tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-369294312024-03-07T18:01:19.114-05:00Charlotta's got a lotta thoughtsFrom Paris to Athens...all without a passport.Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.comBlogger279125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-17417778754086426242012-02-22T21:59:00.001-05:002012-02-23T14:03:01.458-05:00Dang You, T9I don't have a <a href="http://charlotta-love.blogspot.com/2011/05/being-smart-smarts.html">smart phone </a>- still. This means my phone texts are with the T9, or predictive text, option turned on. If a set of numbers spells more than one word, my phone picks one unless I specify otherwise. For instance, the words ME and OF use the same keys. If I don't proofread, I might send a message saying something like, "Will you email <b>of </b>the notes from class today." I've learned to proofread all my texts carefully. I usually discover these fun little word swaps on accident, mostly by texting someone and them responding with a "HUH???"<br />
<br />
Just a few examples:<br />
ME/OF<br />
IF/HE<br />
EAT/FAT<br />
HOME/GOOD/GONE<br />
MOVIES/MOTHER<br />
SPICY/PSHAW (pshaw? Really, T9???)<br />
ANOTHER/COOTIES (Yep, and somehow the default is 'cooties'.) <br />
<br />
Now, there is a fantastic hike in Georgia, one of my favorites, called Panther's Creek. I told a friend about it and he was very interested in going. We decided on a weekend and I went to text him the details of the hike. I bet you didn't know this, and I obviously didn't, but the word 'panther' uses the same keys on my phone as 'panties'. Oh yeah, you see where this is going.<br />
<br />
Me: okay, hiking this weekend, <b>panties</b> creek<br />
He: Panties Creek, huh. Sounds like there will be hiking one way or another: either we hike it, or it hikes us...<br />
<br />
Thank you, T9, for <b>cooties </b>embarrassing text.Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-13796305240757111582012-02-22T19:09:00.000-05:002012-02-22T19:09:32.736-05:00A Tale of Last YearIt was the best of times, it was the worst of times. <br />
<br />
I haven't blogged for over a year. So much has happened. Some were the best of things and some were the worst. Something funny would happen followed by something sad and I never quite knew how to start this blog up again.<br />
<br />
So, I just going to start. No promises on how many times I will write and no telling if it will just be the funny side of life. It will be, as the name suggests, my thoughts. I've got a lotta catching up to do. <br />
<br />
~CharlottaCharlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-66817412284601892582011-05-21T17:30:00.000-04:002011-05-21T17:30:28.481-04:00Being Smart SmartsI have spent this past week looking for a summer job. I finally broke down and went to a temp agency. As part of the application process, I had to write a paragraph about my most recent experience with technology using 100 words or less. I decided I would write about my new purchase of a smart phone even though I decided to return it as I balanced my finances. I wrote something like this:<br />
<br />
I recently bought a smart phone. What makes a smart phone <em>smart</em>? I was able to track expenses, email, listen to music, and flip through hundreds of photos with just the swipe of a finger. My connection to the world literally fit in my back pocket. The only <em>dumb</em> part was my timing. I purchased the phone after my job with the University ended. As I reviewed my finances, I realized I had to return the phone. How has my week without my smart phone gone? It really <em>smarts</em>.<br />
<br />
I was particularly pleased with my usage of the verb 'smarts' at the end. I felt it really tied the paragraph together. The agent reviewed my writing sample and called me to her desk. <br />
<br />
"Charlotta, let's review your last sentence. I think you meant to say 'It was really smart'."<br />
"No. I was actually going for a play on words. See, the word 'smarts' actually means to sting or to hurt."<br />
"So, it should read 'It was smart'?"<br />
"No. 'It smarts.' You know, 'it hurts, it stings'."<br />
"Oh. Do you want to change it to 'It hurts'?"<br />
"No. Does it not make sense that I'm making a play on words?"<br />
"I just think you need a verb. 'It <strong><em>is</em></strong> smart'."<br />
"Okay, let's change it."<br />
<br />
We changed it to "Taking it back was smart."<br />
<br />
I find it funny that I was made to feel dumb over the word smart. <br />
<br />
And that, my friends, really smarts. Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-89924139718223037332011-01-23T12:24:00.001-05:002011-01-23T22:00:48.541-05:00I Had A DreamFriday started like any other normal day. <br />
<br />
I attended class, drove home, met up with Mama Mia, and we left town for the evening. My right eye was a little itchy.<br />
<br />
Around 9:30pm both of my eyes were itching like crazy. I leaned over to Mama Mia and asked her how my eyes looked. She responded, "You look awful. Both your eyes are swollen and pink. Just smile. It will make your eyes smaller."<br />
<br />
Awesome. So I look like a freak. A smiling freak. A smiling freak with itchy eyes. What is wrong with me?<br />
<br />
We arrived back in Athens a little after 1am. I opted to not drive home since my eyes looked like pink marsh mellows attached to my face. I hoped my eyes would magically be okay in the morning. I certainly didn't have time for an eye infection.<br />
<br />
I went to bed in the guest room. ...I dreamed about a wedding. I was one of the bridesmaids. A makeup artist was doing the eye makeup for others in the wedding party. Their eyes looked lovely. And I was next in line! I sat in the chair and closed my eyes. She brushed color after color onto my eyelids. The effect must have been gorgeous. I could hear the others around me ohhhing and ahhhing over my eye makeup. They were commenting about the beautiful shimmer and shine on my eyelids. I could feel her brush gently stroking powder on my lids. The brush was so soft. I couldn't wait to see the results. I decided to peek. I wanted to see how it looked. I waited until the brush stroke stopped, but my eyes hesitated. I wanted to see what she was doing but my eye muscles would not respond. OPEN! Eyes, open!! I just wanted to see. My eyes, I couldn't open them! Just <i>open</i>! I started to panic. Eyes, open <b>now</b>! Nothing. Just darkness! 1, 2, 3 <i><b>open!</b></i> Why.Can't.I.Open.My.Eyes?!...<br />
<br />
And then I woke up. A crusty layer of eye goop had sealed both eyes shut. I stumbled to the bathroom and washed my eyes. When I finally could open them, I saw sleep had <i>not</i> helped them. Both were completely pink and so puffy that I could just see through a slit. A call to our doctor confirmed I had conjunctivitis - pink eye - in <em>both</em> eyes.<br />
<br />
I picked up the medicated eye drops prescribed to me and drove home. Julia Gulia happened to text me later and ask how I was doing. I snapped a picture on my phone of my swollen eyelids as a response. I laughed at her return text, "Well, you can put on more eye shadow this way."<br />
<br />
Perhaps. If only I'd been able to watch the makeup artist in my dream...Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-63375212898360478012011-01-01T15:23:00.006-05:002011-01-01T22:28:57.641-05:00Top Ten Posts from 2010<p$1>Morning, fellow bloggers. I thought I'd copy a few blogs and list some of my favorite memories from 2010. It was a good year, wasn't it? <br />
<br />
Going just from memory, I'd say one of my favorite posts was about the trip I took to Texas in August to visit my bestest friend, Elke, and to welcome the birth of her second child. That was such a ...<p$1><p$1>What? <br />
<br />
You say I didn't blog about that? Of course I did. I mean, Elke and I have known each other for <strong>years!</strong> Despite being states apart, we are still the best of friends. That week was one of the highlights of our friendship. Surely I blogged about it; let me check my archives, back in a minute.<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>...<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>So it seems I did NOT blog about that. Wow. I can't believe I didn't share that experience with you. That's a bit of a surprise to me.<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>Well, I'll continue to a different favorite memory from last year. Remember when my car, you know the <a href="http://charlotta-love.blogspot.com/2008/02/click-and-clack.html">one with electric tape over the 'fix engine' light</a>, just died? And how I got that new car that was a stick shift? Except I didn't know how to drive stick shift? And remember when two friends went with me to help me learn how to drive and I yelled at them, middle names and all? Oh, man, that was intense; well, funny, now that it's over.<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>(leans in closer) What did you say? I didn't blog about that, either? Really?! I don't believe this. I could have sworn I did...<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>Alright, moving on. I <em>know</em> I blogged about that crazy Mud Run I did in September. <p$1><p$1>Remember?! It's the race with just a bunch of mud? <p$1><p$1>I <em>had</em> to have blogged about that. Maybe a picture will help jog your memory. We looked like this at the end, remember now?<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOViRgNiBVHipfqo1gNd8eAXE-GWeiADUkIXGUEvaaB0RGg5dCvL_Sokqfi6KcROk4UzJSqVJhkjK_LP-n50Ul0N1a6QuSj4iHyFLe4dy6m1fgZ2sB-f4U7lF9K9ZLUEMsPLoJ/s1600/IMG_1724.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5557316860485854370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOViRgNiBVHipfqo1gNd8eAXE-GWeiADUkIXGUEvaaB0RGg5dCvL_Sokqfi6KcROk4UzJSqVJhkjK_LP-n50Ul0N1a6QuSj4iHyFLe4dy6m1fgZ2sB-f4U7lF9K9ZLUEMsPLoJ/s400/IMG_1724.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 224px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <strong><em>No?! </em></strong><br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>Okay, this is ridiculous. Tell me, do you remember the post about the snake on my front porch? My new glasses? My assistantship with the University of Georgia? My trip to Walt Disney World that coincided with the Stars Wars Convention held there? Johnny Cherie, my baby sister, graduating from High School (gulp)? Me shooting guns?<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>You don't remember any of those? I don't understand. I used to blog all the time. Surely, <strong><em>surely</em></strong> I blogged about <em>one</em> of those.<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>What's that you say? I haven't blogged since <em>APRIL?!</em> That's just absurd. That can't be the case.<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>...<p$1><p$1>Oh, well, this is embarrassing. Turns out you were right. My account shows I only blogged <strong><em>three</em></strong> times this past year. Well, um, goodness. Looks like I'm behind on some blogging. <br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>I'll make you a deal: If you promise not to mention the fact that I'm a blog slacker to anyone, I'll at least <em>double</em> my posts from last year. Heh.<br />
<br />
<p$1><p$1>Happy New Year!<br />
<br />
<p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1></p$1>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-14012598861425769522010-03-23T23:30:00.002-04:002010-03-23T23:33:50.323-04:00Two Feet and Half a Foot<div align="center">Julia Gulia gets married in a few weeks and I'm one of her bridesmaids. She wants us each to wear matching shoes and selected an ivory pair. I ordered them online and they arrived today. I was excited. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452011006499188754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI_tDq_iHf-_pbXKzktM5H_4_urzU6uCRWNxEpS4LeOXVvKEDbfN27hmcoj1iWKYVVq2u8u-QO8HSbYh-Q8YFjY6n2Oe4zo1xfw8yamiJd_wWMGQZATpqaWsI8WE8WaPbZXMCv/s400/IMG_0662.JPG" /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Then I tried them on.</div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">Oh my golly goodness. These suckers have a small platform and a heel half a foot high. While Julia-Gulia has practice walking in heels this tall and actually looks natural in the process, my normally long stride immediately turns to an awkward shuffle the moment I put on these shoes. </div><div align="center"></div><div align="center"><br /></div><div align="center">I'm more into flats.</div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452011030133664642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMf03ZEvaMGySZe15K_k-cL18bCkB7eWLNKyl7Yc54UnVMwomWs-hkkAKJi3-AL_eslxmWBt3cOgz0ByyW8f6X_3sCJHAbHx4q6cCmdTdkL-uukMU2HvnRoQFyXkj1ElSleLx6/s400/IMG_0671.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452031969297503330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKpCkDdQCM7B1tTcy9DXGmBI0Y4NlcP6-Tx2aeeLNB_JsPy-n_2fc-Hg_ClJ_G7FqWIC4wHCy_epgnTES3YCnDUcct4Ep14na86AWuwj7r7FlNUZQnlTyg2J66YtlbEE1sUXOS/s400/IMG_0676.JPG" /> <p align="center">I like long walks on the beach. Heels don't allow for long walks.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452011022619614258" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiadnekeyuxbNi_V8gGrdcbuNVsfZY5IjRo8ftduLjYlC-wYwzlC3HPwp3i-PoI6t74GReADGDvvP7Koh_cs1AEsZ9TRb-9Fk4YxZjDBOlT8Bw6HsvhjjCMY7pmzm6Vsy9TQpjg/s400/IMG_0669.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452011011501142674" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMC-miM7czkEdEzaX04g2iJ4x6ayQKFjmqUgNWpX6grXeLZJ_nJAbNa3WxcCdmPFtDaageOtNUf07yQUslLWs7gmbnHEKjlFZME0p7i-jKCCooFfMsS7S1dSpVpPyTD54DPrkO/s400/IMG_0668.JPG" /><br />I like leisurely strolls through parks. Heels don't allow for leisurely strolls.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452016829641762658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkSan1qTIZHptDGh9Vr6x-bjuyv4CkFXkkgs6hxBXEIdzAVZTAWLP1gqGPd92FHn5tz3vnp17Tns8-FhF8Ugr9OpOZlRJwnNwF2G5JDf5d-oFEkQmp-85o1LxHyZhXWTbbnh0f/s400/IMG_0672.JPG" /></p><p align="center">I like fashion, don't get me wrong, but I also like comfort. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452016838741561698" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVv-4hbglXEppOYTRALEfXmNMnyUQGQt0gI_FA8kcCPwzhvOMe002nch5686D6ks6k336b6kuNnCPdLwJ8YcjhjPOiPZ7dj-7fthxWWHR8r_ZJ6HG1Iv3LcK8CAm7KeGTMF6-c/s400/IMG_0673.JPG" /></p><p align="center">I'm not even really opposed to heels. I enjoy wearing them here and there.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452016853317064946" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxgC-uK9UR25czf7PTE1Kx3l32ohiibT7_eFFjBsCYZYOb6iJfLdYIlgfitsN9crjbB3PZ-ki7kbHLPUXe6dVLNW4aqzNROzlD1E2TA-3404AECJ1vpi727YtswwQcYTflTFql/s400/IMG_0674.JPG" /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5452031964727119570" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKO1HBFFtlLEx1YTS96Hul2GfOgunaoxzqUiuTFTHpaenVOvZ6DRlHGw_sF2WX2lw8PMgTLcpLF7JFThgFk_SLGBPUFCUPvTwsFVfE8DCk1jGS7U1r-KonTDAvEOX4P2_lOtKB/s400/IMG_0675.JPG" /></p><p align="center">It's just, well, wearing these shoes is going to be one, <span style="font-size:180%;">tall</span> order.</p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-66049314568701167582010-02-27T22:20:00.003-05:002010-02-27T22:53:30.213-05:00One Track Mind<div align="justify"> I know I haven't blogged much this semester. I've been pretty busy. In fact, I admitted to some friends that I <em>may</em> have bit off more than I can chew what with 15 credit hours and working part time. It seems the minute I get one thing done, five more assignments demand my attention. I stay up late to get more reading done - which makes me tired during lecture - which requires more reading on my part to understand my notes - which leads to, well, you see where this is headed. A typical day might start at 6:45 am and end the following morning at 1am. I yawn a lot. I'm sooo sleepy. </div><br /><div align="left">It rained in Athens on Wednesday. This meant I took the bus instead of riding my bike. The bus crosses a train track - one I've never seen used during my career at UGA. I was surprised to see some actual train cars 'parked' on the track that particular afternoon. I noticed one of the cars had been tagged by a graffiti artist. My yawn was interrupted by a chuckle as I read what the paint said.<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443134721102002594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGSlj5C_7iPEVDM8TzQRNFvsPEwt9yjKISGTGa4P9W8qa8CjNnt2GH794xILYKLmxVEGAtdDID3yaF7mC2tl62aREsjtfKUUs07F25KK86EcwucrjKUk4fLLc1nHjFtJ82bDhv/s400/IMG_0645.JPG" /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443134727189729202" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizUWLhJ8ZuojMkKE-MPuK9RoEqztUsLRpaEgonMbBL2PIC-KOQYm_4TnCNL_pyPtBXruVYLx_Bco4kNPNpyE1f34dm8sNj7A1gcI7dfuEm8KNunyNktvPBu0l13qLIcjHJc9E1/s400/IMG_0646.JPG" /><br /><div align="center">My train of thought preciously. Seems the graffiti artist is having a tough semester as well.</div>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-18208934539041586382010-02-18T16:22:00.007-05:002010-02-18T16:57:15.325-05:00Call Me Fun DipI attended a baby shower in January. For those of you who have never attended a baby shower (the male readers of this blog) and have always wondered what one <span style="font-style: italic;">does </span><span>at a baby shower, this post is about to answer all your questions.<br /><br />We eat. We talk. We play games. The mom opens presents. and if I'm invited, you'll probably laugh.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> AT</span> me.<br /><br />So at said baby shower, we were playing the classic game <span style="font-style: italic;">Memory</span>. You know the one - there's a board with a grid. In each square is a word or saying and each person takes a turn uncovering two squares to see if they match. If they don't, the paper is returned and the next person attempts to uncover a match. If the two items are identical, the person gets a point - or in this version, a candy to match the phrase.<br /><br />This grid had phrases associated with babies such as 'Daddy's little girl', 'Delivery fee', 'Bottle', and 'Mommy time'. It came to be my turn and I turned over 'Nap time'. The match had just been identified a few turns previously and I tried to remember where it had been. I selected a number but instead of a match, it was the phrase 'pregnancy brain'. This is the phenomenon that pregnant women experience that seems to wipe away their memory. Trying to make a joke, and not thinking before I spoke, I blurted, "Pregnancy brain? I guess that's what I have right now!"<br /><br />The party seemed to stop. Slowly all eyes looked at me. Finally someone asked, "Are you making an announcement?"<br /><br />"Huh? An announc...oh, <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">NO</span></span>. No, no, no, no, no. I'm not pregnant. I'm not even <span style="font-style: italic;">married</span>!"<br /><br />Fortunately I was able to establish the truth and the game resumed. My slip-up became a joke for the remainder of the party. I eventually got a match: 'Baby's first laugh' which was a Snickers bar.<br /><br />Snickers indeed. I'm thinking more along the lines of Airhead.<br /></span>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-85376888395425347172009-12-22T10:15:00.000-05:002009-12-22T10:29:28.520-05:00The Char-LettesMy church hosts an annual Oscar Night. Any member can submit a video 5 minutes or less in length to be judged. The audience views all the entries and votes for the standard categories: best actor, best actress, best music, best animation, etc.<br /><br />I decided to enter a video this year (because I'm in graduate school and have an abundance of free time...cough, cough). I wanted to make a music video featuring music from <em>The Trans Siberian Orchestra</em>. I love their music. I have been known to listen to their songs in the summer. I know, I know, shame on me. Anyway, I filmed the video (which took awhile) and handed the clips to my fantastic film friend Janet who did the editing, cropping, and designing. The video won Best Actress and Best Costume/Make up.<br /><br />Here are the Char-Lettes performing <em>Queen of the Winter Night</em>.<br /><br /><object width="400" height="265"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always" /><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7697497&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" /><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=7697497&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=&fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="400" height="265"></embed></object><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/7697497">Untitled</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/user2659928">JanetFelosi</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com30tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-12552353108774116862009-12-05T17:55:00.000-05:002009-12-05T17:55:15.174-05:00List NotedI received an email from P-Squared regarding Little Boy Blue's Christmas list.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#663300;">Little Boy Blue revealed his wish list a few weeks ago when in Target. I took notes. Some of the Lego toys are under $20. He tore the pictures out of a catalog and keeps them handy to look at and covet. Er, I mean, dream.</span></em><br /><br />P-Squared then listed five different Lego sets.<br /><br />I noticed he'd copied all the siblings minus Little boy. I took the opportunity to respond first.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#663333;">Dad, since I wasn't at Target with you, my wish list is unknown. To be helpful, I've responded with my list. I like </span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#663333;">- a new car</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#663333;">- a road bike (I'll even settle for one that's <u>only</u> $1,000)</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#663333;">- tuition paid in full</span></em><br /><br />Then the email responses snow-balled. First from TheDeanInc.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#333300;">Since we are all laying this out there, I want:</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#333300;">- a 3 year old BMW M3 (not as picky on the 'new' part that Charlotta wants)</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#333300;">- some new jeans, preferably True Religions.</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#333300;">Scratch that...just get me some very high valued Nordstrom gift cards.</span></em><br /><br />Next from P-Squared himself:<br /><em><span style="color:#003300;">Well, if we're revealing, I want </span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#003300;">- a new truck. Then Johnny can drive my truck.</span></em><em><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 159px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411880314220193282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPWp4l_We-tCcgOfqH_nzBxmvLr7EGeM4HYtGn28ttIgxks6T0iBqkHKK1MBtktovH4uWsN-H9opfAVh2QM8OVx_QrWQ-Oq6wcLgAblAEoQPH29ayEKQojAWgomQrA-8o8OA3S/s400/Blog+1.jpg" /></em><br /><em><span style="color:#003300;">- some new shirts and slacks. </span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#003300;">- a replacement of the Acura for (me) mama mia</span></em><br /><em><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 260px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411880315279665026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoTAchqGDqyZdzOGr0A-tT8OyJGGmEm-f6YiClidAX2wVXkZNGwIgt5MSXqiVSz8PKrdNbRursqBN1C_T-37_4Tkj9ShCd8s-QJ6ouVyviSjHfHOkLcuPu8JV92dSj_Lm6PBo5/s400/blog+2.png" /></em><br /><em><span style="color:#003300;">- a new garage door</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#003300;">- or shingles for the house. </span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#003300;">Nothing TOO costly.</span></em><br /><em></em><br />Then Johnny commented:<br /><em>That's an ugly truck, no offense, but if you're the one driving it, then SURE, go for it!</em><br /><em></em><br />And finally Smelly Shelly wrote:<br /><em><span style="color:#330033;">I need these. (She's enrolled in Dental Hygiene school) They range from $700 - 900 but I don't know if that includes a prescription.</span> </em><br /><em><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 216px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411880319270998386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaXjA0B91g1ulGZ2QwBKmHreeqaji1STbn_55sOZBXBCBot-CSOc8rwen0ZL-rKqkwZba7cDFKjmBD9v71ABVx1YTs-Z3ju1iNnvzDomH324syVDqKokjIn8rnJ_jJry3synUT/s400/blog+3.jpg" /></em><br /><em><span style="color:#330033;">- this car</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#330033;">...or the SUV</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#330033;">...or a black Range Rover</span></em><br /><em><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 236px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411880326719236402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZGnR3mKcOxM_Pqgfiray2atcq7ClhLXdNKA1m9SpWqhWKDaiYmMECI9URgTOH24PWNVIctwz4_4hxbvx50Kn59U3Ilc1DbUzi8WjhFdOVHFaGtrq5ZZt1XSN0jOjbnpLgOcDg/s400/blog+4.jpg" /></em><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="color:#cc0000;">______________________________________________</span></strong></div><em></em><br />I hope Mama Mia wants a new four car garage...Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-21207934953374970002009-11-13T08:30:00.000-05:002009-11-13T08:46:12.516-05:00Weddings are for Normal People<div align="center"><strong>Question:</strong> What do normal people do at weddings?<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403423154174619298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 356px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqupipW0dy_BRttYGedxROz0HLtWpoe8ntRvRS4foPGDFeW7o8zOp8C4R2wY3SNVOLkIiMBnSCS_LwWEvjYnbJizgk2zF4X5O8clr2QMF4fkjGHbcibSCF8JRbrq2dai0nbnVp/s400/Picture1.jpg" border="0" /></div><p align="center"><strong>Answer:</strong> I suppose they sit politely, stand/sing/clap/pray at the appropriate times, and socialize/dance during the reception.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403425707471986114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 357px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg23m_v8aOWieRUiUMewdpI-1UzKOiGYiwiOtKeC32gGJ3nEresLMkwneNSzyuvH5b0QU1i4G_-1qWWTurkLj26EOPaIQmBLRr6n8s4ffc2DepNbJ_3wGNmQk1Q9xRngvO9d4Yr/s400/Picture3.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="center">I wouldn't know. I'm not 'normal'. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403425712734773842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 365px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Lc_D01mKLm1d_7g0BQh01Ah4jTxvu1EY45q7pMwV7Cbiaq77Wc7M8r_CLubKHNUWrAgqG4N7gHucA_o1HpMbM6Dds2V1ESMQQ_etW0dC7_I88q9tiXBgSqvxkc6VXom0DTPY/s400/Picture4.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="center"><strong>Question:</strong> What do I do at weddings?<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403425715194165122" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 361px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihE0EpzGA2VBwVl1X97895hrRdqmC_2vZGVOkYJULBtxlfilA68vA_b49Fp1RhgB-LAL3lI-ZAOvwMGVPnfotFHuEvRYTNhFa6SeBEaI8dxU5_ZbHg32i5tfF55cBBL5BLfSYi/s400/Picture5.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="center">Oh, I'm so glad you asked. I sneak away with Little Boy Blue, find naked statue gardens, and take pictures. I think my way is waaaaaay more fun. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403426353984984706" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWA7dJuDryaW06THdf56quB65rgTbWWUBRuYG6Q-yXBHmDY6uMaMwjoTc0_QxnQXgK0gIqY_d6eACb3wCifYmGTgGMxaD4CsSW_48UBZspA0SOkpiey3GKWVEQtS0VU9c_J4c1/s400/IMG_3515.JPG" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403427032922145682" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 356px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1b0EqqKoCdqoz34otx-8kDIFZhFlmN0iqw2v0gVNIxu0Vw8Ay_8uYiF8FWLlFjMOgVaDF2GsWGvCpMvSK6hx1IKtbcWLmvFSNKKs9jrekSduPLSLcehRkVoO134ChOkkjzSFi/s400/Picture2.jpg" border="0" /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403426349358171922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 357px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHmnnSgd96gKHK7LDO0_KPTNmtZsJ6H3FcD4hrnOLV_U1dvlVm_Ivak7ara-dMiTHF6jqYzTPXkZxMeIaFtNEHtd99BbyUOOJrHAXbKD__3y2WJ0Be0V7vcMgytWrtn0E7M8v5/s400/Picture6.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="justify"><em>Dear Josh and Danielle ~ Congratulations! Thanks for inviting my family to your special day. You mentioned I was missing from the pictures the photographer took. Hmm, that's weird. I guess the photographer and I always just missed each other. I mean, I </em>was<em> there. Regardless, Little Boy Blue and I had lots of fun. It's certainly a wedding he and I will</em> <strong>never</strong> <em>forget. Much love ~ Charlottalove</em></p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-8452690899597165232009-11-10T21:20:00.014-05:002010-08-03T20:31:43.647-04:00The Wreckiest Night Ever<div align="center">I got to meet Jen Yates on Monday night!</div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">What? You don't know who she is? </div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">Oh. </div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">Well, I suppose I need to tell you about her. </div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">Jen Yates is <em>the</em> Mastermind behind the funniest 'food' blog I've ever read. It's called <a href="http://cakewrecks.blogspot.com/">Cake Wrecks</a> and you should be ashamed of yourself if you've never read it. But, your personal mistakes aside, her blog makes my day. I literally "LOL" at each post. </div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">When she mentioned she was writing a book, I knew it would be something I'd enjoy. To add icing to the, erm, cake, she announced a book tour with a stop in Atlanta. </div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="center">And she mentioned there would be cake.<br /></div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402672147756361362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO55-st4762bqyBH60-pc21oS5XT9eryylxH6IrTt9WT7LKuyhv8aNR5HHvwCP7Ekr_MU9IvIj_lzUKXa1djmXrnX0laQeDZT3hI1ApdhsaR0C40uIQCuZybvdqrQ0nEOn_GX6/s400/cake.JPG" /><br /><p align="center">(A fra-reaking <em><strong>awesome</strong></em> cake!) </p><br /><p align="center">Um, Sign. Me. Up! </p><br /><p align="center">Now, as part of the book tour, each stop has a contest. Anyone attending is welcome to submit a cupcake replica of one of the cake disasters on her website. </p><br /><p align="center">I opted for 'I want sprinkles' cake. Here is the original cake posted on her blog.</p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402671795108442658" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJwy7ShF91FCBErJlDEd2gpZsCEm1pZiFov6z8MbV0rWUyVgkVT4zFcTET3jlmnKMfD_mWLyM_ur6ThnrfSavt6697BHN5w4664XW46sN4OZMbeHN6h8elTTsl-S7H_fbWtdHN/s400/sprinkles" /><br /><p align="center">Here's my cupcake replica. Mine actually <em>had</em> sprinkles. (I didn't win.)</p><br /><p align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402671239649749890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoQsk0fV2Y-c17GOKEkihGY8tDV87iFdRsN0J9JpOMdBzGjSTivBPelf4deTLAn6keLlKvWTWAqZKrjOR3DgH2VtqXfoAyci0EujrJl_bJzL8YLlVOIMZ4m-yD_f0bdxf4xfpY/s400/IMG_3587.JPG" /><br />It was to be me and Julia-Gulia. We invited Mama Mia to join us but, unfortunately, she had previous obligations and told us to have fun. We couldn't just leave her out of the evening though. What could we do to help Mama Mia experience the full wreckiness of our evening? </p><br /><p align="center">We made a cake. </p><br /><p align="center">The ugliest cake we could create. </p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402671243272172354" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0dmcCsJSOV0fwqr7x5amwMwwpEtYBS4RsZCNOznd2xpZI7fa2QKT1pvp-17D0wwnxufPNIzj7_KBd3dZZbbg0NkscXYuBK1jEVxOuz2hx28II5SdhZe47Q_FwVn21Wx2Eig55/s400/IMG_3589.JPG" /><br /><p align="center">(Julia-Gulia and I are torn: is it the back of Oscar the Grouch's head or a moldy football? We can't decide.) </p><br /><p align="center">And we had Jen autograph it. </p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402671253290659586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic8TKqwGlKC73f6jYuZnjOppnBsx4Ic28ZdBpl7d_sgaZxxTARDBFyIkZjhpxFDfhhM-SmVux2NRj3GTqL5v9rOZwWZSeKFaY3seu24Vs3UnzYL-Ec1LMkdQneb7QnPGLaKMIw/s400/IMG_3620.JPG" /> <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402671260874796226" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNUk6fOWYW5Rpis1Z4Fd4uD9m6lGqIYIadBVHWa7uuQIjLj9CIYnn3ze6GwNpc_41GGSJX2CPjkEOP_11zR6qW7lxHwTQzdHvw3mqzVePmNiaLLdgnbDwGHXUAeZuGKhQB6ERk/s400/IMG_3623.JPG" /><br /><p align="center">She admitted this was the first time she'd ever been asked to autograph a cake. </p><br /><p align="center">I'm glad we could make her first experience so ...wrecky. </p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-41964174915944803052009-10-09T08:47:00.002-04:002009-10-09T09:08:34.115-04:00Thankful Comma For Little BoysDecember 2008: Sunday dinner ~ Our guest, John, was seated and it was time to bless the food. My dad asked Little Boy Blue to offer the prayer. Although he meant to indicate two separate phrases, he didn't pause between the words 'came' and 'for' so his prayer sounded like this:<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;">We are thankful that John came for the food.</span></em><br /><br />We each chuckled. Even Little Boy Blue appreciated the mistake. <br /><br />September 2009: Sunday dinner ~ Our guest, John, is again seated and it's time to bless the food. Little Boy, an emerging prankster like the rest of us, offered to say grace.<br /><br /><span style="color:#660000;"><em>We are thankful that John came comma for the food.</em></span><br /><em><span style="color:#660000;"></span></em><br />My chuckle - <em>during</em> the prayer - was quite audible and soon joined by others. <br /><br />I sure hope God has a sense of humor.<br /><br />Otherwise comma I'm in big trouble.Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-41545174191205994422009-09-10T14:00:00.001-04:002009-09-10T14:17:45.785-04:00Time is MoneyIt's been a long <strong>time</strong> since I blogged!<br /><div></div><br /><div>Speaking of time, I needed a clock in the bathroom. I was tired of not knowing how long I had to get ready and inevitably getting to places late.* I looked online for some clocks and was surprised at how expensive most were. I didn't want something round and 'normal' but the further away from a standard clock I looked, the higher the price tag rose. I decided I would make my own clock and I figured I could do it for under $20. </div><div></div><br /><div align="center">I started with a picture frame I found on sale for $8. **</div><div align="center">Clock components were $6.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379896703577015698" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcNIkbuIu0ZVrCqNC81cVwf2AYMxCZ4Echqa-FrNSp3ujuHYfFckWUfvjmLEIi4tIIQvlbzaHQvAeEpOyELUsji7p6FsnGJrXxXpPnPZvk6Xwqp3svz4yyK9Quya0lBDfkJW-H/s320/picture+frame.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><div align="center"></div><div align="center">My dad gave me a piece of spare plywood and even cut it to fit the middle of the frame. Free!</div><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379896714195343138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGCATCiMFN0poSEhBU8ymOmIwN-KDOFYGndJLfScEM06W1DcPJDmm3UFW3etZBcduSbe5NSnU9ie6pOJyDoa9loU-t6wMeITtMR9DFtyTjy4ec4ZDbyNqKQX96wYoDQl9HrDEf/s320/piece+of+plywood.jpg" border="0" /></div><div> </div><div align="center">I wanted to paint the plywood the same color of the bathroom - key lime pie. The spare paint from the bathroom had long been used so I went and bought a pint of paint. I was completely unprepared for the going rate of paint. </div><div align="center">I don't want to talk about this anymore.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379896701906954338" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 179px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwHeEUy7HoPvfQdrM_MboTk6A-al9_NVufR7bvoO3DHoTQt5nqs0qoEIG0iVtZYiff5GMZDRsqD_0Ojlv1fgjaL7YJ_PnYIMLI6aos3X9b2dPseoXZ4e5vB6bVWjXPK0_3JOdv/s320/painted+plywood.jpg" border="0" /></div><br /><div align="center">The hands that came with the clock components were brass and little and, well, just too plain. I found some that I loved for $3.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379903436462601522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 112px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhGn_j6wDtm2iLA-t0vaz1bFJj-o_eKjzCx4XLKBLh0AIbdgEpnCdcUTNnNA6P-EoXYHtcKqTcwBeTwfIT4LYfyvq7dsI8yeRwfG9sjspGiYWjpL3YVk35PQrX3aIA2LE8onX0/s200/cool+hands.JPG" border="0" /><br />And now I know what time it is when I'm doing my hair or putting on my makeup.</div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6zETPaBxKOgzwhRF59idhvhZz85vbzHRp89XXgQG5pGg8HRR5PwjRfORMkyEqUQ4uHJGBIvZaa4-SOZQa_XQ4zP7AXIygyuCEh3YaBz4-U1eyHPrVi73MNoD5BpwlFYHOqCK/s1600-h/finished+project.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379895613174028690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 221px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6zETPaBxKOgzwhRF59idhvhZz85vbzHRp89XXgQG5pGg8HRR5PwjRfORMkyEqUQ4uHJGBIvZaa4-SOZQa_XQ4zP7AXIygyuCEh3YaBz4-U1eyHPrVi73MNoD5BpwlFYHOqCK/s320/finished+project.JPG" border="0" /></a> </div><br /><div align="center">Total Price: $33.75</div><div align="center"></div><br /><div align="left">So I blew my budget of $20 but I also have a clock I enjoy. </div><div align="left"></div><br /><div align="left">Oh, and on a side note, if you need anything painted a greenish color similar to key lime pie, <em>anything at all</em>, I've got a whole pint of paint left.<br /></div><br /><div align="left"><span style="font-size:78%;">*I'm still late but now I have a cool clock that tells me exactly <em>how</em> late I'll be.</span></div><div align="left"><span style="font-size:78%;">** Excuse the picture quality. I'm guessing my camera was on the wrong setting. Normally my pictures aren't so grainy.</span> </div>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-73930684555773306082009-07-22T15:00:00.000-04:002009-07-22T15:07:45.581-04:00Hindsight is $20 $20I wanted glasses when I was younger. So badly, in fact, that I popped out the tinted lenses from a pair of sunglasses and wore just the frames. <br /><br />Everywhere. To school, to the grocery store, around the house, while playing outside...<br /><br />I remember riding my bicycle in the street one day while wearing my glasses. The neighbors were remodeling their home and a construction crew was busy at work. I rode up then down the street; up and back again. I'm not sure if I hit a small rock or shifted my balance but one moment I was riding high and the next found me on the asphalt next to my fallen bike. I laid there for what seemed like only a second before a construction member rushed to my side to help me. He picked up my bike and I dusted my knees. He then retrieved my blue frames and handed them to me. <br /><br />I was humiliated.<br /><br />He knew! He knew my adorable, cute frames were fake! Never mind that I'd just crashed my bike in front of him, he knew my glasses were plastic, empty frames. <br /><br />I went in the house and waited until they left before I rode my bike again.<br /><br />Little did I know that I would actually need glasses in 8th grade. <br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>---------------------------</strong></div><div align="center"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left">I wanted braces when I was younger. So badly, in fact, that I carefully unbent a paper clip until it resembled my top row of teeth. I crumbled small bits of aluminum foil around the paper clip to form makeshift brackets. I connected the paperclip and brackets to my teeth with a rubber band. It was a nuisance to keep in my mouth (I laugh now at how dedicated I was to this endeavor) but I would put it in my mouth each afternoon as soon as I got home from school.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">Little did I know that I would actually need braces during high school.</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="center"><strong>--------------------------</strong></div><div align="center"><strong></strong> </div><div align="left">I wish I'd recognized the trend when I was little. </div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">* Wear fake glasses, get real glasses</div><div align="left">* Wear fake braces, get real braces</div><div align="left"> </div><div align="left">I sure wish I'd carried around a pocketful of Monopoly money. </div>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-28972885873689604682009-07-20T16:35:00.000-04:002009-07-20T16:35:44.614-04:00My Bl*nk*ng Car<p>My car is a keeper. I bought her after I graduated from college in 2002 and she's been my trusty sidekick since. She and I have been to various states, run over a few <a href="http://charlotta-love.blogspot.com/2008/02/lucky-me.html">nails</a>, <a href="http://charlotta-love.blogspot.com/2007/05/my-date-with-ted-bundy.html">blown a tire</a> on the interstate, and been <a href="http://charlotta-love.blogspot.com/2008/03/ticket-check.html">pulled over</a> for going a little too fast. </p><p>As cool cars go, I think mine's the coolest. I mean, she blinks. </p><p><strong><em>BLINKS, I tell ya!</em></strong></p><p>I bet your car doesn't blink. </p><p><span style="font-size:85%;color:#666666;">Please ignore the check engine light. I ran out of </span><a href="http://charlotta-love.blogspot.com/2008/02/click-and-clack.html"><span style="font-size:85%;color:#666666;">electrical tape</span></a><span style="font-size:85%;color:#666666;">. Oh, and ignore the fact that every time I shift, the car clunks like a cheap casino machine. Most car owners can only wish to be that cool.</span><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dz5Tg6-ZWAmDkt0qXjleXkGMJDFLmUtjzikwAQNnzCLbiJg9DoaJy2OTLC1QiwMMBs1AyCFsMBwfNw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-68972589878318201682009-07-10T13:31:00.010-04:002009-07-10T14:44:58.025-04:00I Tri-ed<div align="right">A few months ago, a friend mentioned she was training for a triathlon. Being the great friend that I am, I decided to invite myself. We trained on our own and shared a few concerns / tips / achievements when we saw each other. Then the week of the event came.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">I couldn't sleep. </div><div align="right"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356889470519293010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig3xFSw1sTAmyd3i7bVv1tGSSw5pqNCi25_b8v7BvcMQHaIxPuIP0dxYSF6RVDINqqS7ND767JnApSvEBa56wjSNHc09bMoR2z_ZMtf5OIoNY9973vSr6Ykg2wH2JdApGvhyHJ/s320/IMG_0242.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="right"></div><div align="center">Every night was a dream about the event. I dreamt I forgot my socks. My shoes. My hat. One night I actually dreamt that someone stole the front tire from my bike. It was a long week.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">And then Saturday came.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">Four of us traveled to Hilton Head, SC the day before. We ate dinner, went for a leisurely swim at the hotel, and packed the car for the next day. 5:15 on a Saturday comes quickly!</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356889475730815266" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYBT8dlgYkUSlRvNGtTtbv47OpcFQNb7mGKBfikhUg7Fr1vi9oFNXzM-8nZuM2y-1nl9SvPp4ocVNcBUz-hOf_ScWWFh6xgFz5EsvFkWZIYq_Ti4ZfNM4WfZG9CMMvz4cmVPEW/s320/IMG_0248.JPG" border="0" />We left the hotel and got to the beach at 6:15. This is my 'remind me why I'm here so early and <em>why are you taking pictures of me</em>' face. Cute. I know.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356889459590035106" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoOq1FUpWf-PCSedxABx9GcbSOVk-GRpOcJ2zBn33GTCas4M_uq1lPn-mzYKykNf5yLqOIXK4Y_vtnqpIJBrv3P3c_t5eYrIbSD8zMJg0ipxphPHPL8UL-_dli8AnRmn0pnhIC/s320/IMG_0236.JPG" border="0" /> <p align="center"> We registered. Got our race numbers. They put your registration number on your arm and your age on your leg. I'm telling you...there's nothing like nearly running out of energy during the running portion - you want to quit - and then you see some lady pass you and she has a '59' written on her calf to get you moving again!<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356889462053400978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_2L634zhgdIDcPN9gjJ0FYFnVddyJCF5v4836UCP0hQdI-gMIKYNMH4Ub8zOXnU1N2NF7x-pxJ9AQ9BDPH6e92rnLChQPiW-VYY86xBsmiJhx9lax7uykOM43_nlLRUhYOEte/s320/IMG_0235.JPG" border="0" /></p><div align="center">It was my second sprint triathlon. I'm not brave enough to try longer distances yet. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890689647278546" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcsKQjmLokeRCWu9SIT5bWqt52EEihhypXFLBXLN-sNt3Z15AKdDU3bsVJ2OgvcvvR1O0Nnd4H5G-9OjYTCEJiEGmYgtzpWAmpE30E2G6my-U_O3F6P8a4xwiBdw2KrVyCwcyk/s320/swim.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div align="center">And ladies, um, <em>ladies</em>...let me give you six reasons why you should compete in a triathlon.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890385532326018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 230px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC6YuzQ9LVIB_zcIJ_sgthbihXvWja9lQjGdNfSfdeNrwAHfx4Mmya0mb1DrCYvcT_cou58784c1k9cSnP3LMko1SwNBLH0LIxP_ttq125t-R9L639mYhbg-KTolG6-wCg8_Gr/s320/bike+ladies.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div align="center">Did you find all six abs? Um, <em>hello!</em></div><em></em><br /><div align="center">Oh, hi mom. ahem.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">As I was saying... what <em>was </em>I saying?!</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356897230011757634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPoC1acV8sGhhJjpDsG2UMs7s3Q9AWQZE9-aDutZoN9rbxlDs0gOOF5xfVgMm_gsX7le_l7iA_Z7EW2IL1awawfkw2nZFKf7xTH3f1sXczzQYo3Zd1lAkyfEv-i3Vu7ju_Rcqu/s320/IMG_0262.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div align="center">Oh, right, 6 reasons why you should compete in a triathlon.<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890382797498722" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 214px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis2x8b9y6wxgbI860tYWwU7B0hTD-nPHf8em7LgWETuxU1DboKyaRificBMzFB93GETkSS9-fp0qGdW6NdtE5rt1LdQAjlPoK94UfXSZ9-aI4bUXyKwARaKgkjTuZy0ZDwFE6v/s320/bike+2.JPG" border="0" /></div><div align="center">1. It's fun. </div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890391005881634" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 231px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5ZtekoQV9tdAM3wMYM_lB8w4SdAOO4bwxoKyAynZU-vUtHhtKcdq5ZsnTkxlL7VI6-iO3XaJBcCMyfyT5dpEMM8dA2_OnsxPnysWkgKIlUJjR35sMg6BtrphkzWL3Zjce1dar/s320/run+1.JPG" border="0" /> <div align="center">2. You get to swim in the ocean.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890392872953058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 213px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPgAnGnZdpJAN7wPMG1oGwHuXBABrw3DXAH8ArQAaRSu25c95-O9MP-toRqfRQc7rxdyc52JYOjoEY8VscK7t76fq-Ugc-5os4Gwz9Ufz7sbnX80WPY4tDBXH9NP607EIZd2wt/s320/run+2.JPG" border="0" /> <div align="center">3. You get a tan.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890700109407442" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiotlYiEE4GcBe4uKy8BGmLIoP4bf-XcUL69uB6WcFALQIeGXbgQFyWIA1X5tntlAbTAnxsi6lrsFT7628kpvwrJA810TXMJBC5Hy0HtqdL3-GsgTBIabbElV1HM5yydaAfAJNK/s320/May+2009+548.jpg" border="0" /> <div align="center">4. You get a t-shirt.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890970442194866" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSfR_eNenzznG_dwumnDE64Y_TbyG45a_zuuukFE3R5Zm9rOyWVUVmv_08OwJdGtOTiXfjMHIhd31OyY4ToAhQLNmF8Ajv6W-zgVYOXpPovtMAWJMuaO3QqMBZ6GkBCa_swuH/s320/May+2009+552.jpg" border="0" /> <div align="center">5. You are done by 10 in the morning and can spend the rest of the day on the beach.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356890963964963746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5R8nzFghttSokLPrIDWDBTlVGCBVsVxI80LEYVJlp2rzCmYAoS__PwmihncJaERlpV9lC8sG8nogeVcWtoX7zn0DjaHEmnxx1fI44OUc5N0GpmXSUXTfY3HgPmIAIll27eCl9/s320/May+2009+550.jpg" border="0" /> <div align="center">6. You can blog about it.</div><p align="center">Try it!<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx0NqxjE3kVF10g1nwIJ9amsoJ96AXxKNX9xtq5CJrASV2xw7tJXubRnV_Uu48qf0Uf0Ffz_npy6-o' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-18798754183567278242009-06-29T16:38:00.002-04:002009-06-29T16:42:28.344-04:00A Preview<div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBMv5lYmikj78AhPvfnCIQEWEucIzvRNbh3-96Fa1nkBaqv7-FhzhRDirq_Ap6uNXfZIjS050c3K_2hsJSvcNoBMaZTriuFKp-t9rA5ZxIV7JoSlca0vvHY3BUQQz7YNfbaYqO/s1600-h/preview.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352851923802577026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 202px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBMv5lYmikj78AhPvfnCIQEWEucIzvRNbh3-96Fa1nkBaqv7-FhzhRDirq_Ap6uNXfZIjS050c3K_2hsJSvcNoBMaZTriuFKp-t9rA5ZxIV7JoSlca0vvHY3BUQQz7YNfbaYqO/s320/preview.JPG" border="0" /></a> Hint: There was water. There was a bike. There was running.</div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">And there was a farmer's tan.</div>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-3935366661001170192009-06-26T08:27:00.004-04:002009-06-26T08:47:32.891-04:00Whirlpool of TroubleA bit of trouble - that's what seems to happen when three bored siblings are left alone* at my house. What happened at your house when you got in trouble?A swat with a wooden spoon or belt? A bar of soap in the mouth? A night with no dinner?<br /><br />Well, it's a bit different for Little Boy Blue and Johnny Cherie. You don't even <em>want</em> to know what they did.<br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351612353672113394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFSSuJEQIb9LjRRYTKxEz1tzSRs5Skhyphenhyphen0ytViCBwFntZufSdU5s-IB23Zv7XvOFyZ3wV0yknj-q_woIupyAjcstNszs0aVmBHRrmBMKTiVneIqcvncOU5I00OU7dIMXpMnbPbv/s320/Image014.jpg" /><br /><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351612355684149074" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFb3mV6aTM2uNuGkpa-Yplg16o94rWvoC6qaTn36UMc8bSt5m74IE-mwxshQ8DxapBU2_il1u3cWxnstcgQPfvkUCAwUzSwn6zLbRrCMZ_YRGV-XyAZU5ds6znxzK7Nl0eNmD9/s320/Image015.jpg" />Alright you two, you may come out of the dryer now. </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351612361515024066" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtveau4Kr799UdCyVhNoLvBQ0bhw-TKRXghPFhZ_vig0MUOZHmz3acBcNQ9_NBvYwrCKmPOxq-cKrfxLppIBes4q-59KbGGy2vBTmOqo-bR7W7LDm4wKb4tBnaVDa63stM5v6F/s320/Image018.jpg" /><br /><div align="center">Let that be a lesson to you. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351612459734433586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbe4qc9wYVi0UEEIeIIFRTdwRVTf_ZPKdiNvIKyU_tZLuk4V7JzBYi0r3jAWwk7erz1vbeRcTaIB7Ud8ZLyTO-HpwGVuaEORYCS8O9L5nARMCHwKmqGalmK4RrNb1Xkce2TPSt/s320/Image017.jpg" /></div><div align="center"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351612356683651026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmDTNjs0l5zbWQp7b-1ao3g18Yk5fLUfAqeruAH8kr4T88bF2gE6KWtY31L7pcVOHiNr5p1f47OBYiCWnlUWUyJWlIhQ-3hyphenhyphenQOlKqQh3fraooEzq1ELmdg3MzhFK6Cv7XeFxmo/s320/Image016.jpg" />If this behavior continues, you know what happens...it's the fluff cycle for you!</div><span style="font-size:78%;"></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color:#666666;">*Always a fun day at the house when there is a camera phone, and empty dryer, and three bored siblings. I may or may not have tried to get in the dryer but something about my legs being waaaaaaaay too long and awkward to fit.</span> </span>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-45110498416530897592009-06-23T10:51:00.005-04:002009-06-23T11:30:13.679-04:00My Dad<div align="center"> I made this at the beginning of the year.</div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350536768298534450" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3806z4rQ27SjuRgRdGc7ixVIg-Vyf9r-THQxZKoSUSJR8nAbJIvkcjMh4jhmVRt7nUu5qIK2mg-z5qRz0UGUGm2RtVkGVRpPqaQLaStXEXvyxqRJDgBO6OxeXWQNR68-hNH1V/s400/IMG_2503.JPG" border="0" /><br /><div align="center">I prepped four cork boards.</div><div align="center"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350536771816036594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGgFlinl84lq926B1uPbCo2pk8qK1PhCNIArTuA5zPJGBI3OEmOfRk2fNv3XvmdEDLnzOK6tTuyXeHUcsSeL9w6hA_4IGgMiGoxM8ypNEZN6ZrHhGARuAjvo7ysQYWsB7zpqo6/s400/IMG_2488.JPG" border="0" />I shopped and bought material. I covered the cork boards. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350536777685543730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVyLghWy7YhxvP48FlO1SIFu2e0Hqj4cp6nXKxMxuCVqKm3vbdxfcrLvJnQVTr8IW1mm-JzDhQhUsLGFtfX8w1FxA9ZMMOtRiXjFl8kCll5NcRKea792pQoGXCYsp-23xPw8Wx/s400/IMG_2490.JPG" border="0" /> I sanded.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350536780690137138" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOYtmeCaSM7qiedlV8wxmHBbLBAaGzuy0G7LZJgK-vPOLnLt_93zbW_njgRZ9Qb65Ju8Fb3UmMfszUx9deyigx_TE3LpBg0f09xUdfcAM-HTC7LvWWOorDTFQWXqugX_Lppho/s400/IMG_2493.JPG" border="0" />I stained.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350537314953442978" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjftq5nPN12A59ugiJd-S96cKdZuQVDBm7_fWIIjR_tFsr2dooEobeEiTc6E2D6FH2QlrMm2EQ__9IjlWDa9zJ07obg3YlWjbhFES0ITP7Zj2PzLybPJvUQwqWs2qJecH5dOkv5/s400/IMG_2494.JPG" border="0" />I glued reinforcement tabs on the back.<br /><div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnwfmOLMjN56rOolVARPXiNFI9RoEsP6EBzzQeOIXO84A5i2NrwObKNKCiIufaJwYANdYwzqbAz56B5PducQ3Q7GhuxPLPYC5-MaoSyxKMYLZQJQWZi-eb9GexS8J_RNrVE2b/s1600-h/IMG_2501.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350537316929708834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJnwfmOLMjN56rOolVARPXiNFI9RoEsP6EBzzQeOIXO84A5i2NrwObKNKCiIufaJwYANdYwzqbAz56B5PducQ3Q7GhuxPLPYC5-MaoSyxKMYLZQJQWZi-eb9GexS8J_RNrVE2b/s400/IMG_2501.JPG" border="0" /></a> And I finished. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350537327399918114" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdMU_jAlN__t8rQ9AG00YYKnvwTzu3j_n4OvkkM_Zi53kXqpHYbYaN_jX496HhMFIlVebTfahRA1VC3m-ps-7mKQ3Zdrrb_iZrRult8T-wVzdDFRGa5nTatzHA56KPPRcXwWfq/s400/IMG_2502.JPG" border="0" /></div><div> </div><div>Oh, I forgot to mention that P2 helped. In fact, he cut the wood and drilled all the necessary holes. (It was freezing that morning if you can't tell.) So basically I'd just have some covered cork boards and a 10 foot 2x4 without his help.<br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350537320886063346" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QWjMiN5MSAzv5a4MPon3ZL9GB4kjrSr_nmsxX7t9U32rT5hyJJZXnc8q-e2KUQRBRW753MzTZnZnV6VMMvYky-LZ-KpFbfMfTuyzTsUEQaUFc2dc6b-a0emR-18e315Icn27/s400/IMG_2492.JPG" border="0" />P2, I love you. Thanks for the structure and framing you give to my life. <br /><div><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350538587498972002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 224px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcSycxFISDjYfqlOMU6YAT-uKV0nEG9YUhMakRbCYWhsAYrSYMrDihTUJncjngG5OmhuyBIvRIEl6Q6Sn5Fm_MB3vV_K9lW7_wOJB02uS3MR3O_Kh2lpmaV0N3_aRDubn5bK2C/s400/IMG_2481.JPG" border="0" />Happy (late) Father's Day. I'm glad I have you to call Dad!</div></div></div><br /></div>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-63670378583492272262009-05-21T22:30:00.000-04:002009-05-21T22:35:34.164-04:00Bugged<div align="center">Dear Lego Corporation,</div><div align="center"><br />My name is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Charlottalove</span>. </div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338466213610354178" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAy05G72-f5WodidVywnT0HtwdlP_x31hyphenhyphen6XVlDLwb2HY_Ppj9rfQuUmcohIG44v726nTnLsjgFYCsc8efT9h_8V_LGtE6dJSkUA9JCaYlSwrgDmIUFDFD20jrlfS8rfXDnOdU/s400/IMG_2976.JPG" /> <p align="center">I happen to like Volkswagen Bugs. </p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338466208371043634" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh_FHzTYz5FusuzL5CWa8mtjJYTHX2kMiuL-b3F-P8P_YT1ZmPSFCRx3ZAHyRJ6F1anxUUuoGmexQzQJVMFnjdIElVF5KKLsYkteWwAraEu9n1BQTs1onaCx0fpi_KOHoYVDFH/s400/IMG_2974.JPG" /> <p align="center">Well, <em>like</em> is an understatement. </p><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338468135793198642" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_FwLU9_FSDv7tim5NErJqr62pOUhH1PJJn8dAp20GCNmn3ynQlG6f8A5Iw23OdsEZKD_MJD5QppjuMermwFBT8lAbSHS743pXsxesUblYNODKtMvXgYutUaacswgZw_hNYvOf/s400/IMG_2987.JPG" /> <p align="center">I guess I <strong>love</strong> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">VWs</span>. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338466216658573010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiy5tseEaTc3YzS6ca7ep1M5q4HOuU0GwSTnCZS3kTlnelcadrGcBl8ZQ0bHwDJ-A6yFZBES2VQWmkX2Cy2C5JYImKNSMEIvm7HUuR1xF7eP4H_Uu6QTY2_gMeK7j-st6gYqiwi/s400/IMG_2981.JPG" />Okay, okay, I'm obsessed. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 403px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338466223745290594" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0tM9FXp3vX3KHBJbYVJNcrNhM9LBfbtJAvOH2wMp7vBqobc6P0Wdi6HXmmdv11LF-tgzqdDAFgmZB-9OjfSEG9j6FhCEcqfcHbBLObgMSlnyqdBCL-GqF70yj3oXme1u9xDbN/s400/IMG_2985.JPG" /><br />Anyway, I noticed you have a new set available. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338468149822491154" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5eUT4V5pFdsHcFpy8ac_vlxqrr2IMt5J4tb92WRVHlEQIBAfkYT1jcFI2qDQW7lHlRBAkDUj7zqX9vDxMMP8DOH8kiXn_motLjQ2F7pTgHq24KFBxUwf0Ovhyphenhyphen4_se_oS32hpH/s400/IMG_2990.JPG" /><br />...titled CHARLOTTE<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 236px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338468403158912482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTxDi5IoESCny7X8oaMkUfcF8_-BNWEgeSlZSPvYyVIcZfpDfR0AjodW6hPJmx8a82EZaZmxlgQ8-n1bzDUgL6CGry_59ZoSINdZqW74O8XPxN2d1ZmldfOBSbIYyQmyIAmdnt/s400/charlotte+1.jpg" /><br />Are you kidding me?<br />A Volkswagen beetle set called Charlotte?!?<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338468406302537810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsOtNrykn6dC2ysf_zZmLESuOyFF9kUVJCoElkFXrmwvHXF6OE8jWp6KU1lOuyNqdFzc3hOtuHC4dkQaQYT0BezVDbN42X241rrS8HgQYWQXTPQ0PfTMB7AkC7VAVprKXX3cbM/s400/charlotte+3.jpg" /><br />Did I just die and go to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">VW</span> heaven?<img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 248px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338468402939115042" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_6-mJ257OYiIefcrLSURI7OegJ9iqIu6I31DIm8H13nEjv6rUrhah2ow0MHR5LGuPDx9r87RjxURi5qKNLU2SsDJguL6J6ex5_f6A38UeqmdFIl50Ff2WoHDYqlvZkcbbjTZH/s400/charlotte+2.jpg" /><br />Lego, I think I love you. We were meant to be together. Just like two connecting pieces.</p><p align="center">Signed, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Charlottalove</span> </p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-55129247796469400382009-05-13T22:59:00.000-04:002009-05-13T22:57:01.739-04:00Angels and Demon<div align="center">Happy (belated) Mother's Day to all you moms reading this. I hope those loved ones in your life did something to let you know how appreciated you really are. </div><div align="center"><br />Shelly Belly certainly made Mama Mia's day when this arrived.<br />It's 6 angels sitting on a bench. How fitting since Mama Mia and P2 have 6 of us chill'en. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335362867090657138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPHTHI256DntnvZIgNIdHbRqW3mq4EsVfkF-EWFr8PHdnYpvVWIDiPxDbFCJPq6yRH2P2nRsLKf5xadm3OFbf-w250jyIHAVUubIYfxcEs834Ziptlmnlo2n5v1GAVKDLVIq4y/s400/IMG_2958.JPG" /></div><p align="center">I took a good look and, from what I can figure, this angelic group represents us fairly accurately. The first angel is Johnny-Cherie. She's always leaning on someone with her arm linked through theirs. Although this angel isn't linking arms but it's cuddly, just like Johnny. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335362560059445762" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNbAzKyb97WR8DmrL2F46W_ke9YXc__98RVK0hxGxp3Xd1LXQcjg7K95TZ_J1FG4RPTXifxNzH9iYwO9EZ5xKCasbyDpgEGP-I02__8Hn-UqFozkmmUvdgr-NGXdfYwqbD-soW/s400/IMG_2961.JPG" /></p><p align="center">The next angel is me. I'm sitting next to Smelly-Shelly. I've linked my arm and I seem to have a concerned face as I look at Shelly ~ an almost eldest-sister type of concern and love. ...but it's all a show. If anyone in the family is going to 'sympathize' with sarcasm, it's me. I feel that this angel is a bit of a prankster. Meanwhile, Smelly-Shelly, the mature sister at times, seems to look at me with a 'oh, won't you ever grow up?' look. Just like real life in a way.<br />(Isn't that right Smelly-Shelly?) <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335361941783490786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjawmC5tm7-z5gq1Spz-E_nT2Ta6pP3RmveR1lewBk4_svZxs5BTdP1NbVO7wicFzuU0-uc72rb1SabV8XSUfu3HqGQkmWiT03debc3SaUtp2NtxrMxPQ3g_xZoLZuZAw2AvykV/s400/IMG_2963.JPG" /></p><p align="center">Which brings me to Julia Gulia. She and Smelly are the closest in age. They were always together when they were young girls and formed a tight sisterly bond. These two angels are smack dab in the center and seem to share a history. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 255px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335362554740479506" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNiKea01SejnW11-Ihf7J2XssKcOkNpcohxYyo5zF-HZOtNhcwlX-ORds9Bw4DJQaRbxYajFNTzx_vjUkJq82S4fy8YfCUhX4lj8_t5RFcUvNCBwFFc-PYLzAqGKQFQl4js9rq/s400/IMG_2968.JPG" /></p><p align="center">Now, one thing I've never mentioned on this blog is Julia Gulia and her hugs. Man, the girl loves hugs. <em>Especially</em> from Little Boy Blue. Oh, I should mention that Little Boy Blue doesn't really like hugs. <em>Especially</em> ones from Julia Gulia. Which is fitting that Julia Gulia's angel is trying to embrace Little Boy Blue as he tries desperately to push her away from him. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 257px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335361629698969730" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtq34jVX4bkU-jZQaXObs9G8kDTTiRPwF1_r7Fvrl8Q6Fwj5RclFoKTMFCH9bh09BurDM0g9LiJJJATF57C9be8moSwOLlNhnw0pIBL3mG8iFRXrH3WYG0wIUK3iwH4qkifDs7/s400/IMG_2969.JPG" /></p><p align="center">Just one angel left. Looks to me like this angel is bored. He's looking at his fingers as if to imply his cuticles are more important than this silly group activity. The only sibling left is TheDeanInc ...but he couldn't care less about his cuticles. Surely this isn't TheDeanInc. In fact, something's just not right about this angel. It's like it's <em>almost</em> TheDeanInc and yet...something's just...I don't know, I can't put my finger on it. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 224px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335361624134655650" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2347mWpeO_y8GhNrf-buuuWmYoBEu9yqLgAT8dcFpPAgZOFfv1cDHuhUoX_OREinOVyDSKp9AnP-Z-W-QuPcIzsRjukBQyoZRZVkpTG7sFDTAYVYP-7kViBS3cM7GAr1W5TIq/s400/IMG_2970.JPG" /></p><p align="center">TheDeanInc? Is that you? <em>TheDeeeeeeeeeeeeeanInnnnnnnnnnnc</em>? Where are you? </p><p align="center">Oh! There you are! Yes, that's TheDeanInc I know. <img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 224px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335361624571718818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs80KLrVlVXspbziQBjLN-Bxsm9usmHT3qY8ffWpAa4qXMXVIKrBLAx0Vfuf-wIj2_W3u8y_qHQ5REJz9PkO7IYHLOnJFwoDG9RhUMVPjuFXcCbyaBVpRFviTe4Sq5YfFeqdce/s400/IMG_2971.JPG" /></p><p align="center">There you are Mama Mia. Happy Mother's Day from all your angels.<br />And your son.</p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-48195010545458912172009-04-10T16:20:00.001-04:002009-04-10T16:33:00.011-04:00Sense: This Post Makes None<div align="center">I saw this picture again today. <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323158813370391890" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 255px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsn0eNu0WGb40WvOnSTHrPDbHKBJ9LXIRI54_G7Wt9y9gKUgZQi8bSIVco2M-Ju1wzKlIS-0yQYXYNe4zf5hC4s9ZMtOA4hWSwLf9ISBLwtMlt-h2fC9Um08ABFwHbxzyUKQMy/s320/draft_lens1504404module8201770photo_sense_large.jpg" border="0" /><br /></div><div align="center">And then I saw this. </div><div align="center">I can just hear the conversation. Darth Vader is at a party of some sort. The host comes to him and says, "DV, hey man, there's someone I want you to meet. This is Kitty."</div><div align="center"></div><div align="center">[loud inhale and exhale] "Hello Kitty."</div><div align="center">"Hello, Darth."<img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323158816872497746" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 240px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjs09mQpRUXq837VlQAXJXNqNjv4MfxL1-XXttMtd1Std-c0WH-gK13LBxfYLecbQiL_Jjm6FV8t6kvP-08GzW-auhY8H8HLDbpRkE7yYJL8N8AsL1qoWYlIffzTCWBKH3dYCmf/s320/Hello-Kitty-Darth-Vader.jpg" border="0" /></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center">And while I'm making no sense,</div><div align="center"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vecj1Zm2Es8#">Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeere's Chewbacca</a>! </div>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-36580893807442429102009-04-03T09:00:00.001-04:002009-04-03T10:08:44.349-04:00The Mother of All PranksI brought my lunch to school nearly every day when I was young. Mama Mia taught me and TheDeanInc to pack our own lunch the night before a school day. In the morning, all we had to do was grab our lunch box and head to school. TheDeanInc and I hated making our lunches and would try to negotiate this task back to Mama Mia. She rarely consented.<br /><br />One night she offered.<br /><br />TheDeanInc and I were thrilled. Mama Mia was going to make our lunch. Yipee!<br /><br />As if making my lunch weren't already enough, I opened my bag the next day to find chips, some chocolate, yogurt, and a sandwich. I'd hit the jackpot. Yogurt was only for special occasions. Oh I loved yogurt. And chips? February 29th was more common at my house. We <em>never</em> had chips. Ever. And chocolate? My mom's idea of a treat was an apple slice dipped in peanut butter. Chocolate was more unusual than chips.<br /><br />I ignored the questions surrounding my mom's sudden mental state and started eating.<br /><br />The sandwich, probably peanut butter, was fine. I grabbed my bag of Cheetoh chips. I couldn't wait to lick the orange powder off each finger. I opened the bag.<br /><br />Doritos? That was odd.<br /><br />Doritos would be fine, I guess. I couldn't believe the chip company had mixed the bag.<br /><br />Next was the yogurt. My flavor was bubble gum - yes, <em>bubble gum.</em> I opened the container. The plastic seal was missing but I was more concerned with gobbling yummy yogurt than worrying about a silly seal. The flavor was a bit off, though. It tasted more like strawberry than bubble gum.<br /><br />Finally, the chocolate! This was the best lunch <em>ever! </em>I opened my box of Raisinets. They looked different than I remembered but, it'd been awhile. I popped one in my mouth and<br /><br />Milkduds?<br /><br />What <em>was</em> this lunch?<br /><br />After school I discussed some things with TheDeanInc. He'd had a weird lunch as well. In fact, he had Cheetos in his Doritos bag, bubble gum flavored yogurt in his strawberry container, and Raisinets in his MilkDud box.<br /><br />Was he thinking what I was thinking...?<br /><br />We grabbed some paper. We brainstormed our letter to Frito Lay and Nestle. They needed to know they'd made a mistake. Who knew how many bags and boxes were affected. Due to our kindness in alerting them to this mistake, would they consider offering us a year supply of chips and chocolate. Sincerely, us.<br /><br />We proudly showed our work to Mama Mia. She'd be so happy that we worked a solution on our own. And maybe, just maybe, we'd share a bag or two with her.<br /><br />"Guys, do you know what the date is today?"<br />"...no..."<br />"It's the 1st of April. In other words, April Fools!"<br /><br />She'd taken the time to carefully open the chip bags, swap them, and glue the bag shut again. Mama Mia had taken a spatula, completely scrapped each yogurt container into a small cup, and switched the flavors. She'd also opened the chocolate boxes, replaced them with the wrong chocolate, and glued the ends together. <br /><br />She got us. She got us <em>good.</em>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-36929431.post-43168810541735654142009-04-01T08:34:00.002-04:002009-04-02T09:54:16.760-04:00A Thank You Letter<p>Blogger Friends,</p><p>Have I ever told you why I’m hesitant to start projects or goals? It’s ‘the end’ that scares me. The unknown that accompanies any completed task. Sure there is a sense of satisfaction but …what now? Sometimes I fear the end so much that I don’t begin. Take blogging for example. I hesitated for so long before I starting a blog because I didn’t know if I could sustain it. What if I ran out of things to say? What if life got so busy that I neglected what was once my favorite hobby? Those thoughts crippled me.</p><p>I began a blog anyway.</p><p>It’s been a wonderful aspect of my life for the past few years. Honestly, I never expected it to last this long. And so, with much sadness, I face a fear. </p><p>The end of my blog is here.</p><p>What now? I don’t know. I do know this, if you ever are near Athens, Georgia and you want a face to face, real time update of my life, give me a call. I’d love to thank my blog-friends in person for blessing my life.</p><p>~Charlotte</p><p>867-5309</p><p> </p><p align="center">~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p align="center">The joke's over. I'm not leaving.</p>Charlotta-lovehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17694362692847403727noreply@blogger.com15