tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-26694436864485037802024-03-14T03:21:01.787-04:00Note to SelfMJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.comBlogger693125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-89454004042208179492014-09-19T09:52:00.000-04:002014-09-19T09:52:42.973-04:00Little Black DressToday, I will put on my funeral dress. Yes, I have a funeral dress. The last few years of my life have seen a good bit of family and friends taken from me, and at each occasion I found myself turning to the same black, knee length dress. Add the pearls and the tiny, black heels, and you have a perfectly appropriate outfit for mourning.<br />
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When I bought it, it was my favorite new "grown up" dress. As a short twenty-something, it is hard to find outfits that don't make me look like a flippant teenager or a child trying to dress too old for her age. But this was it. The perfect middle ground. Something that actually made me look <i>my age. </i>Praise, Ann Taylor and its petite section.<br />
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I'm not sure how it started. My guess is that I wore it out of lack of time to find something else, but I found myself wearing it to every funeral I attended. I put it on each time and psychologically let it bear the weight of my grief. Afterward I take it off, along with my sadness, and hang it in the guest room closet. I leave it there, so I don't have to be reminded of the loss it represents. I leave it there until, I need it to bear the weight of another sad day. Like today.<br />
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This will be the first police officer's funeral I will attend. In my heart, I hope to never see another day like this. But I know this is, sadly, unlikely. Each day I send my officer out to do his job, knowing <i>today could be the day</i>. But each day, you just pray like hell it isn't. Anyone who has ever lived this life understands this feeling. The ones that have not are the same people who ask me "Oh, did you know him?" No. I did not know him. I did not know his favorite foods or the names of his parents. I did not know what his favorite thing to do on his day off was. I did not know where he lived or even the date of his birthday. But I did <i>know</i> him. And I <i>know</i> his wife. And this is why I attend the funeral of our fallen brother.<br />
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Natalie Stahl, a police wife, wrote on the Facebook page of the Arizona Auxiliary of Wives Behind the Badge, Inc:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">When an officer dies, the question is always, “Did you know him?”, like somehow it can diminish the pain of a fallen officer if you had never met them. As the spouse of a police officer, I get that, as well – with an added, “Do you know his wife?”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">My response? Yes. I know her.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know that she finds herself alone a lot. I know she spends a lot of time explaining to family members, friends and co-workers why her officer husband is not with her. I know when someone asks what her husband does – she may have an alternative answer like ‘he works for the city (county or state)’ or ‘he’s a trash collector’, yet someone in the room always clarifies for her – he’s a cop.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know she probably has an alias on her social media profiles in case a suspect decides to find their arresting officer’s family. I know she’s proud of him and wants to put LE stickers on her car, but won’t because she’s worried about getting run off the road or targeted. I know she looks into every police car she pulls up next to. I know when he speaks to her in number code, she answers him in English.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know she cringes every time she hears the words “officer involved” and HATES the words “routine traffic stop”. I know she spends a lot of time defending her husband’s career choice and sometimes realizes that her silence is necessary. I know the justice system frustrates her, yet she relies on it anyway. I know that people feel it necessary to tell her of every contact they’ve had with LE – especially if it was bad, yet never seem to remember to tell her when they saw one do something nice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know she sleeps alone a lot, spends her birthday, anniversary and her children’s birthdays wishing he were there. I know “date nights” on Wednesdays are better than a Saturday every single time. And I know when on that date, he will have to sit facing the door.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know when they do get a chance to go out, she’ll let him drive so as to not have to hear about her “escape route” or recite portions of the traffic code. I know that he’ll always recognize someone somewhere that he’s arrested. I know they probably have a ‘code word’ that means grab the kids and head the other way – I’ll meet you at the car.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know when her children are little they are proud of their super hero. And as they grow into teenagers, they no longer offer what their dad does for fear it will make them unpopular. I know high school boys don’t want to date cop’s daughters.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know that she finds things in her washer that most people don’t have in their homes – from blue gloves to bullets – and thinks nothing of it. I know she’s picked a handcuff key out of her dryer more than once. I know she has learned to ignore the smell of his vest in July and buys Febreeze by the gallon. I know her biggest load of laundry is black (or tan or blue). And they’re usually washed separately to make sure that any bio-hazard he’s come in contact with doesn’t end up in the baby’s clothes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know that she wants him to eat better, but knows a ‘good day’ for him means more than one trip to QT. I know that she buys Tupperware by the case to store leftovers in hoping he’ll eat a ‘real’ meal when he gets home. I know she’s watched him age, his hair gray and the sunspots show up on his left arm and neck.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know she has a hard time scheduling vacations because shift change is coming. I know that when one of his brothers is hurt – his vacation time will probably get donated to him anyway. I know that when it’s his regular day off, he will probably still get called to court – even if he worked all night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know that a text message with two words – I’m okay – is like a sonnet or love song to most... especially when we see “breaking news” flash on our TV screens.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I know that her favorite sounds are the garage door and the sound of Velcro. He made it home safely. And I know she can tell by the sound of his boots on the floor whether or not to ask how his day was.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">And I know that even though she knew his job had risk, and officers are dying in the line of duty – she never TRULY believed it would happen to hers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Do I know her? Yes. Have I met her? No.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">But when I do – you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.</span></div>
</blockquote>
<i><b>Note to Self:</b> Original post by Natalie Stahl, <a href="https://www.facebook.com/ArizonaWivesBehindTheBadge/posts/542709279120855" target="_blank">here</a>. Rest In Peace, brother. We'll take it from here. </i>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-77503271139967784132014-09-16T16:12:00.002-04:002014-09-16T16:13:15.006-04:00Disney BingeIt has been a hard week. Several police shootings and line of duty deaths, shortly after which the piggy got called out on his first middle-of-the-night SWAT call, immediately throwing me into an anxiety attack at 1:30 in the morning. This was swiftly followed by Panther's sympathetic yacking on the floor, which distracted me enough to calm down. After cleaning up dog food-laiden vomit, I stayed awake for all but a few hours and then went to work. As luck would have it, I had the following two days off - one of which I spent nursing an over-exhausted piggy. The second day, I spent on the couch. Watching Disney movies. (Thank you, Netflix!)<br />
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Sure, all the saccharine sweetness of Disney movies is the same across the board - magic, love, cool animal sidekicks - but there is nothing like a good princess movie and some leftover mac and cheese to chase away the blues of an otherwise horrible week. Besides, I could use a little sweeping off my feet right about now. Or at least some wine and a nap.<br />
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So while my prince charming is off fighting dragons, I'll be here on the couch.<br />
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<i><b>Note to Self:</b> And maybe I'll have some ice cream. And pie. Lots of pie.</i>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-2399213324341476892014-09-11T13:00:00.000-04:002014-09-11T13:01:31.092-04:00The MomentToday is the day that Facebook will be inundated with posts about where people were on the day the airplanes hit the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. A sad day. A horrible day. You'll see a lot of "freedom isn't free" and "God Bless America" posts shared through Instagram.<br />
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What you won't see is a lot of posts about how people were changed by that day. <i>Really changed</i>. Thirteen years later, can we even be honest with ourselves about what we have learned? Is it just one more day out of the few in the year where we will put on our patriotic faces and don our flag pins? Meanwhile - for the rest of the year - we take our freedoms for granted, we ignore the needs of our veterans, we hate our police departments, and we neglect the budgets of our first-responders. We are so busy being politically correct that we are forcing ourselves to ignore what is truly harming us - who the true enemy is here.<br />
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So today, I ask you to reflect on not just where you were 13 years ago, but on how it <i>changed</i> you. And if it hasn't changed you, then perhaps you should think about why it should. Because it should change you. It should change all of us.<br />
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<i><b>Note to Self:</b> For me, the change was not immediate. It was when my husband became a police officer. And every year on this day, I think of the loved ones lost. Of the ultimate sacrifice. Of how my husband one day, any day, may be called to do the same.</i>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-19564457664065601602014-08-26T12:05:00.000-04:002014-09-11T13:03:25.583-04:00Dusting It Off*cough cough*<br />
[w<i>aves away the proverbial dust</i>]<br />
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I have been thinking about this blog for quite a few weeks. I have thought about reviving it several times over the past couple years. I even tried a few times with no success. I haven't had a lot of time on my hands. Or maybe it's just the order of my priorities that are different. I'm not sure.<br />
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I got a new job, but not before signing a contract for a year and a half of gym membership that was conveniently located to my previous job. Which is now about thirty minutes of extra driving time after work. The aforementioned job that I quit was the same job that had me move from my hometown, leaving behind a home that we could not sell. Still waiting on Bank of America to foreclose on that sucker. This new job... not super awesome. Better pay and more stable, but not as fun or fulfilling. And I had to leave behind the few people I considered friends that I got to see on a daily basis. Now I see them maybe twice a month for lunch or gym time.<br />
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This has been the story of my life for the past year. One depressing fact after another. It's hard to see the shining future from here. I know it's there, but MAN the tunnel is dark between here and there.<br />
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SO. I turn to something new. A new way of thinking. A new philosophy. Whatever you want to call it. It basically says: I'm going to do what I want, when I want, if I can. If it makes me happy, I will run wildly - arms flailing in the air - toward it, embracing it with all my strength and hanging onto it like I might die without it. At this point, I have to. I just have to.<br />
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So here I am. Dusting off my blog for the umpteenth time. Maybe I will be back for real. Maybe not. But my priorities are in a different line now. So I will find out if this makes me happy. If it does, I will be here more often. If not, then assume I am out doing something even more amazing.<br />
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That's all.<br />
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<i><b>Note to Self:</b> "Happiness depends upon ourselves." - Aristotle</i>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-30559494277017531552013-08-25T09:55:00.000-04:002013-08-25T09:55:14.384-04:00Customer Service<b>Dear Customer,</b><br />
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We haven't met, although you have accosted my management staff several times. From what I understand, you have tried to return some items you felt the need to hold onto for several months despite our 60 day return policy.<br />
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When my staff tried to accommodate you with an exchange or store credit at current value, you were having none of it. So, per usual, we gave you the customer service number, and you got hold of some poor guy there who you recounted your sad story too. He told you the policy and what we could offer, which seemed to appease you. What you did not tell him was that we did, in fact, also offer you what we could per policy. <i>Pants. On. Fire.</i><br />
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He told you to come back in, called my manager and told her the sad story too. Fortunately for me, my manager understands that anyone who calls customer service on my store is probably just a raving bitch or a compulsive liar. <i>You are both, ma'am.</i><br />
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You came back in, and we told you the same thing we told you before. Again. You screamed something about the guy from customer service - "He told me I am a 'valued customer'!" (<i>Hint: He tells everyone that.</i>) And back out the door you went, still with no refund to your liking.<br />
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You called customer service again. I'm sure by this time you thought you would have my job or something similar. Unfortunately for you, I had also been in contact with this nice man who overvalued you. I told him what I had offered you. To make my life easier, he also offered to send you a check to appease you, but you refused. No, you wanted to make sure you could torture every manager in my store one last time.<br />
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Except you never came.<br />
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And that makes me sad, because I so badly wanted to meet you for myself. Oh, and that guy who called you a "valued customer"? He also called you a "crazy lady" and authorized me to do anything to make you go away. Hope you're proud of yourself, since you've become nothing but an adult bully.<br />
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<i><b>Note to Self:</b> Maybe you should <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/matt-walsh/bad-customer-service_b_3799574.html" target="_blank">read this</a> if you feel you are constantly receiving bad customer service wherever you go.</i><br />
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<i><br /></i>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-14724302993327700802013-08-23T21:24:00.000-04:002013-08-23T23:22:01.090-04:00Starting OverThat's what I've done in every aspect of my life in the past year: new job, new friends, new city, new house, new life altogether. It's really taken a toll on me and my husband mentally, physically, and spiritually.<br />
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<i>Starting over.</i> Those words sound like a good idea most of the time, especially when you pair them with some other over-used phrases. <i>Clean slate. Fresh start.</i> Sounds so exciting and liberating, doesn't it?</div>
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No one ever tells you that trying to find a new hairdresser is so terrifying that you will practically have an anxiety attack every time this stranger runs a comb through your hair. I had been going to the same amazing woman for twenty years. She knew about every boyfriend I ever had, sent me to prom with the prettiest hair ever, and labored over me and all my bridesmaids on the day of my wedding. How can someone possibly fill those shoes? And don't even get me started on the horror of trying to find a new gynecologist. The thought of someone new poking and prodding my hoo-hah makes me nauseous.</div>
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Finding friends is even harder. It's like a strange interview process, where you have to balance being yourself and pretending to like things you really don't to get people to accept you. You will find yourself making goodies to win people over - obsessing over making the perfect frosting for your cupcakes. <i>It matters, dammit.</i> You have to be really careful too. Your mom always warned you about falling into the wrong crowd, and that still applies when you're an adult. Adult friends can be worse than middle-schoolers! You have your drama queens, attention-seekers, misery-loves-company types, annoying people, and just straight weirdos. Not to mention you will severely miss your old friends, who you will make every effort to see, but they will be just as busy as you.<br />
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There are some good things about living in a new place. No one knows us here yet, so it's really convenient to not find it necessary to put on makeup (or decent clothes really) to run errands. It's not like we have to worry about running into someone important. Plus, all that mass production of sweets has perfected my talent for baking. I can now make an amazing cheesecake and practically bake and frost cupcakes in my sleep. Moving means you get to purge old stuff and decorate a brand new place. It's also a good excuse to try out lots of new restaurants. Of course, that also means starting a new workout routine.</div>
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<i>Starting over.</i> It's been the most stressful thing I've ever done. But it's also been fun and exciting, especially since I have an amazing best friend to do it with. <i>Also, </i>I think<i>, what an interesting excuse to start writing again.</i></div>
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<i><b>Note to Self:</b> Do not take recommendations for restaurants from thin people.</i></div>
MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-86400903322074107022011-07-26T00:21:00.006-04:002013-08-25T09:55:36.650-04:00Why Retail RulesSo as many of you already know, I work in retail. I was promoted this past year to an Assistant Manager position in a kid's retail store. What many of you also know is that I have an MBA that may or may not be going to waste (my vote is "not"). What you may not know about is the general attitude the public has toward retail workers in general.<br />
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This is that: 1 - since we work in retail, obviously we could not hack it in the "real world" and had to settle for such a lowly job; 2 - that we must be uneducated since, yet again, this is the only job we could get; and 3 - we must be on an intellectual level somewhere between a country hillbilly with two first names and a wide-eyed, blonde college freshman whose biggest dilemma is which frat party to attend first. And yes, therefore, this was the only job that didn't involve too much "brain thinkun" or the use of heavy machinery that we could fall into.<br />
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Yeah, that definitely describes me.<br />
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Me. One first name. 3 diplomas with honors notations. Blonde by choice. Can insult you and you won't realize it for a few days. My whole being reeks of awesomeness. I work in retail. And there are many others like me.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnn9QZm43pf7lUmXD5gebpthyphenhyphenKHFRgkTFsnp1rz2hQlMp-GTjqgDVcmqNclsxJWB7VTroBhJxGzsGMlKG1Nnz9SAqvk3Gk4V4RxlEi3N9tuTVWwTXYx9IR2b4FIXKvE8iynMjmnStlP8/s500/defr.bmp" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHnn9QZm43pf7lUmXD5gebpthyphenhyphenKHFRgkTFsnp1rz2hQlMp-GTjqgDVcmqNclsxJWB7VTroBhJxGzsGMlKG1Nnz9SAqvk3Gk4V4RxlEi3N9tuTVWwTXYx9IR2b4FIXKvE8iynMjmnStlP8/s500/defr.bmp" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 175px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 267px;" /></a>I have had peers from school, old friends, distant family, and even professors from college who run into me and ask what I'm doing now. When I mention retail they immediately avoid eye contact, as if to ease the shame I should be going through for having to mention such a tragic turn in my life. Then when I tell them I have been doing it for several years <span style="font-style: italic;">by choice</span>, I almost always get the same reaction - "Don't you have a master's degree?" they ask, with a look of incredulity. "Why, yes!" I retort, excitedly. "My diploma makes lovely wall art! I mean it did cost me $20 thousand dollars, and I am hoping to pay off the loan for it just before <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> kids go to college!"<br />
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This is the part where they stare at me in shock with a look of <s>constipation</s> consternation. When they finally realize I will not avert my eyes in shame, they give up and slink away to find some other kid's dreams to crap on. (See how I did that? Two poop jokes in one paragraph! My degree did pay off!)<br />
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So here, dear blog friends, I will educate you on why a retail job (or at least my job) is awesome. I give you...<br />
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">The Tops 10 Reasons Why Retail Rules:</span><br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(10)</span> It is probably one of the most thankless jobs on the planet. But unlike policing or gator wrangling, you can make plenty of money at it to make up for all the lack of thanks. Because despite what you may think, I would much rather be handed a check than be thrown a parade.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(9) </span>It is one of the best first jobs anyone can have. Bring me your teenagers, and I will teach them what it's like to have to clean up after other people. They will also gain confidence, sense of self, and the patience to deal with stupid people.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(8)</span> Who doesn't like a ridiculously awesome discount? I get clothes for practically free. Suck on that, white collar job. I don't pay $200 for my work clothes. And speaking of clothes...<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(7)</span> Who doesn't like to wear comfortable clothes to work? No awful uniforms. No ties, skirts, pantyhose, blazers, or high heels. Jeans, a t-shirt, and flip flops will suffice. Am I going to work or is it my day off? Who knows! Sometimes even I can't tell!<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(6) </span>You become a freaking pro at folding clothes. Seriously. In twenty minutes, I can have over 600 units looking neat and pretty in 42 different stacks. The only downside is that at home you will want to hang every piece of clothing you own to avoid folding laundry.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(5)</span> The schedule can be amazing. Sure, nobody likes to work on the weekends when all your friends are off work, but having a random Tuesday off has got to be the best invention ever. No annoying kids at the movies, no obnoxious teens at the mall, and no lines at the grocery store.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(4)</span> You know the tricks of the trade. Like: who honors expired or missing coupons (or coupons that just plain don't exist in this dimension), who has the best sales going on, and which cookie place is going to finagle me a free cookie if I mention where I work and am really sweet and nice to them.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(3)</span> Retail is like a giant brotherhood. Working in retail can find you in the presence of some of the best friends and colleagues you will ever have. Kind of like being in the Army and serving together - if the enemy were the customer and you were fighting for control of the t-shirt table (later to be dubbed Mount Graphic Tee as it begins looking like a giant pile of clothes). And if you're really nice to your retail neighbors, they will even spot you some paper towels if yours mysteriously go missing.<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(2)</span> You get the altruistic satisfaction of knowing that you are selling someone something they probably really do need. And if you do a good job, you get the pride of knowing they will continue to come back to you (even if sometimes you wish they wouldn't).<br />
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And the #1 reason retail rules?<br />
<span style="font-weight: bold;">(1)</span> Headsets. We use them to ask the person hiding in the stockroom if we have that shirt in that size you need. We also use them to talk to each other about that ugly-ass dress you're wearing.<br />
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"Have a nice day, come back and see us!"<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> We also use our headsets to warn each other of shoplifters, do price checks, and discuss how we would beat the crap out of your screaming kid if he were ours.</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-33435508037951213322011-07-04T10:34:00.003-04:002011-07-04T10:51:40.476-04:00Independence Day<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.flashcoo.com/holiday/usa_independence_day_wallpaper_1440/images/USA_Independence_Day_wallpaper_2002.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 317px; height: 196px;" src="http://www.flashcoo.com/holiday/usa_independence_day_wallpaper_1440/images/USA_Independence_Day_wallpaper_2002.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Have you missed my Top 10 Lists?<br />Well, here is my Top 10 List for what the Fourth of July means to me:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />(10)</span> Many women wearing star-spangled bikinis, the majority of which should not wear bikinis to begin with.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(9)</span> A ridiculous amount of red, white, and blue images and paraphernalia. See example above.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(8)</span> Children all over America complaining about the burnt state of their hot dog, while their mother replies "You better eat it, there are starving children in China." Then let them eat it mom, sheesh.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(7)</span> Beer. Lots of beer.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(6)</span> The use of the hashtag #suckitalqaeda on my Twitter feed.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(5)</span> Some guy somewhere coming <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">this close</span></span> to blowing off a finger or two due to fireworks.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(4)</span> More beer and a missing appendage.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(3)</span> Facebook statuses and mass texts designed to make sure you in fact know that it's the Fourth of July and to remind you of why you should be grateful today... because of numbers 1-7, of course.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(2)</span> More prayers going up for our armed forces. And more prayers for our police officers because of the general stupidity they will encounter on this day due to number 4.<br /><br />And the number one thing the Fourth means to me is....<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">(1)</span> The sacrifice of many lives so that I can write this blog however I damn well please, and so I don't have to wear a burqa when it's freaking 100 degrees with 500% humidity...<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);">Happy Fourth bloggers!</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> Now on to the grilling, minus the charred black part.</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-26112110712918106772011-07-01T07:47:00.002-04:002011-07-01T07:49:27.569-04:00Slap-A-Moron Day Instructions<span style="font-family: georgia;">Here is a handy-dandy guide to tell if someone deserves to be slapped.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:85%;" ><span style="font-family: arial;">Instructions: To score for your slapee, simply circle the moronic infringements and add up their total Moronic Value (MV). It is recommended that you add up your total MV before the holiday on July 1st. That way you will have an adequate defense (or not) against someone who slaps you.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">People</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+8 if you are the President</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+7 if you are Jesse Jackson or Al Sharpton</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+6 if you are Charlie Sheen or Amy Winehouse</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+5 if you are some other, equally moronic celebrity</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Society</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever bragged about “sticking it to the man”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever sold your food stamps for cash</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+3 if you have a big screen tv, but your child sleeps on the floor</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you own a car that is more expensive than your government housing</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+5 if you have ever said the words “they owe me!” in reference to “the man”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+4 if every time you are pregnant, DFaCS calls you to draw up the paperwork</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Work</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever uttered the words “that’s not my job”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you have ever done something to help a coworker that really wasn’t your job</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you play office pranks on the boss, and he/she doesn’t laugh</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever been fired from a job for stealing </span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you constantly complain about your job, but aren’t looking for another one</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever thought partying during the week and then going to work hung-over was a good idea</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+4 if you believe you are an expert in your field, but you are paid less than $40,000 a year</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Home</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever used a mixer and turned it up too fast so that stuff goes flying everywhere</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever used a blender without the top on</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+3 if you don’t wash your sheets at least once a month</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you don’t vacuum at least once a month</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you have actually ever cleaned your windows</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever placed tinfoil in a microwave</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever placed tinfoil in a microwave more than once</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you know how to use a washer, dryer, and dishwasher</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever left the next bathroom user without toilet paper</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever left anything less than one cup worth of milk/juice in the container in the fridge</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Driving</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever driven while talking on a cell phone or texting</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever gotten into an accident while on a cell phone</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if your car gets less than 10 miles to the gallon</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever been in the fast lane and uttered “I am going fast enough!” regarding the people tailgating you</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever drank and drove</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+3 if you knew you were too drunk and drove anyway</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you have offered to drive a friend home when they were drunk</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-2 if you have ever fought the keys away from a drunk person so they wouldn’t drive</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Kids</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> (Those of you without your own progeny can skip this section)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have one (+1 point for each child)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you discipline your child when they do wrong (-1 point for each child)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever given in to something your child wanted because they threw a fit</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you have ever given in to something your child wanted because they were good and asked nicely</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+3 if you have ever simply allowed your child to scream in a restaurant/church/other public place</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-2 if you understand the weight of the threat of “Do you want to go to the bathroom/outside/to the car?”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have had to say “Don’t make me turn this car around/stop this car/come back there!”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you have, in fact, turned the car around/stopped the car/came back there</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+3 if you have ever not strapped a child into a car properly</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you think it’s a good idea to allow your 12-year-old to go clubbing</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you think it’s okay to buy your teenager beer because you will be able to “supervise” them</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever allowed being a cool parent outweigh being a good parent</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Language</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever actually talked in leet speak (Ex. OMG, WTF, BFF, I has a…)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you simply don’t know the difference between their, they’re, and there</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you don’t understand the difference between good and well</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you always use good and well correctly</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever claimed to know something when you didn’t</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you can use the words “I have no idea” without always feeling stupid about it</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you use the word “like” in every other sentence</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you say “I heart you” more than “I love you”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you are white, but consistently use white terms, like “fo shizzle”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have ever used the phrase “fixin’ to” instead of “about to”</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Pets</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you have a pet (+1 for each pet)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you at least make a good attempt at training them (-1 for each pet)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you dress them up</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you dress them with colors or outfits that denote a different gender than what your pet is (such as a male with a pink collar or in a “cute wittle dress”)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have their nails painted</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-2 if you take them to the vet at least once a year</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if they are neutered</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you don’t pick up after your dog</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have a medium to large dog and still don’t pick up after them</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+3 if you encourage your dog to poop in other people’s yards</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-family: arial;">Body</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever had a tattoo that once had a name on it, but then it had to be covered up later</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever had your thong showing above the top of your pants somewhere other than at home</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you don’t regularly wear your seatbelt</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-1 if you are known as the “seatbelt nazi”</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if your hair has ever been anything but a natural color (the only exception is if it was for costume use, such as a play or Halloween)</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+1 if you don’t at least pretend to put on sunscreen at the beach</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you complain about being overweight while eating something</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">-2 if you complain about being overweight while exercising</span><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">+2 if you have ever worn something revealing in public that you knew you shouldn’t have</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: arial;">Anything less than 20 is in the slap free range. Anything in the 20-40 range is punishable by one slap. Any score above 40 is subject to two slaps.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self</span>:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> I do not believe all pet owners or parents are morons simply for having them. I am simply stating that parents or owners who leave their children or pets to their own devices are, in fact, morons. This is why there are the deductions for proper training under each.</span></span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-20976018209181310542011-07-01T07:28:00.002-04:002011-07-01T07:39:29.960-04:00Happy Slap-A-Moron Day!<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Good morning! And welcome to the 4th annual <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Slap-A-Moron</span> Day extravaganza!</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://web-workathome.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/slap.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 194px;" src="http://web-workathome.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/slap.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Some notes for the holiday (beware the twisted use of the word "moron"):</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;font-size:85%;" >In Preparation</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Do</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> make a list of people of people you would like to slap. Make sure to start the list with people you would most like to slap and work your way down. That way you will get to the most important ones in case you run out of time or energy for slapping.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Don’t</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> plan to slap people who may have a huge weight in your future life or financial interest.</span> </span><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><br /><br />Proper Attire</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" >Do</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> wear gloves, slap bracelets, or simply have bare hands</span>. <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Don’t</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> wear brass knuckles, armor, boxing gloves, or any other attire that may be harmful to the slapee.</span></span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><br /><br />During Slapping</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Do</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> slap the face, arms, or other gender neutral zones. It is recommended to give a slap on the hand or wrist for young children.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Don’t</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> slap more than once. The only exceptions are if the person has a rather high level of moronicity – in which case, two slaps can be administered – or if the person avoids the first slap on purpose by running away – this automatically raises their one slap correction to two.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><br /><br />Proper Slapping Technique</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Do</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> slap open-handed, palm facing toward slapee. While facing the slapee, use one swift movement of the hand and arm to administer palm-to-face therapy.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Don’t</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> backhand, kick, punch, bite, or use any other technique for removing moron-ness other than the approved open-handed palm therapy as described above. Surprise slap therapy will not be tolerated.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><br /><br />After Administering Slap Therapy</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Do</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> tell your “patient” why they were slapped. Encourage them by telling them that the physical pain is for their own good. Remind them that further acts of moronicity will be followed by further therapy.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Don’t</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> slap someone and then run away like a sissy girl without explaining yourself to the slapee.</span> <span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><br /><br />Note to the Slapee</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Do</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> recognize that you have the right to slap the slapper back, if in fact they have exhibiting moronic behavior as well. Recognize that the slapper is doing you a favor by administering this therapy and that it is for your own good.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Don’t</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> simply slap the slapper back. Do not plan revenge on the slapper. Should you feel you were slapped for no reason, explain to the slapper why you feel this way. Should they have no reasonable explanation for why they slapped you, you reserve the right to slap the slapper twice in return – one time for retribution, and one time for them exhibiting moronic behavior for slapping you without proper reason.<span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br />Other</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Do</span> have first aid available in case of any accidental injuries<span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Don't</span> slap as hard as you can in order to injure someone. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br /><br />Do</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> have fun. It only lasts for one day, so make every slap count!</span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><br />Don’t</span><span style="font-family:georgia;"> take any of this seriously.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Make sure to check out the </span><a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://margeauxj.blogspot.com/2008/06/slap-moron-day.html">historic beginnings of Slap-A-Moron Day</a><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">, post your slapping conquests in the comments, and try not to do anything to get slapped!</span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Happy Slapping!</span><br /></span> <span style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Note to Self:</span> Keep in mind that you may be a "patient" for someone else, or even for yourself. Should you become aware that you have exhibited moronic behavior, give yourself a swift slap across the face to initiate your own behavioral correction.</span></span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-80056461753840169512011-06-26T07:40:00.000-04:002011-06-26T07:40:00.178-04:00Note to Idiot<span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear "husky" girl,</span><br /><br />See, my husband was nice enough to call you "husky" instead of "giant tub of whale lard". Although apparently that girl walking behind you out of the bar was rude enough to refer to your sea-mammal-like features, because you bitch-slapped her hard enough to actually knock her down. Don't get me wrong - she deserved it - but it probably wasn't smart to do it in front of a bunch of cops. For that, you got your very own note on my blog.<br /><br />Now put the beer down and switch to water.<br />And please never wear a tube-top again.<br />Much appreciated,<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">MJ</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> Also, no low-cut tops, short skirts, or anything with the word Spandex on the label. Thanks.</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-25278090617768475142011-06-25T20:57:00.008-04:002011-06-25T21:39:14.868-04:00CynicismSo not a whole lot has changed in the past year, except the cop and I both have gotten promoted since my "solongfarewell" blog post.<br /><br />For me, this means that I get the blessing of higher pay, benefits, and a 45 minute commute. For the cop, it means he got new patches and brass pins for his shirt, more people call him "sir," and he deals with "customer" complaints regarding his underlings. Oh and he also got what most of us with half a brain would call a swift punch in the gut, but which police departments mistakenly named a "raise". Huh.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.motifake.com/image/demotivational-poster/1106/smile-smile-cynical-smily-demotivational-posters-1308942022.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 398px; height: 302px;" src="http://www.motifake.com/image/demotivational-poster/1106/smile-smile-cynical-smily-demotivational-posters-1308942022.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>Starting to understand the title of this blog post?<br /><br />Yes, dear blog friends, I have become quite a cynical being. I think I felt it during the end of my last tenure here, and this is what made me feel that I had come to the end of my writing days. For certainly the old adage - <span style="font-style: italic;">if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all</span> - applied in this scenario. I guess it just took me about a year to realize I needed a good outlet for this ugliness so that it wouldn't spill over into my everyday attitude. And also the fact that.... well... <span style="font-style: italic;">it's my freaking blog, and I can write what I want, so there.</span><br /><br />So, no, I will never go back to my five posts a day like in the beginning. Unlike then, I in fact like my job. And while the everyday nonsense it is prone to present is precious blog fodder, I don't feel the need to waste time here instead of actually working. But hopefully the posts I do present to you will enlighten you to the life of MJ and her piggy hubby and that you will find some connection (or not) and have an emotional upheaval of sorts (or not). All I ask is that you keep me on my toes, kids. And put up with me calling you all "kids". It's kinda my thing.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" >And an FYI: The ultimate cynic's holiday is coming soon! I will be reviving <a href="http://margeauxj.blogspot.com/2008/06/slap-moron-day-faqs.html">Slap A Moron Day</a> for your slapping pleasure on July 1st, 2012!</span> <span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">TELL YOUR FRIENDS!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> The next post will be the ultimate cynical piece of writing, in the classic style of </span>Note to Self<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Can you handle it?! Maybe.</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-16741781679836282672011-06-12T22:24:00.014-04:002014-09-16T14:39:58.553-04:00As Time Goes By...A whole lot has happened since my last post here at "Note to Self," so here is a nice updated profile for my long-lost blog buddies as well as any newcomers who may drift by. (To see my old profile from when I first started, look <a href="http://mjnotetoself.blogspot.com/2007/09/first-day.html">here</a>.)<br />
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I am driven back to blogging by the strange call of the blogging world. Among these posts, you will find knowledge often beyond your understanding - mostly because I made it up, and I'm probably a little insane. In fact, I'm pretty sure I need medication. And if you find yourself nodding endlessly to my ramblings, you probably need medication too.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBy5ZxcXMvjGU_EQ_Lkcuq5f-tSUkQC7JMZ6lrvbCLUGJM3PTZtT2Ptj3b6ueSzkQb6AGzJFL7_jyEkjNsGVOaIwNgP7jtWIuodat9Pg1Yvxv4E_MhPyUCLHmxdR_sbLvVDlZe7XMMBV4/s1600/100309-0011.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBy5ZxcXMvjGU_EQ_Lkcuq5f-tSUkQC7JMZ6lrvbCLUGJM3PTZtT2Ptj3b6ueSzkQb6AGzJFL7_jyEkjNsGVOaIwNgP7jtWIuodat9Pg1Yvxv4E_MhPyUCLHmxdR_sbLvVDlZe7XMMBV4/s200/100309-0011.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617535382413921138" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 134px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /></a>I am still short and sweet, only maybe I have lost some of the sweet in the past year.<br />
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Armed with an MBA, I work tirelessly as a manager in retail, and I love every freaking minute of it. (Mostly because it provides me with so much good material.)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LI1H0TcqBuEP7MPhXVllc6sgK4LgzT17v4Ms92rqFHidmHt53_7HNyTVc6oEed1GtCjqjCttqwFtiI2PxcJ-Uc_cLGYHAMcR9T5i7tbxfeWsyPVVk_Qw9zhMi8WcQugQd4hX-DWl1A8/s1600/100309-00692.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6LI1H0TcqBuEP7MPhXVllc6sgK4LgzT17v4Ms92rqFHidmHt53_7HNyTVc6oEed1GtCjqjCttqwFtiI2PxcJ-Uc_cLGYHAMcR9T5i7tbxfeWsyPVVk_Qw9zhMi8WcQugQd4hX-DWl1A8/s200/100309-00692.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617538903949815490" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 133px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>I am still hopelessly devoted to a man with a badge and a gun, only now I get to call him "Sarge" when he ticks me off.<br />
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I still own tons of shoes, but most of them are now flats instead of heels. I also still have my trusty .38 detective special.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8e0YpEU0htyEzGK5zcjMbZ3dT7JNrM9cMRA3wT5GnCn0ewiGfhLP2QZdWofLDe-8w3W2EpC1c3ZozYr2b7uuQHQiTBmSgyWLypFtWn5HTU65L6JI-HXXf0W91MFUSD-1ab-Rg99pHA3A/s1600/DSC_0705%2521_resize.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8e0YpEU0htyEzGK5zcjMbZ3dT7JNrM9cMRA3wT5GnCn0ewiGfhLP2QZdWofLDe-8w3W2EpC1c3ZozYr2b7uuQHQiTBmSgyWLypFtWn5HTU65L6JI-HXXf0W91MFUSD-1ab-Rg99pHA3A/s200/DSC_0705%2521_resize.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617538734576353026" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 194px;" /></a>My one fuzzy baby somehow turned into 3 hairy teenagers. Panther, the 4 .lb Yorkie, is joined by Bear, the 90 .lb German Shepherd, and Maya, the most loving (and needy) lab mix we will ever rescue. As a unit, they are known as "the kids" or "El Destructo".<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA__ukvxaONdA9xRTIxK_frMl6gwmP4Nff5oZtg_rRMrrDuVIN2ae_g__KxziIu9E2NMCVq6upzsMHUvPBCqydS8gpFffUkm-I2uAba4i9PZSYh5zjESeEK9utMSxHh9Wjr-A-kPzTs5s/s1600/BathDay+00007.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA__ukvxaONdA9xRTIxK_frMl6gwmP4Nff5oZtg_rRMrrDuVIN2ae_g__KxziIu9E2NMCVq6upzsMHUvPBCqydS8gpFffUkm-I2uAba4i9PZSYh5zjESeEK9utMSxHh9Wjr-A-kPzTs5s/s200/BathDay+00007.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617537949256248002" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 134px; margin: 0 0 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>And as always, I still don't care if you don't like what I have to say. If I upset you, don't go away mad... just go away. Debate is encouraged here. Anything beyond that, and you will be labeled properly with either "troll" or "bored middle school child".<br />
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<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span><span style="font-size: 100%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 100%;">Glad to be back...</span><br />♪</span><span style="font-size: 85%;"><span style="font-size: 78%;">♪</span>♪</span><br />My revolver has a first name, it's B-E-S-S-Y.</span><span style="font-style: italic;">My revolver has a second name, it's C-O-L-T-Y.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />I keep her with me every day,<br />And if you ask me "why?" I'll saaaaaaaaay... </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />'Cause Bessy sure does have a way of keeping me safe every day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 78%;">♪</span>♪<span style="font-size: 85%;">♪</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-78814705371071369072011-06-10T19:53:00.003-04:002011-06-10T20:19:34.287-04:00Back By Popular Demand<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xAsTUq8aam0ij28Yb020xC_-rYxJfdeMtfC6GxugsyNQYoXztbo9OAsiVql_jRifqVZM9g03x8sL3gsGA8s9E8Ke1TlolJL-bks2EBysFlfU-ZRgovo90-kbDlceBz-0b8jjBB6daag/s1600/pencilbanner.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 318px; height: 83px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_xAsTUq8aam0ij28Yb020xC_-rYxJfdeMtfC6GxugsyNQYoXztbo9OAsiVql_jRifqVZM9g03x8sL3gsGA8s9E8Ke1TlolJL-bks2EBysFlfU-ZRgovo90-kbDlceBz-0b8jjBB6daag/s320/pencilbanner.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5616749818321476786" border="0" /></a><br />I have thought about it, thought about it, and thought about it some more. I have agonized over it, conversed with friends about it, sought the guidance of an attorney, had my palms read, and even asked dear Panther what he thought (Side note: He hates anything that takes attention away from him.). All signs point to a revival of <span style="font-style: italic;">Note to Self</span>, and I don't mean the fire-and-brimstone church kind of revival. I guess it would be more like a paramedic trying to resuscitate a person after they fell 50 feet from the top of a roof onto the hard gravel-y ground below... if that pretty-much-dead body had been laying there for almost a year.<br /><br />Ahhh, but here I am, blowing into the mouth of my stinky, cold blog and pumping its chest with reckless abandon, all the while screaming, "LIVE, DAMMIT, LIVE!"<br /><br />Now to go out and find all my blogosphere friends that I abandoned so long ago. I hope you are all still out there.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> Did you miss me?</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-16539397115200835482010-08-07T12:26:00.005-04:002010-08-07T12:45:43.964-04:00This is not goodbye...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs6/i/2005/064/c/0/Beating_A_Dead_Horse_by_livius.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 77px; height: 45px;" src="http://fc01.deviantart.net/fs6/i/2005/064/c/0/Beating_A_Dead_Horse_by_livius.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a>Alright, alright. I'm letting it die.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear blogfriends,</span><br /><br />While I have enjoyed these few years with you, hopefully entertaining you some of the time, it is time. It is time to let my blog go. While I have tried to hang on to some semblance of writing here, I just can't afford the time it takes to truly commit to this blog what it deserves.<br /><br />So as I sign off, I want to thank my loyal readers who have stuck by me so long. You have laughed and cried with me. You have blog-a-thon-ed with me and donated. You have listened to me rant and rave. You have debated and agreed with me. You have read and responded. It has meant a lot to me, and I will miss you. I will stick around the blogosphere, however, visiting my blog roll whenever possible to keep up with you.<br /><br />I have taken up an account at Twitter should you like to follow my shorter version of my blog, @mjnotetoself. Perhaps I should see this as a blessing. It is a blessing to have loved something so much that it makes it hard to let it go.<br /><br />...just until we meet again.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">MJ</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Note to Self: </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">May love and laughter light your days, </span> <span style="font-style: italic;">and warm your heart and home.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">May good and faithful friends be yours,</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">wherever you may roam.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">May peace and plenty bless your world</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">with joy that long endures.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">May all life's passing seasons</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">bring the best to you and yours!</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-40802416077262163622010-07-04T18:33:00.005-04:002010-07-04T18:38:33.093-04:00Beer, Hotdogs, and Exploding ThingsY'all have a safe weekend and take a few seconds to remember why we celebrate Independence Day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.freewebs.com/stives1111/Happy%204th%20Of%20july%20Animation.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 352px; height: 263px;" src="http://www.freewebs.com/stives1111/Happy%204th%20Of%20july%20Animation.gif" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> And try to make it through to Monday with all appendages attached.</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-25626226011685092282010-06-27T12:38:00.005-04:002010-06-27T13:44:21.987-04:00Happy Birthday To Me...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAemYqzdpHPwhcRG2Jwz8wDx-EMwtganhkfCsxtdu44A7sn5Djy2S70yfcuHVRA_eMslif281nClwbVwCrP-05swWuFVuQSuUotvJcB7VbzeEVcQ5xyZ6qP0a-kAjYOuO7PmNLTj0fJQI/s1600/birthday-cupcake.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAemYqzdpHPwhcRG2Jwz8wDx-EMwtganhkfCsxtdu44A7sn5Djy2S70yfcuHVRA_eMslif281nClwbVwCrP-05swWuFVuQSuUotvJcB7VbzeEVcQ5xyZ6qP0a-kAjYOuO7PmNLTj0fJQI/s320/birthday-cupcake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5487510710001458050" border="0" /></a>Y'all (as we say in the South),<br /><br />Turning 25 is such an interesting feeling. It's not particularly a noteworthy age, other than the fact that I can now rent a car and hopefully my car insurance will go down (thanks to my sister-in-law for reminding me of that positive note...).<br /><br />While, this year's anniversary of my birth is not particularly a hullabaloo in itself (the cop is on patrol today, and most of my friends, I suppose, are occupied elsewhere), it is a nice day to simply be still and reflect on how far I have come and how much I have learned over the years.<br /><br />While I don't consider myself a super-successful business woman by any means, I am quite over-educated AND I have a job, which has to count for something. I have managed to keep my weight down in the past decade, as well as learned to love my body (not an easy goal to reach). And while I haven't necessarily held onto my skills as a dancer (although pirouettes still come naturally), I am thankful that I managed to retain the strength and grace of one.<br /><br />I have overcome many fears, including heights, being alone, and spiders. I have found that I don't need other people to make me happy, but that it doesn't hurt to have a nice companion on life's journey. While my husband is my best friend, there is also nothing like an non-opinionated canine to love you unconditionally too.<br /><br />I own and can shoot a revolver, I can sew buttons and hems, I can bake like no one's business, and I can drive like a bat out of hell (safely, of course). I'm no stranger to HTML and aperture settings, and I can run in a pair of high heels. I've learned to love coffee and beer, both in moderation, and not necessarily at the same time.<br /><br />I'm slightly addicted to Facebook and watching <span style="font-style: italic;">Glee</span> on Hulu as time allows, but I love a good sunset and a glass of wine, especially when it's shared with someone else. I've found there is nothing like the feeling of kayaking over swift rapids; or the feeling of a new pair of jeans; or even the feeling of a cold puppy nose waking you up in the morning.<br /><br />People I have met or known have overwhelmingly changed me for the better. Through friendship, teaching me to live; through deception, teaching me to be discerning; through love, teaching me to love; through hardship, teaching me to persevere; through support, teaching me to be strong; through hurt, teaching me to forgive; through God, teaching me to be humble; through loss, teaching me to let go; through the worst, teaching me to appreciate the best.<br /><br />I can scrapbook my entire life in photos. But the best memories I have cannot be described in pixels or words. They are made up of ideas, laughter, and warm fuzzy feelings that are permanently etched into who I am - events and people who added so much more to me than I could ever give in return. Even memories of mistakes, sadness, and hurt cannot overshadow the good and eventually fade into oblivion as I age and my brain makes room for more good to come.<br /><br />Here's to the journey to 26,<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">MJ</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-65773881617276629732010-06-21T14:18:00.005-04:002010-06-21T14:43:16.968-04:00A.D.O.S.That is, Attention Deficit.. Oh, Shiny!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXLu-yssvXggUGerRAclkYQ448NzMnS98PasasEttNTpcTGF8Blo_z3xQcnzAMeQMOMuPM57J4tNesRoHNzlk5axSkIUUC9yk5zd9bYCTRC93GxwRAeFfaTy98suBWk51ZkRvHLfUcTU/s1600/ADD.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 232px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGXLu-yssvXggUGerRAclkYQ448NzMnS98PasasEttNTpcTGF8Blo_z3xQcnzAMeQMOMuPM57J4tNesRoHNzlk5axSkIUUC9yk5zd9bYCTRC93GxwRAeFfaTy98suBWk51ZkRvHLfUcTU/s320/ADD.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5485299179607426770" border="0" /></a>That's me. I have always been the skeptic when it came to Attention Deficit Disorder, thinking that such a lack of focus was more attributed to a lack of discipline and motivation than a serious problem.<br /><br />Just in the last year, however, I have been finding myself more and more distracted, unable to focus on one thing at a time, and simply frustrated. My frustration led to me not only leaving projects incomplete, but rarely even starting them at all, knowing the outcome would be ultimately failure to complete it.<br /><br />This affected a lot of the things in my life - work, relationships, home projects, and even my writing. Something as simple as finishing the laundry would take me days rather than hours, because I wouldn't be able to focus long enough to finish.<br /><br />I also had serious trouble with multi-tasking. If I started something, it took all my effort to complete it right then. If I should leave something undone to work on something else, I would never return to the first project. And if I was having to focus on one specific task, I had to ignore everything else. I might not even remember full conversations if I was trying to focus on a task at the same time.<br /><br />My frustration with these problems led me to be more emotional than I knew was healthy. The smallest setback would ultimately lead me to tears or outrage. Absolutely something had to give.<br /><br />After quite a few conversations with friends and family, I talked to my doctor about my problems. She prescribed me Adderall. Within the first week, I could tell the difference. I felt like a fog had been lifted from my brain, like I was finally awake after long sleep.<br /><br />I have completed a long list of To-Dos in just the past few weeks that have been there for months. I feel motivated and ultimately successful at the end of the day. I have had to prioritize my goals, starting with the ones at home, moving to work, and then ultimately to everything else.<br /><br />I feel better about writing. I can sit down and do it. Just let me whittle down my To Dos, and I will get back here. Are you still there?<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> There are days I feel the need to put my blog out of its misery, but I won't give up just yet!</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-32693618197524382932010-06-11T15:29:00.009-04:002010-06-11T15:44:49.995-04:00NPWA Silent AuctionStarting this Monday, June 14, the National Police Wives Association will be hosting a Silent Auction to benefit one of our members and her family. Her husband was recently shot in the line of duty, but he is expected to make a full recovery. This is every police wife's nightmare, but it is a reality we simply live with every day.<br /><br />You can find out more about the silent auction on the NPWA Blog at <a href="http://www.npwablog.blogspot.com/">www.npwablog.blogspot.com.</a> A giant "THANK YOU" to Helen from <a href="http://hallienoves.blogspot.com/">Random Bits</a> (also a fellow NPWA member) for putting together this auction.<br /><br />All auction items were donated by NPWA members and include everything from hand knit baby booties to DVD box sets. <span>Even I haven't seen the list of all the items yet, but I'm sure they will be awesome! </span>Feel free to pass on this auction information to everyone you know as well!<br /><br /><span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Note to Self:</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> To learn more about NPWA, go to <a href="http://www.nationalpolicewivesassociation.org/">www.nationalpolicewivesassociation.org</a>. </span><br /></span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-88939753025090593952010-06-11T15:23:00.003-04:002010-06-11T15:37:02.818-04:00O.M.G.Okay first of all, I hate the use of "oh-em-gee" as an exclamation, but I find myself using it more and more online - possibly because it's just so darn easy to use. Short and simple and gets the point across. When I hear it actually come out of a teenagers mouth, however, I generally feel the need to slap them... for their own good, you understand.<br /><br />I use it today to mark the myriad of events I have failed to chronicle in the last few weeks. I mean, May just completely disappeared, and June seems to be getting pulled right out from under my feet!<br /><br />I have missed the BP oil spill, the flooding in Nashville, and I have barely commented on healthcare this year or any other of Obama's bright ideas. *sigh* Falling down on the job, I guess. But you already knew that, dear followers.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> As usual, I will promise to write more often and keep you informed on the awesome(ly boring) goings-on of my simple life.</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-78912405174479629732010-04-21T14:40:00.004-04:002010-04-21T15:20:12.090-04:00A Star is BornDid I tell you about the time that <a href="http://margeauxj.blogspot.com/2008/09/panthers-daily-schedule.html">Panther</a> was a big star?<br /><br />NO? What a shame. OK, here goes:<br /><br />A while back, my friend <a href="http://www.colbymarshall.blogspot.com/">Colby</a> approached me with an interesting proposition. She was helping to choreograph a production of The Wizard of Oz... and they seriously needed a Toto. While, yes, the original Toto was a Cairn Terrier, Cairns are much larger and heavier than anything you would ever want to have to carry around in a basket for three hours. And considering stage actors don't have the privilege of "taking five" between scenes like screen actors, they opted to try to find a much lighter canine for the job.<br /><br />Enter Panther - the five pound Yorkie with dreams of stardom and the personality of a diva. Colby ferried him back and forth to rehearsals and worked as his acting coach, trainer, and agent simultaneously. After smoothing out some logistical concerns, we grew his hair out a bit, and he took up a little more space on the stage than he otherwise would have.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VsHuUwoK-DyXxhDP1l5elyG6AG30mFL3P0lncuomH4J7an5vUESHWaDcuxDG6T9s2GGOPTi91ynNqfzx7lyOMQEzADuAjVsPY10tnSU0zBmmT0K42Q_Wcfw1MTySmc0fAJG6pRGaSYA/s1600/IMG_3283.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8VsHuUwoK-DyXxhDP1l5elyG6AG30mFL3P0lncuomH4J7an5vUESHWaDcuxDG6T9s2GGOPTi91ynNqfzx7lyOMQEzADuAjVsPY10tnSU0zBmmT0K42Q_Wcfw1MTySmc0fAJG6pRGaSYA/s320/IMG_3283.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462666743338798210" border="0" /></a>A few hotdogs, pictures, and "awwww"s later, and we had a hit on our hands. The only challenge was figuring out how to keep the "munchkins" from wanting to pet him all the time. After a couple nights in the spotlight, Toto returned to just being good ol' Panther... although his ego had been turned up quite a bit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnbB7Q-QQYIesrhYVMe3fqe1EMoRndSbP1cuTRizWPKYa87Ev-iUa2ZHtTLZ_7X-_GEAyY3QY7q-AmamsL9AjBS5-jtNLHKjcHEjCmPW31eLtxFWqUoiWIeQLqmQ7Wnp6eO98CFJJxkI/s1600/IMG_3287.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZnbB7Q-QQYIesrhYVMe3fqe1EMoRndSbP1cuTRizWPKYa87Ev-iUa2ZHtTLZ_7X-_GEAyY3QY7q-AmamsL9AjBS5-jtNLHKjcHEjCmPW31eLtxFWqUoiWIeQLqmQ7Wnp6eO98CFJJxkI/s320/IMG_3287.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5462667995692219586" border="0" /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> Even at a mere five pounds, Dorothy's arm was ready to fall off at the end of each performance from carrying Panther around for hours. Now she knows how I feel when I take him shopping.</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-3734326486802533802010-04-13T10:58:00.005-04:002010-04-13T11:22:31.633-04:00National Police Wives Association<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiMsxasOCIUg06cck9Xs5MsYZ5LkzzkbAXER5g6t6MoEHlqqbBIXyPlVAtaBWTBK-fMhIMp1iUAOh9kbeMJENTy01rtkz3eoFlQB-6nmabdCnEnLaqdKkKvuw3ni5FfNbxG1jlnOvV2g/s1600/motocop.gif"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 191px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHiMsxasOCIUg06cck9Xs5MsYZ5LkzzkbAXER5g6t6MoEHlqqbBIXyPlVAtaBWTBK-fMhIMp1iUAOh9kbeMJENTy01rtkz3eoFlQB-6nmabdCnEnLaqdKkKvuw3ni5FfNbxG1jlnOvV2g/s320/motocop.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459640439729322322" border="0" /></a>NPWA has a new blog! I moved it over to <a href="http://npwablog.blogspot.com/">npwablog.blogspot.com</a>. I hope you will run over there every now and then and check out the awesome things going on with NPWA, or even become a follower. I put a handy-dandy new link over in my sidebar for easy access. >>><br /><br />Police Week is coming up in the month of May, so I'm challenging my readers to find a way to thank their local law enforcement for all they do. Being a police wife, I see first hand what a thankless job it can be. A simple note of "thanks" makes a huge difference in the self-esteem of our officers.<br /><br />Or, you can simply donate to or shop at a police related organization. Here are a few:<br /><ul><li>The National Law Enforcement Officer's Memorial Fund: <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.nleomf.org">www.nleomf.org</a></li><li>Concerns of Police Survivors: <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.nationalcops.org">www.nationalcops.org</a></li><li>The National Police Wives Association: <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.nationalpolicewivesassociation.org">www.nationalpolicewivesassociation.org</a></li><li>Cops Alive: <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.copsalive.com">www.copsalive.com</a></li></ul><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> Personally, I will be supporting my local law enforcement by feeding them. Menu coming soon....</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-89641196205735184762010-04-04T07:56:00.000-04:002010-04-04T07:56:00.788-04:00Hoppy Bunny Day!Hope you get lots of chocolate in your basket!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUQWjkMkMtIYqXK2_sFs5TUF2IbNI1LLyG3q0N-L4_3hMizTX5oaHES9Oh20iMwCLt82NEdfFfIDYkjBZZttX0v80dxXi-ijjJoQxipj1TVg0byR6SJGutVFqA_ZIDxizCvVyk6-JKJE/s1600/happy-easter1.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 270px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguUQWjkMkMtIYqXK2_sFs5TUF2IbNI1LLyG3q0N-L4_3hMizTX5oaHES9Oh20iMwCLt82NEdfFfIDYkjBZZttX0v80dxXi-ijjJoQxipj1TVg0byR6SJGutVFqA_ZIDxizCvVyk6-JKJE/s320/happy-easter1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5456064805175755906" border="0" /></a>(Or whatever it is that you're into...)<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> Personally, I would like some stilettos in my basket...</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-53780833096259776382010-03-26T00:37:00.000-04:002010-03-26T00:37:00.716-04:00PrioritiesHere's another great photo capture by the cop. And yes, he recognized it as an old patrol car from his department.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RAs5gwxJANmRqEpyxkMEMsukoXQZuEW2cJLgGEhzDQ3AFz2fXHGaQ1enQ4QtnJEIPTOC5H3S3MyV540GzIxNHueaK_BdkCDslcsE2fbZ1ADCPS8IcoasCeDjMQmVZDkGA8yV5Gb_kvM/s1600/where+police+cars+go+to+die.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8RAs5gwxJANmRqEpyxkMEMsukoXQZuEW2cJLgGEhzDQ3AFz2fXHGaQ1enQ4QtnJEIPTOC5H3S3MyV540GzIxNHueaK_BdkCDslcsE2fbZ1ADCPS8IcoasCeDjMQmVZDkGA8yV5Gb_kvM/s320/where+police+cars+go+to+die.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452596705029715090" border="0" /></a>He titled this photo "Where Police Cars Go to Die"<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> Notice the crappy apartments in the background.</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">But he has a custom paint job AND rims!</span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2669443686448503780.post-42470222362857497062010-03-25T11:05:00.003-04:002010-03-25T11:34:54.421-04:00Anti-FuneralHave I ever told you how much I hate funerals? And I don't just mean that I dislike them - I assume most people don't like them, considering the subject matter - but I actually HATE them.<br /><br />I went to a visitation last night, for the mother of a very good high school friend. The woman who had died had a lifelong battle with breast cancer. She was a kind, generous woman. One of those moms who was a second "mom" to a lot of kids, including me. So, it was heart-wrenching to see her lying there in an open casket (what is the POINT of these things???), and I had a hard time knowing what to say to the family, to my old friend.<br /><br />All the cliche things come to mind - "Oh, she looks so good!" "She's not hurting anymore." "She's singing with the angels/hanging out with Jesus now!" But really, none of these phrases mean anything. And seriously, who wants to comment on the physical state of a corpse?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY66yY7-_C_d_8hWDVxDhXuYqvdO_J5eJ36XXPO_BO41q2soDLG4XzVdPj2ZEEva7N1WDgAV1707Rr6Ap5OWRJlYUS0p8CYUtFeYooXm-NhxMnCr_sxeWuzo2JySBHqyE_tp6Oau48Oqg/s1600/casket.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 290px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY66yY7-_C_d_8hWDVxDhXuYqvdO_J5eJ36XXPO_BO41q2soDLG4XzVdPj2ZEEva7N1WDgAV1707Rr6Ap5OWRJlYUS0p8CYUtFeYooXm-NhxMnCr_sxeWuzo2JySBHqyE_tp6Oau48Oqg/s320/casket.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452595103640052258" border="0" /></a>No. I have real hurt for this family. I just said I had been thinking about them and to "hang in there." Just about the time I started tearing up was when I knew it was time to leave. Why add more tears to a family's suffering? I know if it were my mother, I wouldn't want a bunch of teary-eyed outsiders getting me all soggy and making me even more upset than I already am.<br /><br />Besides, death makes me extremely uncomfortable. Like maybe they should write a book of etiquette for funerals and visitations - perhaps, a book of comforting sayings for the family of the deceased and the Dos and Don'ts of funeral attire. Seriously, are we supposed to wear black or not? And every time I see someone in jeans or overalls, I want to find their mother and slap them for not teaching them better. Even here in the South, we know to wear our church-going clothes to honor the dead.<br /><br />I guess none of us really likes to be reminded of our mortality, or of the shortness of our visit here on earth. We don't like to see that our parents are beginning to look and act a lot like our grandparents were when we were younger. I think I like to live with the least amount of these reminders. Maybe that makes me a cynic, or maybe that makes me more human.<br /><br />I'm not sure.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Note to Self:</span> It probably doesn't help that the cop wants "Another One Bites the Dust" played at his funeral. Either that's really really funny, or really sacrilegious. </span>MJhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15508596301640968425noreply@blogger.com5