your Valentine that you love them than by being willing to dote on them, hand, knee and foot?<br /><br />Here's a little Valentine poem for you, my sweet:<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" ><br />Your hair is red,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Your eyes are blue,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Despite ground-meat hands and Hunchback of Notre Dame knee,</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >I love you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-65513355608056430082009-01-28T21:26:00.000-08:002009-01-28T23:36:27.413-08:00One Hen, Two Ducks, Three Squawking Geese<div style="text-align: justify;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFi8tP3kAvO5umxz2tv18kNJ-1fShW9UULlhSIDVcihoJaYW7G3JdfU-gqUtkawFAZi7mAKSUg9LVWwdrzx1ei0JjvR-92NhwIMGiJnb65ioG8jWvr4GcJQdXsSp2cDQPfUyFjQ/s1600-h/scan0001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 372px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTFi8tP3kAvO5umxz2tv18kNJ-1fShW9UULlhSIDVcihoJaYW7G3JdfU-gqUtkawFAZi7mAKSUg9LVWwdrzx1ei0JjvR-92NhwIMGiJnb65ioG8jWvr4GcJQdXsSp2cDQPfUyFjQ/s400/scan0001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5296611204608558162" border="0" /></a>Belated birthday wishes to my Dad!<br /><br />We mailed your gift at Christmas (a Christmas miracle indeed!) and called you (but didn't reach you, boo!) on your special day ... but I didn't get this blog done on the 26th as intended.<br /><br />I love you more than the tardiness of my blog entry shows!<br /><br />I'm not a photo person, meaning I take them as infrequently as possible (of myself and of others) ... which in turn meant I only had a few photos to select from in the album my mom compiled for me a few years ago.<br /><br />How to pick one that best embodies you, Dad?<br /><br />There's me riding on your shoulders. Me in your arms looking at my birthday cake, not quite sure what to make of it. (Notice that trepidation around cake didn't last long). Me in my fancy cat face that you laboriously applied one Halloween. (How I loved looking at that book of painted faces and the lush make-up you purchased that year!)<br /><br />Then there's this photo. Probably one of my favorites. Twinkling eyes. Mischievous smile under the beard I've always known you to have. And of course, the bunny ears. (I'm sure I would have been exasperated had I known at the time I was receiving them. I was, after all, the ripe age of 18 and way too mature for that sort of thing.)<br /><br />Spontaneity. Silliness. The giggles.<br /><br />A gift you've given me, time and time again.<br /><br />I wish you many more years of laughter, ridiculous songs, and sudden, unexpected skipping in public places. (You can't deny it. Anyone who knows you, knows it's true.)<br /><br />Love you!<br /><br /></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-16854786462832346192009-01-17T22:05:00.000-08:002009-01-18T09:02:02.117-08:00Moving<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >The wind has been absolutely dreadful the last two days. Trees are down, shingles are flying off of rooftops, I lost 10 lbs because they simply blew away.</span><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >I hate <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Troutdale</span>. I want to move.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />I've wanted to move since the second week we moved here 3 years ago, when the wind started blowing and didn't stop for 8 days. I thought I was losing my mind. (Please refrain from comments.)</span><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >It's not always as bad as it is right now. In fact, this winter has been blessedly free from wind, comparatively speaking. The last two days, however, I've prayed - more than once - "Lord, please hold our house together!"</span><br /><br /><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >I helped a colleague move today. I have a love/hate relationship with helping people move. I hate it, because it is so much <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">daggum</span> work. And a really terrible way to meet people's families. I love it (love it? okay, not really) and I keep volunteering to do so for several reasons<span style="font-weight: bold;">.<br /><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">It's a nice thing to do.</span> Moving is hard work, and it's even harder to do with no help.</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />It's great exercise.</span> Sure, it requires a good soak in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">hottub</span> at the end of the day (for a few days), but all that weight lifting and stair climbing .. dang! Can't be beat. (I still worked out for 2 1/2 hours this afternoon, so maybe that's where those 10 pounds went.)</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />It results in free food.</span> And that food never tastes anything short of amazing, because you've worked so hard for it and you're always beyond starving by the time it's served. (Oh, Papa Murphy's, how I love your <a href="http://www.papamurphys.com/public/menu_gourmetPizzas.cfm">Gourmet Garlic Chicken Pizza</a>! How I wanted you for dinner even though I just had you for lunch!)</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />It makes you want to get rid of stuff.</span> It's a little disgusting to realize how much stuff we all have. Filling box after box and room after room with stuff is great incentive: the more stuff I can get rid of now, the less I have to move when it's my turn. Look in my garbage can right now (go on, do it! and take a big whiff while you're at it!) and you'll see a few pairs of beat-up shoes. Look in my donation pile, and you'll see several ill-fitting shirts that were the casualties of a preliminary sweep through my closet. Look in my recycling bin, and you'll see empty bottles of expired medicines. (Do I still need the stuff to combat my constipation from pain killers back in 2001 when I had my Valentine's Day kidney stone? I loved you because of the holiday and all, but I pray not.)</span><span style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />It quells my own desire to move</span>, despite the wind. And that's all I can really say about that, because it is a temporary, fleeting quelling. I know the desire will rear it's ugly head again tomorrow if I wake up to continuing violent winds.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">My colleague moved from a less windy portion of Gresham to a more windy portion of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Troutdale</span>, but still not as bad as the tunnel of flying debris and destruction that is my street. "Welcome to the neighborhood," I said, then laughed maniacally. I tried to just do that in my head, but it kind of popped out. Oops.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So I want to move. But I don't. So I drank a glass of wine to relax and will soon be heading off to bed, earplugs in, and pray from some relief tomorrow. In <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Troutdale</span>, that usually means rain. I'll take it.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" >(PS. Just as I was previewing the final draft of what I wrote above, I heard a loud metallic crash outside. I knew in an instant that one of our window boxes had flown off the house. Steve and I were just talking about that today, as in "wouldn't it be awful if that happened?". Well, it happened. I can't wait to see the giant holes in the siding tomorrow. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Yay</span>! The silver lining is this: Steve is supposed to be home tonight. He's working overtime, therefore his beautiful car is not parked where it was earlier. Because it most certainly would not have escaped the falling window box unscathed.<br /><br />Lord, I know it could have been worse. But this isn't exactly what I meant by holding my house together!)</span><br /><br /><br /></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-34697993659905786372009-01-14T17:35:00.000-08:002009-01-14T23:02:30.703-08:00Make A Wish!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1ieG9VH1RV472fBJS0t4ZsbkjP-4rszXP1MxaNsx34ic7NdbEplqYOGZSfwSDpVvOLSv3AEVwBsZC72PFat8RU5hv5Awxnfhe89ehievsP00MZhmqRUp8NWJ08bme7hCv6xF_Q/s1600-h/Sonja.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 256px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJ1ieG9VH1RV472fBJS0t4ZsbkjP-4rszXP1MxaNsx34ic7NdbEplqYOGZSfwSDpVvOLSv3AEVwBsZC72PFat8RU5hv5Awxnfhe89ehievsP00MZhmqRUp8NWJ08bme7hCv6xF_Q/s400/Sonja.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5291407839613135458" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">This is one of my all-time favorite photographs of my older sister, who turns another year more fabulous tomorrow, January 15th. I used it to bid her a fond farewell in the Faribault Daily News back in 1991 when she went off to college.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">This blog has a slightly smaller following than that publication. Nonetheless, I thought it was an appropriate place to make the photo reappear.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Happy Birthday, sis. Can you believe that cute little munchkin grew up, made a home out East, learned to speak a few languages, became a lawyer (and her own boss), married a wonderful man and now has two little munchkins of her own ... to name just a few highlights? Pretty incredible (you are). You must have made some spectacular wishes blowing out your candles each year.<br /><br />Here's to blowing out many, many more!<br /></span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Love you and (still) miss you,</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ronda</span><br /><br /></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-89461126530298624972009-01-01T15:26:00.000-08:002009-01-01T16:44:35.172-08:00Pee-ano<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">It is raining cats and dogs here, and has been since the wee hours of the morning. At least it was dry when people were lighting their celebratory fireworks at midnight. </span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:verdana;" >Happy New Year!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">We lost part of our downspout two weeks ago when the snow and wind started. Well, we didn't lose it ... it flew off the front of the house, banged across the roof, hit the back of the house and landed in our back yard. At least that's the path it sounded like it was taking as it woke us up at 3 am. Sleeping Beauty stayed in bed while I trudged outside to retrieve it lest it blow away completely. So it's not lost. It's in our garage.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">So now, the fact that it's raining cats and dogs is exaggerated by the lack of downspout - the rain is dumping from the 2nd level gutter directly onto the roof of the first level. To accurately describe the annoying and pervasive sound it's making, I'll use Steve's words: "It sounds like a man with a very healthy prostate is peeing on our roof."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">Speaking of healthy prostates, Steve and I both went to the doctor yesterday. He for his gimpy knee (from his collision with the SeaTac Airport escalator over Thanksgiving), me for my "is there a muscle there?!?" hip pain (from, I don't know how I hurt myself exactly, maybe sleeping?). Talk about pervasive. Steve got some drugs to cope with his pain, I was poo-pooed as usual. Not that I should complain about leaving the doctor with good news ("there's nothing wrong that I can see - come back if the pain doesn't cease"), but still. I want drugs!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">No drugs for me. I'm getting a baby grand piano instead. Saturday. I can't wait! That man better stop peeing on my roof by then.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">More details and photos to come!</span><br /><br /><br /></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-76398607260465315432008-12-23T22:12:00.000-08:002008-12-23T22:35:25.945-08:00Snow What?!?<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Oregonians tend to get overly excited about the weather. This time, it was actually warranted ... evidence to follow:<br /><br /></span></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_BxbVpw2W-f2PWoCI1_zEJnI0023fe4k3-KGE70OsFdlfts545OS16gc29hXtu8qOx7kNN3xV5zvc1LRQnagHbbSMGnCxSkeKLcSAALzdHq0JxErWK290ffcAMTyozyvXdeHcA/s1600-h/IMG_1122%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhM_BxbVpw2W-f2PWoCI1_zEJnI0023fe4k3-KGE70OsFdlfts545OS16gc29hXtu8qOx7kNN3xV5zvc1LRQnagHbbSMGnCxSkeKLcSAALzdHq0JxErWK290ffcAMTyozyvXdeHcA/s400/IMG_1122%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283236848239479586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Notice the beautiful snow. Notice the beautiful Mustang, incapacitated by the snow. Steve, you sucka! (My Forester, by the way, handles the snow like a dream. Without chains, I might add. Sucka!)</span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTPC0act_OL_0APD86V6v7GZu1HDfl2AQJTvolrcsCZ642TZyeN_vFwVP_Bykvo9TCU-43lpKz_D9NCEtYTKhfSEZBtoESvjg_wcVFblRCgE-sRC-KrWZdj7_YbUQsCo9XA4jog/s1600-h/IMG_1120%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaTPC0act_OL_0APD86V6v7GZu1HDfl2AQJTvolrcsCZ642TZyeN_vFwVP_Bykvo9TCU-43lpKz_D9NCEtYTKhfSEZBtoESvjg_wcVFblRCgE-sRC-KrWZdj7_YbUQsCo9XA4jog/s400/IMG_1120%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283236838676701714" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our front fence is 3 feet high, and the drift covers almost the whole thing. Of course, just a few feet in front of that, there are still blades of grass poking through the snow. Two days of wind gusts (hitting up to 60 MPH) make for interesting sculpture!</span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZw_QtwO_jMbFNMmrfiwDf9oqSlQ-BYNqWRoyukg0Xch30z6dUfb4bkhMaThHWj2P1DEgK4MVy6FN4MSjvCJqxuRo8a8zxXYG870mRTV1F8IDBl9DfWM0VSpx49oRGrWouH07QA/s1600-h/IMG_1119%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZw_QtwO_jMbFNMmrfiwDf9oqSlQ-BYNqWRoyukg0Xch30z6dUfb4bkhMaThHWj2P1DEgK4MVy6FN4MSjvCJqxuRo8a8zxXYG870mRTV1F8IDBl9DfWM0VSpx49oRGrWouH07QA/s400/IMG_1119%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283236828540813138" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Our poor heat pump. This is after we dug it out the first day. Guess what fun task Steve took on again while I was at work today?</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjYVlDqYcm3l6XxhUDyelplJ-h6WZz6IrK-4EjbE0fGo8b9I_myQia8MReUrjonqGI0OmKDZ5Wm54D2CGSkVdiHBqvp4x0ZwemqBTF7wOPMTbo89vEi8i7EA6P8Q8d41CKItt_Q/s1600-h/IMG_1117%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghjYVlDqYcm3l6XxhUDyelplJ-h6WZz6IrK-4EjbE0fGo8b9I_myQia8MReUrjonqGI0OmKDZ5Wm54D2CGSkVdiHBqvp4x0ZwemqBTF7wOPMTbo89vEi8i7EA6P8Q8d41CKItt_Q/s400/IMG_1117%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283236820839560914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">More fantastic drifts; these are at least 5 feet high and could smother a Ronda.</span><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMzkZaS-gn1SkXXHawF3XayjpEoE1GaziNP7GzYAsyRd6bfRtLAzUCw95NHpDBJ_gW8gX-9MbepwBgYPG5w_QRTDd7aT1aA5v1tq2IaHDk1qlV1-2X46EiucbNVxf63cxgkIAHw/s1600-h/IMG_1113%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoMzkZaS-gn1SkXXHawF3XayjpEoE1GaziNP7GzYAsyRd6bfRtLAzUCw95NHpDBJ_gW8gX-9MbepwBgYPG5w_QRTDd7aT1aA5v1tq2IaHDk1qlV1-2X46EiucbNVxf63cxgkIAHw/s400/IMG_1113%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5283236819903075010" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:verdana;">Ready to hot tub and grill. Brrrrr-atwurst, anyone?<br /><br /><br /></span>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-68782521877209387102008-12-17T20:54:00.000-08:002008-12-18T06:36:25.198-08:00Peace on Earth<p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Peace on earth, Black Man.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Stop your killing.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Shooting. Stabbing.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Senseless.</p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Chilling.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Peace on earth, Middle East.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Stop your bombing.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Terrorizing. Paralyzing.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Heart-wrenching.</p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Alarming.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Peace on earth, Christian.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Stop your hating.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Preaching. Judging.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Irrelevant.</p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Stagnating.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Peace on earth, Husband.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Stop your beating.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal">Bruising. Abusing.</p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Terrifying.</p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Depleting.<br /></p><p style="text-align: left; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;"> </div><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;"> </div><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;"> </div><p style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p><div style="text-align: center; font-family: verdana;"> </div><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Peace on earth, brother.<br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Good will.</p><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"> </div><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Peace on earth, sister.<br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">Be still.</p><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"> </div><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal">Peace on earth, mother.<br /></p><p style="font-family: verdana; text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal">All is calm.</p><div style="font-family: verdana; text-align: left;"> </div><p style="text-align: left;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Peace on earth, father.<br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Right the wrong</span>.</p>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-36937259646443437302008-09-10T18:12:00.000-07:002008-09-10T18:30:28.766-07:00Work is a ZooMy boss got back from a 4-day vacation today. She kept calling it a 6-day vacation, however, which was driving me a little bonkers. We share a small office and sit about 3 feet apart from each other, making me privy to every conversation she has all day long, as many times as she chooses to have them.<br /><br />It was 4 days plus the weekend. Four days! Not six! A weekend does not a vacation make.<br /><br />It was good to have her back, in that my work load and burden of responsibility has been lifted greatly. After about two hours, I was wishing her gone again. Can that woman ever talk.<br /><br />Maddening.<br /><br />And yet, wonderful motivation to finally tip my toes back into the world of education. I've enrolled in the local community college this fall, with future ambitions of working with animals rather than people.<br /><br />I haven't gone back to school until now because I have career commitment phobia. I can't guarantee that I won't change direction again, but I'm jumping in nonetheless. If you can call one Math class - at a level lower than I actually tested into - jumping in. But, I want to do well, and enjoy being back in school, and being successful in my first class will help build the foundation.<br /><br />Math .. to biology .. to zoology. That's the plan.<br /><br />Though I'm tempted to just run away to New Zealand with one of my co-workers, who told me tonight that he's given his notice and moving there in October.<br /><br />Koalas. Kangaroos. Talk about instant gratification!<br /><br />Sigh. I'll probably be on the 15 year plan before I scratch a dingo's chin. At least my boss will retire in less than 5.Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-40685168532904129132008-03-03T17:27:00.000-08:002008-03-03T18:15:23.331-08:00Soap Box<div style="text-align: justify; font-family: verdana;">I often struggle to put into words - without sounding disrespectful, rude, disparaging, inflammatory - why I simply don't believe that men are natural-born or preordained leaders. Not of our homes, not of our churches, not of our communities. I won't even agree to this theory in an overly-generalized fashion as I begrudgingly have - for the sake of peace, conformity, and fear of God - for years.<br /><br />I was simply going to let the story that follows speak for itself, but I have a few things I want to say first.<br /><br />I think that men struggle more than women do to find and follow their moral compass. I think true, life-changing leadership comes from a place of compassion, a place in which women seem more often to dwell. (I do not necessarily include myself in these flattering descriptions, by the way.) I think left to their own devices, without women calling them to higher standards, men can tool around aimlessly, look inward to the point of self-import, or choose destructive behaviors that - quickly and with terrible repercussions - spiral out of control.<br /><br />Men need to step back when their weaknesses are hindering progress. They need to not stand in the way of women who are gifted in areas that they are not. They need to stop automat<span style="font-size:100%;">ically relegating the duties (and ministries) of "home, children, and other women" to those who have a different calling. They need to show as much respect and deference </span>to a woman called to leadership as they would a fellow man.<br /><br />From the Heifer Foundation Fall 2007 "Benefactors" publication, Greg Spradlin writes about the Women's Project in Chitwan, Nepal:<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">Nepal is one of the poorest countries in the world. Nepal is a country suffering from decades of civil and political unrest. As I write this, there is news of more rioting from the Maoist rebels who seek to overturn the country's monarchy - neither choice is good for this country. However, what I saw were kind and gentle people who want the same things you and I want. When their children are sick, they would like to have access to a doctor. They want healthy food available for three meals a day. They want a safe place to live, and hope their children will have a better life than theirs.<br /><br />What I saw in Chitwan was miraculous. I saw villages that Heifer International had worked with for less than five years. In those villages, the women had taken charge in a culture where others only know many of them by their husband's name - property, no different than a small parcel of land they worked and toiled in to make ends meet. In the past, the husbands may have drank what little cash that they earned, and in turn would take out his anger on his wife. Today, the women have been empowered by training and community building that is part of the Heifer process. Today, those women are the leaders and the glue that holds the community together and lifts the community to become one where others would want to live.<br /><br />The most astonishing thing that has happened is that the animals and training they have received from Heifer have produced a community that now has a medical clinic, a library, a community center and a community-owned fund that now totals over $10,000 USD. This is a country where the average person earns less than $300 per year. The unique thing is that the women have used the funds to build the community. They have even built a dam to protect the village from the floods in rainy season.<br /><br />All of the women talked of life before they were trained and received animals. They told of having to scrape to produce maybe two meals per day of mostly gains they were able to collect or beg from neighbors. They talked about the abuses that were once part of their everyday existence. Now, they tell a story of enlightenment, where life is not as hopeless if everyone in the community works together.</span><br /><br />Christian organizations that implore all men to step back up to their "rightful and God-given" roles as leaders do not necessarily have bad intentions. I just think they miss the point. Jesus brought us a NEW testament, a NEW life, a NEW way of thinking, a NEW freedom. The longer we cling to that which is tried, that which is true, that which is tired, and that which <span style="font-style: italic;">simply does not work</span>, the longer we starve, neglect, despair, abuse and war.<br /><br /></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31057505.post-20925619108174285862008-02-15T06:39:00.000-08:002008-02-15T07:37:53.142-08:00You Catch More Flies With Honey<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">I didn't call because I was too angry, and I was afraid I might say something I'd later regret.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">I did, however, leave a still-seething letter for my former boss at the newspaper biz last night, when she neglected - for the fourth month in a row - to pay her employees when promised. This ongoing saga has included late payments, bounced payments, bounced re-payments and a boss who has been less than forthcoming about any of it. Fortunately, I haven't suffered an eviction from my apartment and repossession of my car as some of my former co-workers have as a result of her ineptitude.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;">When I woke up this morning, I thought I might feel some pangs of regret over my strongly-worded letter. I don't. I guess she just pushed too far, for too long, and took too great advantage of whatever forgiveness, generosity, and benefit of the doubt I could muster.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span>Here are some excerpts. Scold me if you so desire.</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /></span></span><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"The fact that you did not bother to call me about this change of plans [getting paid more than a week later than we were supposed to] is enormously disappointing. The cavalier and reckless manner in which you consistently handle people's pay - and the lack of respect that you show your employees by continually neglecting to communicate with them - are truly reprehensible."</span><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">________________________________________</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"During my employment with you, I went above and beyond the call of duty and the confines of our contract to assist you and help you succeed in your new venture. Even so, I am not asking for additional compensation for all of my extra time and effort. I am merely asking to be paid what is owed, in a timely fashion, and without error."</span><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">________________________________________</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm frustrated beyond belief and out of patience. I tried to give you constructive feedback over the last few months regarding your communication skills, conflict resolution tactics and bookkeeping practices, and you have blatantly disregarded every concern I shared, with disastrous results."</span><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">________________________________________</span><br /></div><br /><span style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"I would be happy to talk to you about any of this if you so desired, but I will not be initiating the conversation. At this point, I'm weary of the drama and simply want to be paid. I do wish you well, and hope that you are able and willing to do what it takes to successfully manage your business."</span><br /><br /><br /><span>We'll see what happens. I believe in the adage "you catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar", but sweetness is lost on this woman. Perhaps bitterness might get us somewhere. Like the bank.</span><br /><br /></span></div>Ronda and Stevehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08070699414776971381noreply@blogger.com2