tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91646656656462857452024-02-20T10:33:31.463-08:00Bits and PiecesRobin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-78197156614664724512010-09-21T07:55:00.000-07:002010-09-21T11:42:24.257-07:00Ooh. Bad Robin. It's been nearly a year since posting. That's really bad. I'm going to have to work on that.<br /><br />Mike and I are driving around the United States - he's a truck driver now and I'm riding with him. We started in Indiana and have been to Illinois, Missouri, Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee and now Kentucky. We're heading to West Virginia.<br /><br />We're having fun, but it's been a looooooong few days. Not helped by the fact that my computer is a piece of crap. I think we've had fun overall, though. It's a very different experience, but I don't think I would trade it.<br /><br />Poor puppy misses me, at least so my brother says. She's been despondent. I miss her, too...<br /><br />Good news: I FINALLY have coffee...Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-14641329518792524352009-10-24T13:03:00.001-07:002009-10-24T13:20:17.798-07:00CandlelightIt's been an admittedly long time since I've updated, and for that I apologize. Not that anyone reads this.<br /><br />I adore candlelight. Perhaps because it can be so many different things.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0I0BD3u8Dd1OTixqumrzPfoSg6rY4PfFqM5uKK-tcOuLLdN9xDL0aIryOZzaMzNhEopnBq6NN5xknaafyi3cKdk03d7T3MrzQp-_vXTx43V04N9XMM32CO4wEhOWFl1tCQoFiRWMwciM/s1600-h/004.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 255px; height: 191px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0I0BD3u8Dd1OTixqumrzPfoSg6rY4PfFqM5uKK-tcOuLLdN9xDL0aIryOZzaMzNhEopnBq6NN5xknaafyi3cKdk03d7T3MrzQp-_vXTx43V04N9XMM32CO4wEhOWFl1tCQoFiRWMwciM/s320/004.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396263853713756402" border="0" /></a><ul><li>Romantic</li><li>Scary</li><li>Soft</li><li>Gloomy</li><li>Comforting</li><li>Welcoming</li><li>Hopeful</li><li>Foreboding</li></ul><br />I think, in a lot of ways, candlelight is like people. No one person is all good or all bad. A lot of things make up not only who we are, but how we respond to certain situations.<br /><br />And for those of you wondering, I'm thinking about it because last night I burnt popcorn in the microwave and it filled the whole house with smoke. I read that one way to dispel the smoke, in addition to opening the doors and windows and turning on the fans (which I did, despite how cold it was and the fact that it was after midnight and I jumped every time I heard the voice of a random college student walking by), was lighting candles.<br /><br />It worked. Kind of. It's still lingering. Fortunately, the alarm stopped beeping.<br /><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div><input id="gwProxy" type="hidden"><!--Session data--><input onclick="jsCall();" id="jsProxy" type="hidden"><div id="refHTML"></div>Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-79273921668301780712009-06-02T11:52:00.001-07:002009-06-02T12:32:44.703-07:00Go Cubs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6aDpt5U29BxJ01k0AF-EYuX2syrSxTaf8d7I9TLfeB6PjFk-RpF8XOAx1vwfNGx6-ETzgL4BohIUVP77_S28k49qcGZzDqCYyQFMGRaHQQdUSk81vtAc5ENQ5Mv0F923YiCFHoIM_eNg/s1600-h/Sunday+Cubs+Game.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6aDpt5U29BxJ01k0AF-EYuX2syrSxTaf8d7I9TLfeB6PjFk-RpF8XOAx1vwfNGx6-ETzgL4BohIUVP77_S28k49qcGZzDqCYyQFMGRaHQQdUSk81vtAc5ENQ5Mv0F923YiCFHoIM_eNg/s320/Sunday+Cubs+Game.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5342815343560517362" border="0" /></a>Mike and I went to two Cubs games this weekend. I'm not a Cubs fan (Go Sox), but I'll still admit that I had a great time. Watching the game take place in front of you is sooooo much more exciting than watching it on TV. It probably helped that the Cubs won on Saturday. That made it better.<br /><br />Just for the record, Wrigleyville is expensive. The hot dogs were $4.25. Pizza was $4.50 and I saw the beer lady going by and have never been so relieved that beer tastes nasty. Can you say $6.50 a can? Ridiculous.<br /><br />I did buy a shirt. It's pink and it's cute. Of course, now I have to deal with Mike saying that I'm a Cubs fan at heart, and I really don't know what I want. Shows what he knows. :)Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-85080335671671333922009-05-13T08:24:00.000-07:002009-05-13T11:27:39.026-07:00Stress-Free Writing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTbt5NB-yl8cDm5xqM8WU4l_vbCmlYiyyr_vtIij5vw-CnMsilUh9HOe0za5J3hxqU2i4iUJJXQb7Ve_ELpWVKyoP6nQbW8JSxgGmw4V2yeN7eQAe9kFEQ6f3R8gebh-ru3-q6uwRjsk/s1600-h/girl+writing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYTbt5NB-yl8cDm5xqM8WU4l_vbCmlYiyyr_vtIij5vw-CnMsilUh9HOe0za5J3hxqU2i4iUJJXQb7Ve_ELpWVKyoP6nQbW8JSxgGmw4V2yeN7eQAe9kFEQ6f3R8gebh-ru3-q6uwRjsk/s320/girl+writing.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335335920949938418" border="0" /></a>It's been too long since I've posted. I felt bad about that until I popped over to my <a href="http://www.everybody-else.blogspot.com/">roommate's blog</a> and noticed she hasn't posted at all there this year. (Check it out, she has a link to a blog she was featured on, there... so proud.)<br /><br />It's funny, the other day I was contemplating how, for me, writing isn't just my job. It's how I process and how I feel better and happier and how I work through things. Today, I opened <a href="http://www.writing-world.com/newsletter/2009/WW09-09.shtml">one of my writing newsletters</a> (I was a little behind, give me a break), and in it, were a bunch of responses to Dawn Copeman's article about life block, and writing as therapy (article in the newsletter).<br /><br />When I'm mad, I write. When I'm happy, I write. When I hate the world, I write. When I'm tired, I write. You get the picture. It's my way of working through things, finding solutions and just getting it off my chest. I was pleased to learn others feel the same.<br /><br />I read, somewhere, that many authors wrote their best books when going through something that shaped them, somehow. What they wrote about doesn't necessarily have anything to do with what they were going through, but the two played off one another. Like, working on a solution to another's problems (fictional or otherwise) helped them solve their own. Or at least helped them through.<br /><br />I'm out. Need to finish working before going to Celi's graduation (from her master's program). Congratulations, Celi!Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-45805030572335048452009-04-05T08:24:00.000-07:002009-04-05T08:31:21.424-07:00When is "Enough" Enough?The Bush Administration was by no means perfect. I can say that without a hedge. But they didn't send us $750 billion into ear-marked debt, which I personally see as a good thing. The Bush Administration didn't try to control the minute details of people's business and personal lives. Again, I see this as a good thing.<br /><br />I've read a few articles this week that are kind of disturbing, the most recent of which came from my room mate:<a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB123879833094588163.html"> Obama Wants to Control the Banks</a>. THAT scares me. And <a href="http://www.redstate.com/erick/2009/03/31/at-what-point-do-people-revolt/">THIS</a> article has a point. While dish washing detergent is probably a bit extreme, I agree that the "straw that broke the camel's back" is just that: a straw. Something unimportant and minute.<br /><br />And, if it comes to something like this, where does that put me, as a christian, in terms of supporting my government, which God says is ordained by him, and supporting my fellow Americans?Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-22526574112936660392009-03-17T12:47:00.001-07:002009-03-17T13:05:20.949-07:00Puppy Owie.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxt8Hee1RpiQtgiNEPj_FvvHM6fEl-siwGRTktrilVNgz8a6cqqUnFz60xluZ18cKXCyS8gxdvuBUyx09ci99a5qkENWYZuqsnGLCgYH5zXIvyiXzJac1v8Kn4nZHq7ht4vO3xVLeMZ4/s1600-h/Poor+Ali.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 270px; height: 202px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQxt8Hee1RpiQtgiNEPj_FvvHM6fEl-siwGRTktrilVNgz8a6cqqUnFz60xluZ18cKXCyS8gxdvuBUyx09ci99a5qkENWYZuqsnGLCgYH5zXIvyiXzJac1v8Kn4nZHq7ht4vO3xVLeMZ4/s320/Poor+Ali.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314250012409675010" border="0" /></a>My puppy has an owie. Her collar isn't stopping her from licking it. The veterinarian told me I could try shorts instead. Unfortunately, I don't have shorts. I tried one of her dresses, upside down. That didn't work, either. So I tried a pair of my pantyhose, with the legs cut off. That didn't work. so I added her collar. And then I added her collar with the collar on backwards around her waist. She's not happy. I'm not happy. I think, though, that after nearly an hour of frustration - on both our behalfs - she's given up.<br /><br />She sure is pissed (and I can't blame her). I think I need a new plan. Any ideas?Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-21074751080740943812009-02-05T04:45:00.000-08:002009-02-05T05:01:24.204-08:00Mystery of the Sugar CookiesLast week some time I got it into my head that I should send sugar cookies to my boyfriend, decorated all pretty for Valentine's Day. I thought if I sent them out by yesterday (Wednesday, February 3), they might actually get there on time. Note: might.<br /><br />So, Tuesday night, Lindsay came over and we baked cookies. I figured I could send Mike about two dozen for him and some of his buddies and keep a dozen for myself. Lindsay made hers primarily for her husband, which only makes sense.<br /><br />We mixed in the ingredients, stuck in the fridge, popped them on a cookie sheet and voila, beautiful cookies.<br /><br />At least, that's how hers turned out.<br /><br />Mine spread across the cookie sheet, making one huge uneatable cookie. Literally uneatable. They were still sticky and hot and I'm pretty sure they were mocking me. Never have I been so humiliated in cooking. Never has such a thing happened to me before.<br /><br />Lindsay gave me the rest of her cookie dough, once she felt she'd made a sufficient number of cookies. The 11 I made from her batch turned out perfectly. What the heck?<br /><br />We have no idea what happened. The only difference I can recall is hers were in a glass bowl and mine in a plastic.<br /><br />So, this morning, I'm trying again. He'd better be grateful.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-84973687551057156512009-01-22T19:09:00.000-08:002009-01-22T19:22:54.663-08:00First In, Last Out<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBCCMO_c_wPsfxHOFIImU30AU3Xlbaa-dY6ORElpEWCEABPismmDlIErADx-msRIcaRhWsT3It-mxNX4A3Kso25ntq2BCEReO2Af1ZWC0oYSAuHYuTAmm2OaPygSrGYL6sIRBCF5Oxds/s1600-h/King+Leonidas+of+Sparta.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 169px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUBCCMO_c_wPsfxHOFIImU30AU3Xlbaa-dY6ORElpEWCEABPismmDlIErADx-msRIcaRhWsT3It-mxNX4A3Kso25ntq2BCEReO2Af1ZWC0oYSAuHYuTAmm2OaPygSrGYL6sIRBCF5Oxds/s320/King+Leonidas+of+Sparta.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294324343684067202" border="0" /></a>So, Desiree and I are on the way to go skiing with my family, and we're stopped at some town in PA. Right now, we're watching the movie "300." Tons of people told me that I wouldn't like this movie. This is my third or fourth time seeing it, and let me tell you: I'm not disappointed.<br /><br />Any movie that has men - people - fighting for a cause has my full support. End of story.<br /><br />But watching this movie with Dez, who's not seen it before, gives me a different perspective on it. She was, frankly, astonished when she realized that the King was fighting on the front lines. The thing, though, is in a culture like that, a nation of soldiers, the King would HAVE to be a soldier. And there was a time where the King was to be the first one into battle and the last one out.<br /><br />Whatever happened to that mentality? The mentality where if you fight for something YOU fight for it - you don't send someone else to do it for you?<br /><br />"Freedom isn't free at all. It comes at the highest of costs - the cost of blood."Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-86535999148722302012008-12-18T14:06:00.000-08:002008-12-18T14:11:48.383-08:00Hard Drive Needed; Please Replace BrainMystery solved: I need a new hard drive. I called Dell. Never have I been so happy to have a warrantee. Never have I been so sad to have a horrible habit of losing things. All of my work from... oh... months, is gone because all of the thumb drives I've been saving it on are missing. As per usual. I'm depressed.<br /><br />Of course, there is a way to get it back. I called the drive savers, and the nice woman I spoke with quoted me between $500 and $2700. Needless to say, that's a bit outside of my budget. Ha.<br /><br />Worst part: I can't even go to Nappanee for coffee.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-48931791646733286822008-12-17T19:20:00.000-08:002008-12-18T14:06:19.808-08:00Soooooo...<br /><br />I was working, getting ready to submit some articles for work, and voila, my computer froze. I restarted it.<br /><br />Now, I have an error message that pops up continuously, informing me "Disk read error" followed by instruction to press Ctrl+alt+del. I did that, several times. Turned it off and back on. Turned it off and left it off... nothing. Nothing at all. Same old message.<br /><br />Fortunately, my old computer turned on.<br /><br />Stinks.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-85889233760537537872008-11-10T17:31:00.000-08:002008-11-10T18:33:09.260-08:00Tears<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitatHkTSGB6WZsMaVTh3CKr0Gxn4Jd4tnm7RaSyZXsvmTymWAeidGhW8EaXrDgp2pOytYjnbacdzULjcBF_Pi3M0rpg0hPZLB33HsKFQYbg4B-fQjNB5zH-hgGcppWR139dcASNxW6pFg/s1600-h/100_4767.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitatHkTSGB6WZsMaVTh3CKr0Gxn4Jd4tnm7RaSyZXsvmTymWAeidGhW8EaXrDgp2pOytYjnbacdzULjcBF_Pi3M0rpg0hPZLB33HsKFQYbg4B-fQjNB5zH-hgGcppWR139dcASNxW6pFg/s320/100_4767.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267217040910372674" border="0" /></a>This morning, I said good-bye. Mike asked, months ago, that I not cry. I told him I'd try not to, that at the very least, I'd try not to cry in front of him. I broke my promise.<br /><br />I've never been much good at promises. And I've never been good at not crying.<br /><br />For awhile, I was fine. Talking to people. Talking to soldiers. Talking to soldier's wives, girlfriends, parents, sisters and friends.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IsRxa39rsvrJqJhh48yRNGWkIi1zHkbbb5cFnbJmcDwX4KqxfRkLyB5OkXzStSfU2hAcCnF2xRCSkKyeDqHBq9pQYi5IL05ZKDlYw0tc5tVvmSLIliLrMd_SGMVsmmoFXHvGggEqyzo/s1600-h/100B4771.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_IsRxa39rsvrJqJhh48yRNGWkIi1zHkbbb5cFnbJmcDwX4KqxfRkLyB5OkXzStSfU2hAcCnF2xRCSkKyeDqHBq9pQYi5IL05ZKDlYw0tc5tVvmSLIliLrMd_SGMVsmmoFXHvGggEqyzo/s320/100B4771.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267220319531237122" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Then, I talked to a friend who was crying incessantly. She told me, through her tears, that she'd been crying for the last two days. I don't doubt it. If I wasn't just home from vacation... in any case, her husband, when I announced my departure, again trying not to cry, told me to take care of myself. "You take care of yourself."<br /><br />"I have McClure to take care of that."<br /><br />I smiled, and I felt it falter. "Take care of him, too."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvi-hg0IWtLz8dk8brY_YTlQAdJ0PsjqHCVp4FPrS1qMmn6JXhk5I2vX3K2APDUwUiETNqIYgoNkxZbtNR1Iu9aCJVEf8l-vmEsDBPyBCs5GO8gj6fGRnq1Ht_bhP39x0AkwJxYKCqTY/s1600-h/100_4774.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGvi-hg0IWtLz8dk8brY_YTlQAdJ0PsjqHCVp4FPrS1qMmn6JXhk5I2vX3K2APDUwUiETNqIYgoNkxZbtNR1Iu9aCJVEf8l-vmEsDBPyBCs5GO8gj6fGRnq1Ht_bhP39x0AkwJxYKCqTY/s320/100_4774.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267218537102342610" border="0" /></a>He nodded and returned the smile, perhaps realizing the mention of my boyfriend wasn't the most beneficial thing he could have done, and I turned away, quickly.<br /><br />Not long after that, less than 30 minutes later, I stood outside with Mike, his dad, his great uncle, his stepmother, his grandmother and his sister, watching as they left.<br /><br />I've never seen my boyfriend cry before. The first tear, he brushed off as the cold. Later, he couldn't do that anymore. Later, I knew he was crying for the same reasons as I. Later, when the tears wouldn't stop.<br /><br />His tears were my undoing.<br /><br />But the thing that sticks with me the most strongly is not my story, but someone else's.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXU3r7yEDORSVdj1s60F1fLqD5C7cU64m0ONQpCnf1MZEj6vetNTmwLwSXhLf-Gh-_5oHQ9Hl2yIqjOUoJQ8Drms9sRhkMo667YakAD82GI6HZo5Quh083mUCBlzBrG8dHvCvSoeQGh_A/s1600-h/100_4778.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXU3r7yEDORSVdj1s60F1fLqD5C7cU64m0ONQpCnf1MZEj6vetNTmwLwSXhLf-Gh-_5oHQ9Hl2yIqjOUoJQ8Drms9sRhkMo667YakAD82GI6HZo5Quh083mUCBlzBrG8dHvCvSoeQGh_A/s320/100_4778.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267218994241654338" border="0" /></a><br />Earlier this morning, Mike introduced me to another soldier in his unit, one he always talks about, but that I'd not had the opportunity to meet. Matthews, in turn, introduced me to his girlfriend (and future wife).<br /><br />While we were waiting for the buses to leave, standing, shivering in the cold, one of her friends, or one of his friends, scooped her up onto his shoulders and ran with her to the bus. He held her close enough that she could touch the windows, and she did. She pounded, with her fists, "I love you!" She screamed, again, louder, hysterically, "I love you!"<br /><br />She touched the window, the heat from her palm leaving a print. It stayed as the buses drove away.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-22907932360329937772008-11-05T16:00:00.000-08:002008-11-05T16:09:19.140-08:00Special InterruptionRepeat after me "Robin, you are an amazing, wonderful, incredibly stupid. Now, tell, me how you do that."<br /><br />I don't know.<br /><br />NEVER leave your wallet with your credit cards, debit card and new gifts in a taxi. It's bad news.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-86315270904737467842008-11-04T06:59:00.000-08:002008-11-04T07:06:33.322-08:00Cruise Update: Key West, FloridaSo far, the cruise has been amazing. Everything on board is expensive, yes, but still amazing. Melody and I took a nice, long tour of the ship and I think we saw almost everything possible that there is to see.<br /><br />The cruise has several lounges, several bars, a casino, two formal dining areas and one less-formal dining area, a pizzeria, a cafe and an ice cream place, a main pool with two hot tubs and an adult (over 21) lounge area, called Serenity that also features two hot tubs. Mel and I went there to watch the ship leave Miami yesterday and then chilled there last night.<br /><br />Now, we're enjoying Key West at "Bad Ass Coffee Company" and just... relaxing.<br /><br />Our room is surprisingly nice. Cramped, but only a little smaller than a dorm room. We have a nice large window by Melody's bed. Wasted, since she seems to dislike the window. Evidently, sunshine is bad.<br /><br />Miami was interesting. The hotel we'd originally planned on staying at was quite a ways from the airport and they don't have a shuttle service. Evidently, in Miami, 8-10 miles isn't worthy of a shuttle. However, it was probably for the best. We saved money and were able to escape with a minimal amount of damage.<br /><br />Pictures will come later. Have waaaaaay to many of them.<br /><br />Soooooo nice to not be in Indiana!Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-58038232231111868272008-10-23T03:55:00.000-07:002008-10-23T05:37:05.073-07:0010 Days and Counting to CozumelWhen I was in high school, I used to count down to youth group trips, or even just youth group events, that I was excited about. I would write the number on my hand and I would know how many days were left starting at something ridiculous like 150.<br /><br />However, <a href="http://www.everybody-else.blogspot.com/">Melody</a> and I are leaving for <a href="http://www.islacozumel.com.mx/">Cozumel, Mexico</a> in only ten days, and I didn't even realize it until yesterday, after my Father said, in surprise, "Oh, you're leaving at the end of next week, too." It took me a moment. I got home and I counted the days frantically, surprised.<br /><br />I guess I've not been counting because we leave the first and return the eighth. Mike is deployed the 7th, and will leave Indiana the 10th. So, in my head, I think I equated counting down to my vacation as the equivalent as counting down to Mike's leaving - something I'm not sure I'm ready to face. Not that I haven't had enough time.<br /><br />Initially, my man was leaving the first and we were leaving the first or second, which would have worked fine. It would give me time to focus on something that's not work. But the army changed the dates, and now... I shouldn't plan things.<br /><br />It's a good thing November is <a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/">National Novel Writing Month</a>, because I can throw myself into that. And work.<br /><br />Ten days until mine and Melody's vacation to <a href="http://www.carnival.com/ShoreExcursionsSearchResults.aspx?portname=Cozumel%2C+Mexico&portcode=CZM&region=CW">Cozumel</a>. Yay Cruise! 18 Days until Mike leaves for Iraq. Can't believe I'm counting down to that.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-25932179768602491242008-10-21T06:32:00.000-07:002008-10-21T07:12:55.086-07:00Am I Dating Whom?"Are you dating Mike?" Asked a woman I didn't know at Friday night's "Farewell to the Troops" party at the bar in Signature Lanes.<br /><br />I stared at her blankly. Fortunately, she assumed I didn't hear her and by the time she asked me again, I knew who she was talking about.<br /><br />See, at Army Parties, I'm not dating Mike. I'm dating McClure or Big Mac. I run around responding to, "McClure's old lady," or "Big Mac's woman" or "McClure's girlfriend." I introduce myself as "McClure's girlfriend." If I say "Mike" no one, with perhaps the exception of Adam, Tom and Jeff; will know who I'm talking about.<br /><br />Needless to say, when the woman, Jennifer, asked if I was dating Mike, I really didn't know who she was talking about. And it turns out Jennifer is dating "the other Mike." But it turns out there are actually two other Mikes, so when I was trying to tell Mike about Jennifer and Mike on the drive to paintball the next day, he didn't know who I was talking about.<br /><br />And it's not just me. Laura and I had a conversation about it while paintballing. See, she always refers to herself as "McClure's sister," so when Jennifer asked if she was Mike's sister, she just stared at her. And let me tell you, Laura's had a lot more experience being "Mike's sister" than I've had being "Mike's girlfriend."Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-35080006198050159112008-10-18T18:11:00.000-07:002008-10-18T19:35:52.617-07:00Paintballing Miltary-Style As a CivilianLast night was the "Farewell to the Troops" party for my boyfriend's unit. So it seems only fitting that today, Mike and I met up with his sister, Laura, her boyfriend, Zach, there friends Danielle and Drew, Mike's army buddy, Adam and Adam's ex-girlfriend and ex-fiancee, Lauren.<br /><br />The Crew<br /><br />I met Danielle, Drew and Lauren last night. More accurately, I saw the three of them last night. Zach pointed out Danielle and Drew to me, and I asked Adam who the chick was. He answered in a tight-lipped, dreamy-eyed, one word response. "Lauren." It took me a minute, but after a second I realized that he was talking about THE Lauren he's been in love with since his first tour in Iraq. "THE Lauren?" Head bobs affirmatively. "For real?" "Yes." "What are... what's going on... what are you?" "I don't know." Fair enough.<br /><br />Two weeks ago, when Mike and Adam and I went to Cedar Point, Adam told me about Lauren while Mike watched the Cubs game (their last game - he was sad). Lauren was nothing like the way I imagined her. I like her. So did/does Mike. I feel bad saying that.<br /><br />Boys and Their Toys<br /><br />Lauren and Adam were wearing Adam's military-issued pants (old style, from last tour). Mike and I were wearing Mike's military-issued jackets (also from last tour), and Mike and Laura were wearing Mike's pants from the last tour. Believe it or not, military-issued clothing camo is COMFORTABLE.<br /><br />Anyway, Mike and I got there, got suited up, and we shared a case of paint with Adam and Lauren. The boys gave Lauren and I instructions on the proper way to hold our guns, point our guns, aim our guns and shoot our guns. However, Adam still labeled our box of paint, "The Black and Blue Crew." Lauren and I figured that was for us.<br /><br />Experience?<br /><br />Of the four of us girls, only Danielle and I had paintballed before. And my experience was a pathetic one from my freshman year of Grace, barely a week into the school year. Needless to say, my experience was essentially non-existent. Drew and Zach were way prepared. They each had their own equipment and have been going since, I think Zach said he started when he was 13. He's 23 now, so that's a lot of experience. I believe Drew's is comparable. Neither Mike nor Adam had been, but Laura and I refused to count them as in-experienced. They are, after all, military-trained. We were an odd group. We played something like 16 kids (10 and under, and one adult - leader? dad? something). At first, the other team had 6 kids and Drew joined them. The kids pretty much worshipped him. Hard to blame them. He did look awesome with his spare cannisters of paint balls, fake bullet-proof vest, uber-cool gun and the experience that oozed from him.<br /><br />Pathetic<br /><br />Our first game, we played on the "tire" field. There were stacks of tires laying about as barricades. We dodged behind them on shot. My glasses fogged up. I got shot in the face. I followed Adam out - he got shot at about the same time I did - and we went to watch our team die. He found Mike, "Come watch Your Man," just in time for the two of us to see Mike also get shot in the face. We have bad timing. We looked for Lauren next, Adam muttering under his breath about how it "wasn't fair" that she lasted longer than he. The game was over soon thereafter. We lost.<br /><br />Onslaught of the Castle<br /><br />The second game was a castle game. Drew and now 10 kids plus dad defended the castle. The rest of us plus five kids minus Zach (who tried to take pictures of us with my dying camera, forgot spare batteries like a moron... let's just say that didn't work, and he got shot - he had a nice neck welt for awhile) tried to attach to castle and steal the yellow flag. Mike and Adam instructed us before we left "Stay low. Stay low! Cover our backs. We'll go in." Arrogant jerks.<br /><br />Needless to say, we girls didn't take to well to this, though the kids we'd earned thought it was "awesome." Mike and Adam went one way, Laura and I the other. Dunno where the others went. Laura and I were crouching behind a barricade in the woods and her gun got shot - the ref told her she was out. I took the opportunity to duck and run up close. Zach tried to direct me to get closer so I could take over covering Mike/Adam, but I got stuck. Every time I popped out to try to move, I got shot at. And there was no cover the other direction. Boo. Eventually, I got shot at, in the mouth like Mike had been the time before, and immediately agreed with Mike's estimation, "Ewww. These are nasty."<br /><br />I yelled out that I'd been hit and walked out, followed again by Adam who laughed at me for my dirty pants (hello, I had to crawl. I didn't want to die!), my fogged-up glasses and my paint-covered mask. Fortunately, though, he described the rest of the game to me so I could "see" it. He couldn't decide if he was proud or ticked that Lauren and Mike were still in, and his voice changed from pride to disdain too quickly to keep track of. After ten minutes of game time, the game was over. We'd lost. Again. I hate losing.<br /><br />Interlude and Tire Game<br /><br />As we trudged out, Mike and I discussed Adam's ridiculous kevlar gloves and how much he wished he had them (when he got hit in the face the first game, he also go hit in the hand). Boys and their toys. We wanted to defend the next castle game- for obvious reasons; Dying and losing = bad, so had to wait awhile.<br /><br />In the downtime, Lauren and I discussed how much it sucks having a man overseas. She told me some things that helped when she missed Adam and some things that she thought would help that didn't. Really appreciated it.<br /><br />We decided to go ahead and play a game on the tire field before the castle field was open and meandered our way out. I was the first person shot. I have a very pretty bruise. I took the time between my death and the rest of my team winning (kicking BUTT) to make my goggles not foggy.<br /><br />Defending the Castle<br /><br />Defending the castle was fun, but not fun at the same time. Lauren and I shared a table and traded looking over the castle wall and through the holes to shoot the enemy. After a bit, our location was useless, and we both moved to defend other locations. I moved over to Mike. He was sitting on a table, gun through a hole and shooting away at an enemy I couldn't see. I found a hole under the table, a big gash, really and went in there. "Stop shooting! It's our man! It's Drew!" (Drew had finally managed to rejoin our team.) It was too late, and Mike ran out of paint moments later. I shared some of my mine with him and we both went back to shooting. I hit someone! So proud of myself. We won!<br /><br />Victory is Ours<br /><br />We played another tire game, unanimously deciding that it was the better of the two fields we'd played on. There was more room to move around, and neither team had a distinct advantage. As Adam pointed out in the car on the way home (Lauren had to leave early, so Adam caught a ride with Mike and I - jerk made me sit in back), "Any time you have the defense, you practically have it in the bag. You just need to weight for them to come to you." I finished, "And pick them off."<br /><br />In any case, this tire game was fun. The teams were split up the same way they'd been the last game, and we switched sides. We were numbered off and split up, so we had about four adults (people over 20) per team, and 8-10 kids/team. I actually didn't die, I shot people, and I was able to figure out a bit more on tactics, thanks to Zach's coaching on the way from the castle field to the tire field. AND I was able to direct Adam (who after my Man left, took his spot at the next barricade) to shoot one of the kids. And one of us (both of us, probably) managed to kill Drew. Our team was victorious. Hurray!<br /><br />The Last Stand<br /><br />The last game that we all played was a little bit pathetic - and totally rockin'. The four of us were down to our last few paintballs, and even after we finished off the last bag, we each had barely half a tank. After Laura gave us the remainder of her bag, we each took a handfew and added them (I insisted this wasn't fair - Lauren and I have decidedly smaller hands than the boys), we still only had just over half a tank each.<br /><br />This time, however, Drew, Danielle, Zach, Laura, Adam, Lauren, Mike and I insisted we play on the same team, and that the kids - all 16 of them - could play us on the same team.<br /><br />Given the numbers, we did well. But that's not saying much.<br /><br />Danielle, Drew, Lauren, Mike and I took the left side. The plan? Stay back, move up as can, conserve bullets. Within just a few minutes, Mike moved up and I went to take the barricade so I could get his back.<br /><br />I got safe, checked left and right, saw Lauren, Danielle and Drew behind me, motioned to where the guys on the right were and took a shot. Then I went back to Mike. He motioned that he'd be moving up (I knew watching the whole season of "Band of Brothers" would one day come in handy) and ran.<br /><br />As he ran, a terrible thing happened. The adult on the other team stood, saw him running, and shot him in the head. In slow motion, Mike fell forward and into the barricade. Mike held up his hands, "Hit! I'm hit!" The guy stood up and shot him AGAIN! Close range! That pissed me off. The guy stood again - Mike finally off the field - and I shot him in the face, the chest, and the arms. And then I shot two other people. One of whom didn't get off the field.<br /><br />Drew called to Zach and they confirmed that left only two of their guys, and we still had Drew, Lauren, Laura, Danielle and I left. Note: military men = kaput.<br /><br />There was one guy who kept dodging behind the barricade at the far right of the park. Following Zach's instructions from earlier, he was my target. I finally got him in my sight and managed to set my gun so my next shot would take him out. I shot. No more paintballs. I opened my canister. Empty. I scanned the ground. No good ones. Crap.<br /><br />After a few minutes, I turned to Drew. "I'm out of paint."<br /><br />"Zach just got out."<br /><br />"Drew! I'm out of paint!"<br /><br />"You're WHAT?"<br /><br />"Out of paint!"<br /><br />"Shoot."<br /><br />"If I run, will that draw them out enough that you can take them out?"<br /><br />"Really? Yeah! Go to the left and run, not straight down the middle, but close. Don't stop. Just sprint." Let's just say, I'm not a sprinter, but I did my best. I got shot five times. And I as I ran, I freaked as I counted heads. There were 6 kids left. Six.<br /><br />I now have two marks on my right shoulder, one of right knee, one on the left of my side, one of my left thigh and one in the middle of my back - one of the ones from the right shoulder was from an earlier game. Stink.<br /><br />After I got out, it wasn't long before the rest of my team ran out of paint. I didn't even have time to join Mike and Adam at the side to watch the rest of the game. When I did, Adam said, "Nice shooting. Remind me not to piss you off." We got our butts kicked, obviously. But it was good fun. And seriously, it's not like we had even numbers.<br /><br />Slaughter<br /><br />Most of us were done, but Mike and Adam played another game. Lauren left, I turned in my gun and Mike borrowed Zach's gun. I always feel bad because Zach is trying sooooo hard to make Mike like him, and he's so shy that he doesn't feel comfortable talking to him. Today was the first time Zach really felt like he could have a conversation with him and not have to be careful. He couldn't even tell Mike what type of music he likes. But here, he was so proud to let Mike use his gun. Laura and I exchanged glances and laughed. I feel especially bad because Mike has NO IDEA he intimidates Zach.<br /><br />The boys just randomly joined a team, and I tried to get my camera to work, but couldn't take pics through the heavy screening. Zach offered to go on the field again, but noting his slightly less-swollen neck welt, I passed.<br /><br />We all moved up to the screen. Mike running to the same place he'd been running to the past game. He got shot in the chest. He'd taken off his jacket and his other two layers, so had only one lightweight t-shirt in-between the paintball, the five feet from the shooter and his skin. He has a HUGE welt in the center of his chest.<br /><br />He lay on the ground, the wind knocked out of him for a minute. Before he stood, he held up his gun and his arm. I couldn't hear, but imagined him yelling, "Hit!" He stood and got shot in the back by the same guy. The same adult. Also has huge welt on his back.<br /><br />The game was over while I waited anxiously for Mike to get off the field. Adam beat him off and asked me what had happened with Mike - the game was over -and told me what happened to him.<br /><br />McDonalds<br /><br />We were starving so Adam, Mike and I stopped at McDonalds. The nice boys gave me all their pieces for the McDonalds Monopoly game, while we discussed the trouble on wall street, what we'd do with $100,000 and I was quizzed on appropriate battle tactics. The men told me they wished they could practice on-the-field training with paintball guns and not guns that held blanks. Who can blame them, right?<br /><br />We discussed our marks and bruises, decided Adam had appropriately named our "Crew" and had a fun time.<br /><br />They laughed at me for "taking one for the team." Adam said he'd have just turned himself in. Mike patted me on the shoulder (the left shoulder, fortunately), and I said that they were a bunch of wimps.<br /><br />And I'm standing by that. At least, until they leave.<br /><br />20 days and counting until Mike is deployed.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-63501404318643499172008-09-24T21:17:00.000-07:002008-09-24T21:45:28.585-07:00Masquerade<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMobUHycJ3nTLLqdFRTTw0tq4HTzi1tMhNRX-4qAevIr5CydX9TMEZEL_pAIcx8z1mllpYYYb5RIpW2p26DgvSp4Jk5E-dOboQaxIO5cGdeO3_3h1mCkaYwxhc6SBCiDZVbudVsdMyUY0/s1600-h/girl+in+fairy+costume.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 193px; height: 276px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMobUHycJ3nTLLqdFRTTw0tq4HTzi1tMhNRX-4qAevIr5CydX9TMEZEL_pAIcx8z1mllpYYYb5RIpW2p26DgvSp4Jk5E-dOboQaxIO5cGdeO3_3h1mCkaYwxhc6SBCiDZVbudVsdMyUY0/s400/girl+in+fairy+costume.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249814570229264530" border="0" /></a>When I was a little girl, I loved to play dress up. My mom made me a fairy costume for Halloween, and then a princess costume, and then an angel costume and tons of others. I wore those every chance I got, always inventing stories and plays and reasons to don these outfits.<br /><br />I suppose I never really grew out of playing dress up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkPrTImlFtBvAnk_fYRmOF8-_W7Hg7bI1TDp_HLiqWYQXkBguGq9UElQ_I2Tz06WFeZcdfMZv0YZbzA2ACUiKHCecuvHB0Fj8fn1vHfwKt0Ho7_rk6s2s56DBgAJinfwd_O65FqfIblTk/s1600-h/cute+outfit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 248px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkPrTImlFtBvAnk_fYRmOF8-_W7Hg7bI1TDp_HLiqWYQXkBguGq9UElQ_I2Tz06WFeZcdfMZv0YZbzA2ACUiKHCecuvHB0Fj8fn1vHfwKt0Ho7_rk6s2s56DBgAJinfwd_O65FqfIblTk/s400/cute+outfit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249814740806535826" border="0" /></a>. In France, I learned to dress like the French, and here I dress in the jeans (sometimes) that I'm expected to wear. I love to wear pretty clothing and jewelry and, in a way, pretend to be someone else. I write about fashion and style and colors and clothing and shoes (for another blog), and we all know if I could afford everything I wrote about, it would be in my closet.<br /><br />So why does it bother me when others play dress up? Or for that matter, grown up? When it's a child, it doesn't bother me. But some people, pretending to be something they're not, soiling the reputation of what they'd like to become... that bothers me.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0doSt64y4FCHVyUza7xHj_2Xj_pkrPGupfxlm-l9nVVn4CbgCVuxePV_jmEWl7InG5ddZ8t_FWK_4SVnKoIsMSM9qVxBz0hd0sE6lq8sXXqn0dAihyvwwuVZZ79P2urH0tYX0QlltGQ/s1600-h/boy+in+business+suit.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 322px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd0doSt64y4FCHVyUza7xHj_2Xj_pkrPGupfxlm-l9nVVn4CbgCVuxePV_jmEWl7InG5ddZ8t_FWK_4SVnKoIsMSM9qVxBz0hd0sE6lq8sXXqn0dAihyvwwuVZZ79P2urH0tYX0QlltGQ/s400/boy+in+business+suit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5249814925259423538" border="0" /></a><br />Don't pretend to be a soldier, be one. Don't pretend to be a businessman, be one. If you're not in business with a job and a salary, you're not a business man. If you're not enlisted in some division of the armed forces, you're not a soldier. If you're studying to become something you want to be, great. But in the meantime, don't try to build up your credibility by pretending to be something you're not.<br /><br />The thing about costumes, the thing about a masquerade, is people see through it. You're just a child playing dress up, wearing over-sized shoes and a mouth that says words you don't understand.<br /><br />Do us all a favor and grow up.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-68381716379414200232008-09-23T14:22:00.000-07:002008-09-23T14:37:47.417-07:00Stupid strikes againI had one of THOSE days again. Really, I shouldn't be overly surprised. I have one of those days at least once a week.<br /><br />So, I was recently hired by the Goshen News as a correspondent to cover the LaGrange County meetings, and then, last week, added the Topeka Town meetings and the Westview School Board meetings to my schedule.<br /><br />I got the rest of my work done early today, grabbed a bottle of water and headed out to Topeka (about 25 miles) to cover today's 4 o'clock town meeting.<br /><br />I drove allllll around Topeka, which granted, isn't an overly large town, but still took a good half hour to do it thoroughly, and I had to dodge people who don't look before crossing streets, buggies, bicycles and constructions workers, and didn't find the town hall. I stopped at a tanning salon for directions. They got me in the right general area, but I still didn't find it.<br /><br />Oh, did I mention that I left my directions at home? Any other town in Indiana, and it would have still been obscenely obvious where the meeting was. This was held in a house, or what looks like one.<br /><br />At 4:12, I walked into the building, holding my breath, praying that I wouldn't disturb the meeitng and it was blissfully empty, with the exception of an over-worked secretary typing away in a back office.<br /><br />At least now I know where it is.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-91971663984154799092008-09-14T17:36:00.000-07:002008-09-14T18:05:43.327-07:00Dear Mr. Obama<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUa8KnfBI2Iuf6DW_rYT8_SAoShZe6V5rxyhL2aIrdLYjdFFMZ5D9yj_7uBlrZ0KB_WLySruRu51f6AccXXvAeUgyCElQJFmGfoKlAIBTWyp4r6ovaA684z7YJ-dGB6cRZx069W1YdTYE/s1600-h/Barack+Obama.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUa8KnfBI2Iuf6DW_rYT8_SAoShZe6V5rxyhL2aIrdLYjdFFMZ5D9yj_7uBlrZ0KB_WLySruRu51f6AccXXvAeUgyCElQJFmGfoKlAIBTWyp4r6ovaA684z7YJ-dGB6cRZx069W1YdTYE/s400/Barack+Obama.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246044378425566818" border="0" /></a>Dear Mr. Obama,<br /><br />I have to admit that when I first saw you, your smooth words made it easy to listen. Your inviting voice makes it to easy drown out the words your actually saying. But when I started listening to you, I recognized you.<br /><br />You're like the man who promises one thing to one woman and the same thing to another. You promise change because people want change, but you purposely promise things that you'll never be able to change, things you have no power to change. Reminds me of the person who says, after millions of broken relationships, that he can change: this time he'll be faithful. It's lies, all of it. But those are believed over and over and over again. How are your promises any different from those that cross the lips of the man who has been unfaithful?<br /><br />You promise lower taxes, but more government-implemented programs, which of course, will cause an increase in our taxes. You promise lower gas prices, and you must think Americans are real idiots to believe that you could possible have control over such a thing. The scary thing is the number of people willing to believe your meaningless words.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7fou3_-f6poW5oWC3g7crtl2WMuXraxk2elWKBp2l4nfL_4Xym64uUWAkdablTrcCKAo_SfpOmvEE_grS5J2B-_MbdQhVRZ2RiEEIPoQhqTU2FzRw5ErSoQyHeoo2DEQdAcQ-3SCuXhI/s1600-h/socialism.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 278px; height: 278px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7fou3_-f6poW5oWC3g7crtl2WMuXraxk2elWKBp2l4nfL_4Xym64uUWAkdablTrcCKAo_SfpOmvEE_grS5J2B-_MbdQhVRZ2RiEEIPoQhqTU2FzRw5ErSoQyHeoo2DEQdAcQ-3SCuXhI/s400/socialism.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246044727167360482" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Your campaign tactics give a renewed vigor to the word "slander." You're all talk. I don't like talk. I don't like people who say they can do something they know nothing about. You know nothing about war, for instance, but the American people are sick of war, and so you say you'll end it. If you're elected... I hope that's one thing you can do. But I'm not foolish, so I doubt it.<br /><br />Of course, this is just my opinion. But I'll bet there are thousands of others who agree with me.<br /><br />In a recent conversation with a friend currently serving in Iraq, he asked me,<br />"So anything else back in the US going on? Other than <span class="nfakPe">Obama</span> destroying the very fabric of America with his empty promises of change and hatred of the troops?"<br /><br />He went on to tell me, "Did you know when he came to Iraq, he walked straight from the vehicle past all the soldiers and refused to look at them and went straight in to<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIo6uA20P2J1F2KEBwqU01SdvWql8LRcAvzAxgp0NDM9Qzqxfz9gTaSelbpTKzmuyERxPL3Zgz6GJrLvHoH8p5ocLX3FqpHOgwQGXaAGpBDR0UmRJLcCjWn2RCH2GM_J8pMQ4JEsbf30U/s1600-h/American+Soldiers+in+Iraq.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 288px; height: 217px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIo6uA20P2J1F2KEBwqU01SdvWql8LRcAvzAxgp0NDM9Qzqxfz9gTaSelbpTKzmuyERxPL3Zgz6GJrLvHoH8p5ocLX3FqpHOgwQGXaAGpBDR0UmRJLcCjWn2RCH2GM_J8pMQ4JEsbf30U/s400/American+Soldiers+in+Iraq.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5246045435387387186" border="0" /></a> the general? Then he refused to play basketball with any of them, and told them all to leave them gym when they taped the commercial. A guy in my unit was there when they did it."<br /><br />Did you think those men wouldn't tell their friends and family members how you treated them? Did you think they wouldn't tell their battle buddies? That's not the "leader" I want. A man who refuses to interact with the very people he's being elected to serve.<br /><br />Yes, serve. Or is that beneath you?<br /><br />If you have anything to say that you'll actually be able to change, now's the time to say it. Anything you plan to do that you can actually accomplish, tell us what it is for pete's sake! But no... your words are empty, meaningless, "blah, blah, blah."<br /><br />For once, instead of standing idly in the corner letting your empty promises of change speak for you, say something we can believe in.<br /><br />But you won't. Because you have nothing to say that you can hold yourself to. Ahh, what a tangled web...Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-85263438426707365842008-08-18T09:36:00.000-07:002008-08-26T14:08:36.481-07:00Good Bye-Scary<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiVKoBypRX6rhQ7UDfQnmROs5kINzw34VZDTg9NL-arjWl7-Mb8TwRg1x9R6pxuGM26qYyoid8pgBKRJgVoS_0IiwltOYm5r9XwyJz0_DknvmtpDUCqJqOHnqW0cEmK4EPD1MboRgQY0/s1600-h/Mirrors+the+film.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWiVKoBypRX6rhQ7UDfQnmROs5kINzw34VZDTg9NL-arjWl7-Mb8TwRg1x9R6pxuGM26qYyoid8pgBKRJgVoS_0IiwltOYm5r9XwyJz0_DknvmtpDUCqJqOHnqW0cEmK4EPD1MboRgQY0/s400/Mirrors+the+film.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5238936247348744450" border="0" /></a>I have a problem. I'm forgetful.<br /><br />I forget where I put my cell phone. I forget my key in the door. I forget where I've parked my car. I forget tickets at home. I forget that I hate Steven King novels. I forget that I don't actually like scary movies (psychological thrillers are good... horror with tons of blood and guts not so good).<br /><br /><br />The other day, I watched a movie with Desiree and Celi, <span style="font-style: italic;">Mirrors</span>. Bad. Icky. Really gross. Those kind of things put bad feelings in my stomach and I really don't know why I put myself through it.<br /><br />Yesterday, I watched an equally dissatisfying film on Lifetime (yes, I watch Lifetime). The difference between these two films was mostly that the Lifetime film wasn't as gross. There's no substance there, and I don't enjoy them.<br /><br />So why do I watch them?<br /><br />I wish I knew.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-24533014371578604742008-08-02T16:45:00.000-07:002008-08-02T23:57:25.053-07:00"Maybe Baby Daddy"Yesterday was a long day, to say the least. Knowing a little about babies and waiting for them to come, I packed some work, my laptop, food, two coffee drinks (I thought about getting Adam one, too, but decided that he didn't need one), a couple books and some cash. The boys were frustrated after twenty minutes. No joke. They seemed to think that the baby would just magically pop out. I tried to explain on the way there, on the way in, and while in the waiting room that it takes time. Adam simply said, "She better pop that bastard out."<br /><br />Five hours later, the doctor broke Jan's water. The boys went out to smoke just before it was time to push, and Mike volunteered the two of us to not stay in the room. While they smoked, I explained to Adam that he had to be in that room because if it is his baby, he'll regret not being there, if it is his baby, he'll have an amazing first memory of it, it'll look good to Jan's mom (who, at only six years older than him, was not impressed by his attributes) and he needs to be there to watch at least one of his kids be born. And he went in.<br /><br />I swear he came out, and he was excited. He was telling us about accidentally looking and about how big the baby is and it's feet and it's hands and his dark hair and how cute he is. One hour and he was hooked. The baby is adorable (and I swear it has his nose), but he's waiting until the paternity test comes back before he says anything official. At least, that's what he says.<br /><br />I tried to convince Mike that Adam wanted the baby to be his when he left. He wasn't convinced, but I think he is now. Mike and I went out with Celi and Eddie and Adam showed up later with baby pictures galore, telling everyone about his kid.<br /><br />He confided in Mike and I that he'll be disappointed if this kid isn't his - that he wants it to be his. Mike thinks he's on Cloud 9 (which he is a little bit), but it doesn't actually surprise me - from what I understand, men becomes fathers when they see the baby.<br /><br />He keeps talking about the baby's faces and how cute he is. He's even talking about how much it sucks to have to go to Iraq. You don't know how surprising that is unless you know him. In the first six months Mike and I dated, all I've heard Adam say was how excited he was to go back. Even recently, he was talking about how then he wouldn't have to deal with the situation.<br /><br />It's crazy to me what a complete turnaround he's had.<br /><br />Mike's worried. He's worried about what's going to happen if the baby's NOT Adam's... and there's that possibility. He has a point.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-33788503050616446742008-08-01T08:42:00.000-07:002008-08-01T09:03:41.387-07:00Everything's Broken and a Baby Will Be BornI'm pretty sure that everything in my house is broken. There are hornets in my backyard. The bigger of the two <a href="http://robinmariewords.blogspot.com/search?q=ali">peach trees</a> broke in half.<br /><br />Mike came over for dinner yesterday. Earlier, while I'd been grocery shopping, the door knob broke off in my hand. I couldn't open the door to fix it, so I took the doorknob with me. Later, Mike told me to use a screwdriver to open it. It worked, but I felt like an idiot. After dinner, he fixed it.<br /><br />I got the bright idea yesterday to <a href="http://robinmariewords.blogspot.com/2008/07/broken-toilet.html">fix the toilet seat</a>. Finally. I took off the old one, cleaned it off and stuck on the new one. It was a lot too small. So now there's no toilet seat. I bought a new one, but haven't had the time to put it on yet. And I'm not too thrilled about the new one I bought. They didn't have a lot of options for the elongated toilet seat, so... yeah.<br /><br />And I just got a phone call from Mike. <a href="http://robinmariewords.blogspot.com/2008/07/early-morning-disaster-control.html">His best friend</a>'s one night stand is in labor (we don't know if it's his kid or not) and he called up Mike and said, "Get your girlfriend down here. I need someone with me." Fortunately, they got out early today and Mike is coming by to get me. Mike seems to think the whole thing is amusing. So do I, actually. I hope this kid is Adam's. It would serve the fool right.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-79071878734609738452008-07-25T06:40:00.000-07:002008-07-25T06:56:39.542-07:00Cell Phone Dead<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjww5NvajQxlg3kLrON03e8tnnlEka7bUW5QFCe_KJ9t4r5jDDlYHYK1LP1nokfW8Gk-2WvJoACZVz9vQ1z3Sx0p6s7omB6fRRnf_-X1sMl5SfBi2yTPKuymtCjU6eAEpaii149CJM2AwQ/s1600-h/Cell+Phone.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 251px; height: 310px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjww5NvajQxlg3kLrON03e8tnnlEka7bUW5QFCe_KJ9t4r5jDDlYHYK1LP1nokfW8Gk-2WvJoACZVz9vQ1z3Sx0p6s7omB6fRRnf_-X1sMl5SfBi2yTPKuymtCjU6eAEpaii149CJM2AwQ/s400/Cell+Phone.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226949973273431842" border="0" /></a>Yesterday, I decided it would be a good idea to go swimming since I'd spent the last two hours typing away at my computer. I stepped out of the bathroom and my cell phone dropped, sending the back flying and ejecting the battery in the opposite direction. When I put it all back together, it wouldn't turn on. And if it did turn on, the screen was broken, so it doesn't count. Ahh, drama.<br /><br />I loved the conference yesterday, though. I've met tons of people (and will probably continue to meet more) and have had some very interesting conversations.<br /><br />I have a conference scheduled with an agent later. I'm so nervous I'm afraid I'm going to pee my pants. And in the meantime, I'm sipping a skinny caramel latte. This made me realize something: I don't like skinny lattes. If I'm going to be fat (which, it seems is inevitable), I'm going to eat the good lattes. Not the ones that taste bad... even if they are only 100 calories. Should have stuck with the hotel breakfast (but I had to go to Kinko's to print something off and it would have been over by the time I returned). Maybe I need to be more organized.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-68104901386074999832008-07-23T18:45:00.000-07:002008-07-23T18:56:15.579-07:00Getting What We Want: Not All It's Cracked Up to BeYou know how sometimes when you get the thing you want or were looking forward to, all of a sudden you don't know what to do with yourself? I've been having that recurring feeling all week.<br /><br />For instance, I finally got to Muncie for the <a href="http://www.midwestwriters.org/">writers conference</a> I've been looking forward to for months, but the moment I checked into the hotel, I realized something: it has been too long since I've lived alone. I don't know what to do with myself. I didn't have internet access at first and it drove me crazy.<br /><br />I just got a new freelancing job that I am soooooooo excited about. The moment my editor told me that he wanted the articles ASAP, I totally blanked, not sure what to write about. I mean, I knew what to write about, I just didn't know how to do it. That's never happened. My mind was a blank slate. Finally, after three tries, I finished the first of the articles. I don't love it. I'm not even sure I like it. I'll have to edit it tomorrow after the conference.<br /><br />I'm sure tomorrow I'll be so excited about the conference I'll have plenty to do. Besides, the schedules packed. And I'm sure that next month, I'll have plenty to write about - a whole month's worth of research instead of three days of research. Time makes a difference.<br /><br />Still, it makes me wonder how I can want something so much and be so completely surprised at getting it that my functionality drops below zero.Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9164665665646285745.post-74280279705244089862008-07-22T06:25:00.000-07:002008-07-22T06:34:45.879-07:00Broken ToiletSomehow, our toilet seat broke. So I bought a new one. I hate putting things together. I'm bad at it. So I'm neglecting it. I just have a feeling, though not as <a href="http://robinmariewords.blogspot.com/2008/05/some-assembly-required.html">complicated as the lawn mower</a>, it's still going to suck.<br /><br />I'd include a picture except you seriously don't want to see it. It keeps pinching. But seriously, what if I put it on wrong? Do you know how much that would stink? It might fall off. I do have a habit of <a href="http://robinmariewords.blogspot.com/2008/03/friday-night-drinks.html">things not working out quite the way I want</a> them to.<br /><br />I don't think I'm thinking straight. The last weeks have been a series of early mornings, late nights and a lack of sleep. And I have several articles to write.<br /><br />Hmm. Maybe I can convince the boy to do it for me????Robin Mariehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15310818329765077382noreply@blogger.com0