tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30581328862536795892024-03-18T22:07:31.061-07:00The Expanded MizLandrySometimes, you just want more of my infinitely interesting and hilarious insight.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.comBlogger17125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-1059474194662624642012-07-03T15:46:00.002-07:002012-07-03T16:02:27.856-07:00Pin-up GirlsIt took awhile to get ramped up, but I've now joined the rest of America as a fellow Pinterest addict. On the upside, it's a great way to currate the many things we browse on the Internet, to further deter me from purchasing or subscribing to magazines (sorry magazines, I feel bad about that, but really, I just don't have time to read you), and to collect ideas. The creativity cascading down my feed is astounding.<br />
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On the flip side, tho, let's face it, Pinterest becomes another version of pornography: fantasy homes, crafts, products, stunning weddings, amazing child nursery decor, fancy food. I'm wondering how many projects actually get done. A long time ago, I attended a conference panel where the publisher of Sunset presented. And, she said that they did a study and the difference between Sunset Magazine and Martha Stewart's Living was that the Sunset readers did the projects. So, all you Living subscribers--you're nothing but porn addicts.<br />
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I decided to try and do some of the projects. I am truly inspired by what I'm seeing.<br />
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First, I decided to clean my house and take some photos. I love it when my house is clean. It just seems to go from clean to wreck rather fast.<br />
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Here's the main areas all tidy and looking fun and fab:<br />
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Here's our little living room. Except for the rug and the couch, the rest of the items were found on the street, purchased at garage sales or flea markets, or, as in the Chinese Checkers and the Chagall print, gifted. I love colors. Don't say I didn't warn you. <br />
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The globe is part of my growing globe collection and I got that red chair for $20 at the Alameda Antiques Faire.<br />
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We were given this piano a few year ago. So far, no one in the house has risen up as the next Mozart, but we can still dream. Up until a few days ago, we had a bench, but it was "Goldilocksed" by a gaggle of 6-year-olds during my daughter's birthday party. More on this in a bit...<br />
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I lucked out when I saw this idea on <a href="http://gallery.apartmenttherapy.com/photo/apartment-therapy-joan-hiller/item/342308" target="_blank">Apartment Therapy</a>. I added it to Pinterest and then remembered I had an old suitcase in the garage. The AT idea was for books. I stuck some games in it.<br />
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Another Apartment Therapy idea: <a href="http://www.apartmenttherapy.com/home-projects-for-renters-wall-139653" target="_blank">make stripes on a wall using masking tape</a>. I found some orange tape for cheap on Amazon and here's what greets you after I open our red door and welcome you in. You're peeking into my dining room, too. (Old china cabinet, given to me. All the stuff on top: flea market. The print is a Mark Ryden gyclee print, "<a href="http://www.markryden.com/paintings/two/jajo.html" target="_blank">Jajo, Patron Saint of Clowns</a>." It was my husband's gift to me on our second anniversary (it's the paper year, so that was pretty clever of him!).<br />
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Pinterest also inpsired me to declutter. This god-awful bookcase also collects a lot of crap. I woke up on Sunday and got rid of a bunch of books on Freecycle and pulled out that little drawer thing to store paper and art supplies for the kids.<br />
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Ah, a clean kitchen. I live in this room. Most of the time, I like that.<br />
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Here's our little dining room. I found the sideboard at an estate sale for $50. It's from the 60s, I think and my West Virginia Glass Company collection of Blendo fits in nicely! I have this mish-mash of wooden chairs that will get painted soon. Very soon.<br />
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Now, back to the piano. So, the little princesses broke my bench to smithereens. In their defense, it was very close to falling apart and I'm just glad no one got hurt. But, my daughter just started taking an interest in the piano so I wanted a new bench. Not easy to find a vintage piano bench. I imagine they are pretty abused and go long before the piano. I have been looking for some time. I finally found one for about $40 (more than I wanted, but oh well). When I got it, it was kind of messed up.<br />
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No before picture. I was too impatient.<br />
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I bought some foam and batting and dug out a can of yellow spray paint and a fabric remnant I've been hoping to use.<br />
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My inspiration was this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwwwWyVG8N6164pkqIdUmonR1xS3hFhKKDxfCT6jItV-X1ObPgUWn_Fi4yVJIWFIBbPScDhlCTp5lxc4UGu3RdpKnIDKDRpnACtVuRafgZswgKXT6L5al1lgTbHESVkyB3IXODCkWI6c/s1600/a-PIANO-BENCH-640x468.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwwwWyVG8N6164pkqIdUmonR1xS3hFhKKDxfCT6jItV-X1ObPgUWn_Fi4yVJIWFIBbPScDhlCTp5lxc4UGu3RdpKnIDKDRpnACtVuRafgZswgKXT6L5al1lgTbHESVkyB3IXODCkWI6c/s320/a-PIANO-BENCH-640x468.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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To see how it's really done, you can find the whole post <a href="http://www.stylelist.com/2012/04/19/diy-idea-piano-bench-upholstery_n_1438424.html?just_reloaded=1" target="_blank">here.</a> <br />
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And my result was this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWbNUQ82jSTs7b_MMVcVRqqFRvtlJbh5_HSxpo6OvpwWAG93EnL6PP8SKd4Nf_zLrcha0I2tWbAudgImHj4l5s1XkoexrbZlC37wDMREKX01ai6GBmWMQyZdUpEdd90mmBgCZkFdbayw/s1600/IMG_5385.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWbNUQ82jSTs7b_MMVcVRqqFRvtlJbh5_HSxpo6OvpwWAG93EnL6PP8SKd4Nf_zLrcha0I2tWbAudgImHj4l5s1XkoexrbZlC37wDMREKX01ai6GBmWMQyZdUpEdd90mmBgCZkFdbayw/s320/IMG_5385.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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I'm pretty pleased, as long as I don't use my glasses to check out the photo.<br />
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So, here's to actually doing some of those inspirational projects found on Pinterest!<br />
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<br />lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-87704308974153871522012-06-06T13:12:00.000-07:002012-06-06T21:07:32.940-07:00Nice Work If You Can Get ItAfter merely treading lightly in the work world for the last couple of years, given the state of the economy, I have finally started shopping around for more work. It's been weird to step back and look at my skills and assess what it is that I want to do. I'm surprised about where I'm netting out.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think I'm ready for this commute.</td></tr>
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I was so caught up with the idea of doing something "creative." For so long, I slammed out production and project management tasks while wishing for my big break, I couldn't see straight. I questioned myself. I never had the confidence to go for anything. And, to me, not being a "creative" meant I was nothing more than some sort of parasite.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I once won a Caples Award for some copy I did...and I was a production manager at the time.</td></tr>
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I've changed my tune lately. For one, I'm more practical than I use to be. I love writing, but doing it for my day job is less important to me now. They cynic in me says that working for the man is working for the man no matter what you do. Ad copy, business writing, and the lot of it is a soul-sucking endeavor--hardly the type of writing I want to do. But, the more composed, older, mature and seasoned me has come to realize that it's fun to work with a team and get projects done. Schedules, planning, getting different types of people to agree, pleasing a client, and putting out fires is creative also, and for so long I did a pretty good job at those things.<br />
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Surprisingly, parenthood has given me some new skills that easily apply toward project management. I have to be more organized in my entire life these days. I know how to compartmentalize my tasks. I am not as surprised as I used to be by life's little glitches. And, well, no matter what, it will never be brain surgery.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUmlIE3yceZK_MALNnldhqBfeuysJq0tRnDQsKdo5sAQn5FId1HSe0SR6h_R2L_oC12Yn52PLQgTK0bCECkdSlCNj3kWo30qeOBE6QJ0dHC_vLHUvWDHHii6hpYvf35KV9xeVsP2rkjo/s1600/IMG_0906.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJUmlIE3yceZK_MALNnldhqBfeuysJq0tRnDQsKdo5sAQn5FId1HSe0SR6h_R2L_oC12Yn52PLQgTK0bCECkdSlCNj3kWo30qeOBE6QJ0dHC_vLHUvWDHHii6hpYvf35KV9xeVsP2rkjo/s320/IMG_0906.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Parenting, herding cats, project management. It's all the same.</td></tr>
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So, the job hunting season is upon me. My resume is circulating. I'm talking to people. I have my list of things I want out of a job and despite the continual dismal reports of the job market, I'm feeling hopeful. The tech industry is HOPPING right now and I live right in the middle of it. I'd be stupid to pass up opportunities.<br />
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Wish me luck.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-82466394434220864792012-05-27T14:05:00.002-07:002012-05-27T14:06:56.857-07:00Move along, Nothing to See HereMy goal as I write this blog is to give the universe bad writing, incomplete thoughts, stupid ideas and my take on my mundane life. I've spent so much time and energy wanting some perfect genius to spring from my computer, onto a canvas, or as I get sworn into a political office where I will lead us to a better world.<br />
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I think the only thing I've accomplished is to just drive around with a proverbial load of horseshit.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgTh_bx39VAB9v5aIAxqkyKeizto6gjzSBtppqv7_-Mx8A8DcEqRBAbQTIaE9LUsSsnz2lfMlWqvAEDtZsocdh-glcAfE5p9HS03h_LRWXPLbb5933Aiy417ArX9W1Ch3afRNv52rl4I/s1600/Cora+and+Mary+Mule.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDgTh_bx39VAB9v5aIAxqkyKeizto6gjzSBtppqv7_-Mx8A8DcEqRBAbQTIaE9LUsSsnz2lfMlWqvAEDtZsocdh-glcAfE5p9HS03h_LRWXPLbb5933Aiy417ArX9W1Ch3afRNv52rl4I/s400/Cora+and+Mary+Mule.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I realize that these are mules and not horses. But, hopefully you get the idea.</td></tr>
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Now that I know I will not be the voice of my generation, hang my art in some great gallery, sing with a band, or do any of the other things I thought my enormous brain, my writing, my art, and my unique (hahaha) political philosophy, I need to just retire. I'm done with all that.<br />
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It's time to create for me. My own well-being depends on it and it's high time I get into shape.<br />
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Therapy through the years has allowed me to clear away some really crappy psychological clutter and I'm trying to upgrade a bit. One thing that I have a problem with is fighting my inner judge. This judge puts Judge Judy to shame with it's wit and it's forceful truths and leaves me stranded and drowning in unfinished business. So, it's time to shift my way of looking at my desires to do something creative and have fun.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSfhhGUc6pwB05pBJeyTtMZBJQD8Z7yaPVpNLy2gU1hzEFPkhRVewXmevnGPeFonGghH2cH9EKBP9fuHMjh9JkVawr8O__K6JAhXr32Dek_7C-DH7B7iz-CFkw39qJtDpZawUzNyNCjE/s1600/lynn+conquers+philadephia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgSfhhGUc6pwB05pBJeyTtMZBJQD8Z7yaPVpNLy2gU1hzEFPkhRVewXmevnGPeFonGghH2cH9EKBP9fuHMjh9JkVawr8O__K6JAhXr32Dek_7C-DH7B7iz-CFkw39qJtDpZawUzNyNCjE/s400/lynn+conquers+philadephia.jpg" width="266" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">At one time, I held so much promise.</td></tr>
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There are three things that alleviate stress in my daily life: writing, creating art, and exercise. How weird to realize this. The problem all along is when I did these things with specific goals in mind, I hated them and these were the things I always put on the back burner thinking that if they weren't tied to big goals, then surely they were a waste of time. <br />
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I decided to take a more spiritual approach and do those things simply to do them. No strings attached.<br />
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So, here is where I practice my writing. It is mostly bad, definitely unedited, and stripped of any pretension. I merely want to write, to blog, to screw around on blogger. That is all.<br />
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I will also be putting some art into practice as well as exercise. All at a base level. I just know now that I need to do these things just for me. It's an experiment. We'll see what happens. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhAKhUUxRNWEigt0cz1WlJt2cwl4rFpHesqiRlV02I4j-0s7rXXPnk5oh4BPgEOAJeos3fFb0edOR_FhoQZwkzMjMom5IPGNhyHDELt_DPN091JqIJMppe794NhptoskTuEu5J2TvNy4/s1600/at+edgar+allan+poe+graveyard+1989.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzhAKhUUxRNWEigt0cz1WlJt2cwl4rFpHesqiRlV02I4j-0s7rXXPnk5oh4BPgEOAJeos3fFb0edOR_FhoQZwkzMjMom5IPGNhyHDELt_DPN091JqIJMppe794NhptoskTuEu5J2TvNy4/s320/at+edgar+allan+poe+graveyard+1989.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I think I was more creative when I made fun of death.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASP3MvO35Q-J5P7SpfAI8F8Wr8zQN4RmvirEsT_YhBX59z4SpPlH5zwHAighQ_CqarPajFd73gINQFgqfgbYsKggpmya4E3dD0cCkOXu591bTadzt61T0LPM3W0gMX8sK_0EqM4xOvuY/s1600/hairspray+party+1988.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhASP3MvO35Q-J5P7SpfAI8F8Wr8zQN4RmvirEsT_YhBX59z4SpPlH5zwHAighQ_CqarPajFd73gINQFgqfgbYsKggpmya4E3dD0cCkOXu591bTadzt61T0LPM3W0gMX8sK_0EqM4xOvuY/s320/hairspray+party+1988.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Some of my best ideas involved dressing up for theme parties.</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNIbWUbPUd1Y9n-UKm_DeDDUJPrZ4ovBlRqxd4eNDMYhhlKbJl1JmtTXY2lMMPinDo-Y_WMgcwZBXpi0kg5PQUYFS7PLp6IEwMF2_sGyd8kMgrnkluvl2qzNAq9J4nVRJgWd4xq6NFRA/s1600/me+during+my+louise+brooks+phase.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNIbWUbPUd1Y9n-UKm_DeDDUJPrZ4ovBlRqxd4eNDMYhhlKbJl1JmtTXY2lMMPinDo-Y_WMgcwZBXpi0kg5PQUYFS7PLp6IEwMF2_sGyd8kMgrnkluvl2qzNAq9J4nVRJgWd4xq6NFRA/s320/me+during+my+louise+brooks+phase.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Attitude and a good haircut was all I needed at one time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-88948849477729951182012-05-23T09:11:00.001-07:002012-05-23T09:18:13.753-07:001968My mom was here last week for a bunch of family events, but we had time to check out the 1968 exhibit at the Oakland Museum. I knew I'd love the history of it, but it was better than I expected. Loved what was curated and they did such a good job of conveying the them of how things changed radically and how this change was brought into the living rooms of America. Such a fascinating time and it turns out, many of my favorite films came out that year in including the original "The Producers." <br />
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When you walk in, you enter a 1960s living room with TV and a giant Huey sitting there.<br />
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The details were just amazing. Loved the crafted lampshade with the floral print and rick-rack.<br />
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I so wanted a Mrs. Beasley doll. I remember watching "A Family Affair" in prime time (gah, I'm old). I also wanted to live in a high rise apartment and have my own Mr. French.<br />
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The artifacts were TO DIE for. Seriously. Those pins. The sunglasses. The groovy wallpaper. Want!<br />
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Man on man on man.<br />
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<br />lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-51270920869380981872012-05-22T23:39:00.002-07:002012-05-22T23:39:30.221-07:00My blogs are scattered like ashes...<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm nothing special, but I am still kinda fun.</td></tr>
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There is one constant about me that I have figured out. I love ideas and starting things, but sticking to them. Well, that's another story. At this point, the only thing that I seemed to have stuck with for a long period of time is my marriage.<br />
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I have been trying too hard to blog and after going back and reading this one, I'm thinking I need to get off my high horse and kill my stupid dreams of somehow becoming famous by blogging on some specific thing. I'm not hip. I'm not an expert on anything and I've never just had any sort of hyper focus on anything to really follow the prescribed idea of what blogs should be.<br />
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So to hell with that.<br />
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At one time, long ago in the early days of the internet and email, I got a job in San Francisco and started writing weekly emails to my friends and family. I'm truly astounded at how unselfconsciously I wrote. Even to the point where I'm kind of freaked out at how open and honest I was in those emails. But, I look back and think it was some of my best, kick ass writing ever.<br />
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Now that I'm slumping through middle age, I need to just say shit. And that's what I'm going to do. So, goodbye food blog, and the one that is sort of a cool mom's night out blog. So long to my dreams of blogging about being a moderate liberal who thinks it's all bs.<br />
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I need to just observe and write and stop trying to be the voice of my generation. All I have are my words. I'll scatter them across the virtual world and let them float away into binary code infinity.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-54272474502489305622010-11-29T08:36:00.000-08:002010-11-29T09:34:44.360-08:00Holiday Texas StyleWe had a great Thanksgiving in Texas with my brother's family. The kids loved being with the cousins and we ate great food, watched a lot of football, and came home well-rested and ready for the next leg of the holiday season.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HXok9uxQDtyC3UPRpY0AmtWUfgxCVAQfz4uPvebFJtpDehFAntggXs-P9oukdaa7fxYR0tuQi_o6ftAexmyIidWJPOfI1D_enEIky3VqP4u5YCYU3pyhiSNbDGjBBuQaGiypzRW5m4k/s1600/IMG_0658.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8HXok9uxQDtyC3UPRpY0AmtWUfgxCVAQfz4uPvebFJtpDehFAntggXs-P9oukdaa7fxYR0tuQi_o6ftAexmyIidWJPOfI1D_enEIky3VqP4u5YCYU3pyhiSNbDGjBBuQaGiypzRW5m4k/s320/IMG_0658.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545014348127172914" border="0" /></a>Houston holds a really cute Thanksgiving Day parade complete with floats, marching bands, low riders, and balloons.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMsOaXQFzyrjhhBpa3zmkRm0VqO6jwm8HUeviMdeOe3tW48tqqcvyE-rc3OTyYehSXChm883hI6tJyPJnff8UXgJhsWXFhPhUEWsckSNzH-WVOYL_Siy2hxXpW_SiMVG6fp2RqStgxPw/s1600/IMG_0627.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKMsOaXQFzyrjhhBpa3zmkRm0VqO6jwm8HUeviMdeOe3tW48tqqcvyE-rc3OTyYehSXChm883hI6tJyPJnff8UXgJhsWXFhPhUEWsckSNzH-WVOYL_Siy2hxXpW_SiMVG6fp2RqStgxPw/s320/IMG_0627.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545014334087735890" border="0" /></a>Don't the kids look so cozy posing next to the big tree in their summer clothes?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8zkd9bLNYN7m_QViDUd8uUu-2uCsX11VQtr24NqQznNO-UGQrIu_0Z4xWsRXvlpPE8cH6H6ZRxRWJc20-wDPh8pFS1YaWbJ9t99FdFbkdqcR5BfZZ92KsBrM4lUTpOcFjDNme9m3pug/s1600/IMG_0598.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw8zkd9bLNYN7m_QViDUd8uUu-2uCsX11VQtr24NqQznNO-UGQrIu_0Z4xWsRXvlpPE8cH6H6ZRxRWJc20-wDPh8pFS1YaWbJ9t99FdFbkdqcR5BfZZ92KsBrM4lUTpOcFjDNme9m3pug/s320/IMG_0598.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545014321283249106" border="0" /></a>This red swing hung beautifully in the museum district near the Mark Rothko Chapel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3fjnLOigT1CHwUbBhQToACLqPRtgy51DSazfTECD2b1iFBxNrz69-N2I9_OONkgVVkhRjdhXqmuxayKNcXHpx148mFKQlTTKDXRfD-H-lEQSMnSqkKCW4cx3q4s_X9-RswoABxzxCZk/s1600/IMG_0593.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm3fjnLOigT1CHwUbBhQToACLqPRtgy51DSazfTECD2b1iFBxNrz69-N2I9_OONkgVVkhRjdhXqmuxayKNcXHpx148mFKQlTTKDXRfD-H-lEQSMnSqkKCW4cx3q4s_X9-RswoABxzxCZk/s320/IMG_0593.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545014311242229042" border="0" /></a>The Houston Children's Museum is wonderful. The kids did NOT want to leave. Not even to eat or go to the bathroom!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliyBSlo5SaoHi_iudocCXCRfiEEzZ6MPhIBAdQkC8YYKNhYdLy3skffN0Ji2bMJ_tPzuCHrsLjEQ6Tli2k4W0hjGgyt3mOFl1jjqc0OZZszvlkuqpvz6zcQ9QkkRubLJkB6U9jVoc_MY/s1600/IMG_0592.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiliyBSlo5SaoHi_iudocCXCRfiEEzZ6MPhIBAdQkC8YYKNhYdLy3skffN0Ji2bMJ_tPzuCHrsLjEQ6Tli2k4W0hjGgyt3mOFl1jjqc0OZZszvlkuqpvz6zcQ9QkkRubLJkB6U9jVoc_MY/s320/IMG_0592.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545014298154085298" border="0" /></a>On Tuesday, prior to Thanksgiving, we joined the Landrys' for gingerbread makin'.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDeUXdPuXea_uo6oqDDAKliSdMMcfB0rU2hK6ZD5hlFczMTDDSUlFqBTcELpTAfS-DIMgYCf3k50VETx4rTQhOLHFOrDIxG66zs_wOcO67nwRAgHSHbJ4tDJaOgVoziZiuaoj5SZwJk3M/s1600/IMG_0486.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDeUXdPuXea_uo6oqDDAKliSdMMcfB0rU2hK6ZD5hlFczMTDDSUlFqBTcELpTAfS-DIMgYCf3k50VETx4rTQhOLHFOrDIxG66zs_wOcO67nwRAgHSHbJ4tDJaOgVoziZiuaoj5SZwJk3M/s320/IMG_0486.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545013648779439826" border="0" /></a>We grabbed a little inner peace at the Mark Rothko Chapel. Such a great little spot in Houston.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHH28aoRaEvCh8F4TCn5odpXalKNz30GMhe_R77MGaizjSUtX18R5GCNYDRGvJ6gJbOZOFUfMb_COHD2ObwoNHQWg1WGOL65hnqpxBg87ak2MmVCItHbZT5Gk5MsGiW-cw3ryf4z3nxw8/s1600/IMG_0483.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHH28aoRaEvCh8F4TCn5odpXalKNz30GMhe_R77MGaizjSUtX18R5GCNYDRGvJ6gJbOZOFUfMb_COHD2ObwoNHQWg1WGOL65hnqpxBg87ak2MmVCItHbZT5Gk5MsGiW-cw3ryf4z3nxw8/s320/IMG_0483.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545013637848098034" border="0" /></a>Our little astronauts got to play at NASA Space Center, too!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7Ddy_5psw2QZaLVQqLQUYhpKmHMxmnvinkWN5Mff93rheQKmWqtMSq2gMxYD1Ksgy2Yaa10CD6LyoCuuFrSMT_SZ9eLzaVecIiXs93m9R15loBlBKEvBiS1hVMTYZbgRiC6rVdM32bU/s1600/IMG_0482.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjG7Ddy_5psw2QZaLVQqLQUYhpKmHMxmnvinkWN5Mff93rheQKmWqtMSq2gMxYD1Ksgy2Yaa10CD6LyoCuuFrSMT_SZ9eLzaVecIiXs93m9R15loBlBKEvBiS1hVMTYZbgRiC6rVdM32bU/s320/IMG_0482.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545013631869731298" border="0" /></a>This boy Elroy is a bit wary of his helmet!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HsXMgyBMRT8ZHmKN1PybYpgE4wGfq1kjuIKmgWeWEPzO55vOaTzStfrtALoI7nE63_hHbtmacHdQW_mYVQEofdZ-AsDLHt28B1aGR_gKcMt5ckSdTfE_3CalrOz8VPSjNjaKrtwSIWA/s1600/IMG_0467.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HsXMgyBMRT8ZHmKN1PybYpgE4wGfq1kjuIKmgWeWEPzO55vOaTzStfrtALoI7nE63_hHbtmacHdQW_mYVQEofdZ-AsDLHt28B1aGR_gKcMt5ckSdTfE_3CalrOz8VPSjNjaKrtwSIWA/s320/IMG_0467.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545013627514326242" border="0" /></a>No Thanksgiving is complete without a visit from the ice cream truck to beat the November heat!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xasylEjIpwc2YuNhe6jx4RJVEy2w3oOolslhzfTMCsD09EzC7m31JB_VZoCoVEjKas3zz45vm6EFtIcABU0-0p4DfGlaOStEfbTUsjCfIpSMFpAXDVzJwieQV1pUw5eUyCJhYRnURiY/s1600/IMG_0466.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xasylEjIpwc2YuNhe6jx4RJVEy2w3oOolslhzfTMCsD09EzC7m31JB_VZoCoVEjKas3zz45vm6EFtIcABU0-0p4DfGlaOStEfbTUsjCfIpSMFpAXDVzJwieQV1pUw5eUyCJhYRnURiY/s320/IMG_0466.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545013613077303698" border="0" /></a>My dad made this cool game based on what is apparently a traditional Texas pastime: the game "Washers." The rules seem to have a lot of flexibility. It should be called "Diplomacy" given the amount of debate and negotiation that takes place in the constant revising of the rules.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-QQlH_q4IFwk9eV0v_n5LbsBO-NSkOmVe3VccIIiWB6xEHBLZBmPLUpKvz-CJRx_kNtydQlw7iZgJIquywYmOAJLzYJsro8i9eHeHSKgJkDikk7I6Gu9M1F5Xx6dhl3eetH0KxGsr3s/s1600/IMG_0455.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn-QQlH_q4IFwk9eV0v_n5LbsBO-NSkOmVe3VccIIiWB6xEHBLZBmPLUpKvz-CJRx_kNtydQlw7iZgJIquywYmOAJLzYJsro8i9eHeHSKgJkDikk7I6Gu9M1F5Xx6dhl3eetH0KxGsr3s/s320/IMG_0455.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5545013134378811906" border="0" /></a><br />My brother's tailgate buddies brought all their gear and we sat in the driveway with outdoor TVs and ate. A lot. Armadillo Eggs, cranberry salsa, nachos, shrimp wrapped in bacon, chicken in white sauce. Yum. Who needs veggies?lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-25606942689564686552010-07-19T11:43:00.000-07:002010-07-19T12:53:10.950-07:00Playing Tourist (origins)I grew up in a small, small, small town in rural south Louisiana. It was probably better than your average small town because we were Cajun and felt somewhat special, somewhat insecure, somewhat isolated. We ate different food. We talked funny. <br /><br />One summer, my daddy said that if we can spend all that money and time exploring other states, we should do it in our own state. We spent our family vacation driving around Louisiana. I will never forget that trip. I was around 9 or 10 and we set off on a week long journey through the Sportsman's Paradise. <br /><br />It was fun to be familiar and unfamiliar with the place simultaneously. We drove West to Lake Charles, the Acadian Parishes, up toward Toledo Bend, to Shreveport and Bossier City, Monroe, down through Central Louisiana, Baton Rouge, Hammond. We left out New Orleans and our swampy homeland because we covered those areas on Sunday drives and weekends. <br /><br />I loved the antebellum homes. I remember seeing the beautiful False River. We visited the Monroe Zoo and an Acadian Village. At Shadows on the Teche, I was reprimanded by a stern docent for touching a piece of furniture. I leaned on a chair, rapt in the docent's story and she called me out. My mother, not one for sticking up for me when I got in trouble, was really mad. <br /><br />We stayed at a tiny dive motel in the town of Many and I saw my first ever vibrating bed. <br /><br />Our state was just as interesting as other places in the country, we learned. We saw gardens, met people, learned about our history and the physical act of riding those roads helped me in later years because if you told me you were from even the dinkiest town in Louisiana, even when I was in college, I could almost always say I had been through there once. <br /><br />My parents loved doing this sort of thing out of shear curiosity. No hipster ideals. No desire to check things off a list. They simply felt it was important to know your own place. Dining at mom and pop restaurants was a way of life and it shaped me in the years to come. I don't seek out the out of the way spots to "be cool." I honestly enjoy it and am interested in it. <br /><br />I think we need to keep that spirit of the open road, of getting there, rather then being there. Stop thinking of rural areas or the middle of the country as places you drive through, gas up, or worse, fly over. If we're going to burn fossil fuels in this country, at least let's use it for good reason...to connect, to learn, to explore.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-4119200054137575812010-05-13T10:52:00.000-07:002010-05-13T11:03:21.134-07:00I Wish You PeaceMy friend, A, is dying. <br /><br />This hurts. It has hurt for her and all of us since she was diagnosed and my heart continually breaks as I enter a new stage of grief in this process. My heart breaks knowing that since her first surgery, she has not had a life, she has been butchered and tortured, and smothered by her loved ones. <br /><br />I am trying to figure out the meaning of all this. A and my father-in-law (died in February) are/were not spiritual people. I am not saying that we all need to believe in God. I dabble in my half-assed belief and still can't stand and deliver on the faith thing. But, having a spirituality on some level is better than despair. The despair is as real and hard as the cancer that invaded both of them. My father-in-law, while not ready to die, was at least equipped with the knowledge that he was older and had lived his life. A, on the other hand, is younger than I am. She is the symbol, the poster-child of the unfairness and utter meaninglessness of it all. Really. We all needed her around for at least another 20 years. I'm being generous, here, Providence!<br /><br />I realized that A is the first friend that was close to me to die of disease. Slowly, agonizingly, and with total awareness. Other friends I've lost have been through accidents, freakish things that plucked them suddenly and dramatically from life. In those instances, we were sad and shocked, but somehow able to feel immune to it. It was not us. It was them. They who died by accident. With A, I'm realizing that I could get cancer too. I could die. Children are left without a mother or a father a LOT. I'm noticing this, more and more--friends who lost a parent when they were young. This scares ME. It becomes about ME. The lost of my friend, but also the lost of the great, wonderful, necessary me. I feel so selfish and horrible when I think this. <br /><br />I'm trying to learn. I'm trying to learn the right words to use. I have made many mistakes. I am trying to live my life and be funny without seeming like I don't care. This is so hard. I'm trying to teach my kids to keep their comments to themselves. They do not. I'm trying to understand the complexities of the family dynamic. I don't like getting involved in these things. I think about my crazy early years where I lived and worked around people like me: free, healthy, disconnected, clueless. Those days are over. We have entered a new phase that includes death, deteriorating bodies, and much pain. <br /><br />I used to wish and pray for immortality. Now, I pray for peace.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-74617063650447222132010-04-07T19:23:00.000-07:002010-04-07T19:29:27.078-07:00Death in the Family, Part II (current)It's been over a month since my father-in-law passed away. The initial rush of it all seemed to go rather smoothly for us all and it seems like we all got back into day-to-day living pretty quickly. <br /><br />Every time we see my mother-in-law, she is shedding more of Phil's things our way. We were touched to go through the contents of his wallet: photos of his kids, notes to himself, and a worn piece of paper with "I PHIL GRAYSON LEAVE ALL MY WORDLY POSSESSIONS TO MY WIFE, JANE." It was dated the year 1968. My father-in-law was unsentimental and whenever possible deflected conversation to his facts on Hollywood history, his latest political obsession, or various tidbits from what he had been reading. On occasion he talked about the old days in Torronto and he had a regular schtick of sound bites from being in San Francisco in the 1960s. Mostly, he had the same menu of things to quip and he repeated them. A lot. <br /><br />So the contents of the wallet was touching to us. No money. Just pieces of what he really cared about. <br /><br />***<br /><br />The other day, David received an email from a perspective agent interested in Phil's scripts. This made David tear up. <br /><br />***<br />Another box of items from Phil revealed silent photos of him with his first wife along with the paperwork where they legally changed their last names to Grayson from Bloomberg. We always knew he changed his name but did not know he did it with his ex wife. Mysterious. <br /><br />***lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-10508008455763793762010-02-27T08:52:00.000-08:002010-02-27T09:17:34.576-08:00Death in the Family, Part I (a flashback)I never thought that the first real dead body I'd see up close, with no frou-frou dressings would be my father-in-law (post on this to come, but this flashback came out). I grew up watching people die, but was never there for the moment. And, frankly, it's been a long time since someone in close proximity has died. Family members die far away and I buy a plane ticket for a funeral. Or not. There are many I have missed. My last big funeral was my Aunt Diane's. It was very sad. We all still miss her terribly. I saw her as she got sicker, but when I arrived that last time, all I saw was her coffin, closed shut, with a photo of her on top. <br /><br />We're mostly Catholic and she was Southern Baptist, so it was different than the funerals we had growing up. But, we still had it. The ritual. Without any big gaps waiting for an 'appropriate time' or godless remembrances. She passed away, we came. Right away. Aunt Diane, dying of cancer, and becoming even more faithful in the process, was able to plan her last party, complete with a healthy dose of fire and brimstone proselytizing to all the Catholics in the audience who were thumbing rosaries in secret. She was very worried about us, about our very souls and because she loved us, it seemed a heaven without us all with her, wouldn't be heaven at all.<br /><br />But, the constants were there. We were in the Church that she took me when my Uncles was out of town and she could skip out on Mass. I knew nearly everyone there. The tiny country Church was packed to the rafters with family and friends, some who had also traveled from their own far away settlements. I even saw my sixth grade band director. <br /><br />After the funeral in Raceland, filled with preaching and good old timey gospel music, we went home, took a breather, and drove nearly two hours north to Central Louisiana, in a tiny, tiny town where we buried her with her family in a lovely old graveyard. At the chapel, we listened to yet another sermon about how we needed to accept the Lord Jesus Christ as our personal savior and more old timey music. We laughed. A lot. <br /><br />Years earlier, Aunt Diane went back to her childhood faith without expressing any judgment on her adopted Cajun family. While she raised her own daughter, she dutifully took her to Mass and sent her to Catholic school. But, after some years of feeling lost, before she got sick, she went back to her old timey place, and we all feel that she found herself again and it was that true faith, one that didn't express judgment on those around her that gave her peace, right up to her end. It was profound to see. <br /><br />After the second funeral and the burial, we all went to the church hall for a traditional southern post-funeral feast. One that she would have appreciated all the more. Aunt Diane's family are a gregarious bunch and they joked and told stories even while they cried. Photos were taken out and we laughed some more. My Aunt was famous for slipping photos of herself when, she gave you a frame as a gift and many people never put other pictures in those frames. <br /><br />It was a healing process. And we grateful to share that time. In my family, when you marry into it (often even if you get divorced and remarried), the inlaws become one and through the years we felt just as much a part of her sisters and brothers and I hope they felt the same way about us. <br /><br />My aunt died in Nov. 2005. We all still miss her and talk about her as if she'll show up at a crawfish boil, bringing her famous brownies. Or, Thanksgiving, her cornbread dressing.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-61918277900919940262010-01-22T10:40:00.000-08:002010-01-22T10:45:33.861-08:00Someone get a cattle prod<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYsnWo5W6xfxfR5Q5P_99KyhtAuUvjfFv5n_0A_Lew5MjEDtYFQu990uCjUvXcsfLA_XNXQclN5YH6X4jRd_7ZVh6foiJxazgfBHkPb2yCiwimqCE-QdPh3IBrfr1ncMmhKw8Hcr5j6s/s1600-h/sc002a6893.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtYsnWo5W6xfxfR5Q5P_99KyhtAuUvjfFv5n_0A_Lew5MjEDtYFQu990uCjUvXcsfLA_XNXQclN5YH6X4jRd_7ZVh6foiJxazgfBHkPb2yCiwimqCE-QdPh3IBrfr1ncMmhKw8Hcr5j6s/s320/sc002a6893.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5429636235962251186" /></a> I'm already bombing on my resolution to blog once a week. I'm still bogged down with trying to find a voice, figuring out what to write about and tick tick tick, time flies by and while I'm overthinking this damned thing, I don't write. <br /><br />No more illusions of grandeur. No more caring that anyone reads my blog. I want to write. I need to write. If something spews out on this blog thing, then I can revamp it and send it to a "real" publication. Right? Right. <br /><br />This photo is from 1975, I think. I'm about 10 and a half years old and it was taken at my Aunt Nelwyn's first wedding. My mom and dad are so young. In 1975, my dad was a mere 31 and my mom 29. Amazing. They look so cute. My brother is two years younger, but, as you can see, we were roughly the same size...until puberty hit and he got beanstalky. Later, he bulked up. <br /><br />I don't think I got much taller, being the runt in the family. But, alas, I bulked up too!lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-55761063876234901282009-11-21T08:42:00.000-08:002009-11-21T08:53:00.098-08:00Thanksgiving Prep I: Sweet Potato CrunchBy default, I'm in charge of bringing the "Orange" food to the Thanksgiving table. One dish is a tradition and is required (and I'm told that my safety is not guaranteed if I don't); the other one is one I'm going to adapt from one of my favorite dishes. First, today, I will give you the tried and true recipe. It was my grandmother's. It's actually quite simple and not exactly unique to the Creole kitchen, but as I've gone beyond the Mason Dixon line, I've passed it along to people who just love it. I really don't know why people put up with gross sweet potato recipes. <br /><br />Here it is: <br /><br />Sweet Potato Crunch<br /><br />(in memory of Virginia Eliser)<br /><br />3 cups peeled, cooked, mashed sweet potatoes or yams<br />3/4 cup white sugar<br />2 eggs, beaten<br />1/2 tsp salt<br />1/2 stick butter, melted<br />1/2 cup milk (or buttermilk for a slightly different flavor)<br />1/2 tsp vanilla<br /><br />Topping<br />1-1/2 cups brown sugar<br />2/3 cups flour<br />2 cups pecans, finely chopped<br />1/2 stick butter, melted<br /><br />Combine sweet potatoes, sugar, salt, eggs, butter, milk, and vanilla in a mixer and mix until smooth. Pour into 9"x13" greased casserole. Combine ingredients for topping and spread over potato batter. Bake in an oven preheated at 350 degrees for 35 minutes or until topping has set. Serves 20. <br /><br /><br />What I really love about this recipe is that is states that it "serves 20" indicative of how big our portions have gotten over the years. <br /><br />I rarely have leftovers.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-49209186761248978992009-11-18T21:02:00.001-08:002009-11-18T21:08:12.684-08:00Nine Years MarriedLet's face it, I was no blushing bride. <br /><br />David and I were married at a beautiful old mansion in San Francisco on November 18, 2000. On that night, we felt so much love, it would make your average cynic sick to death. I was 35; nearly 36. Laid off from a dot com ad agency job. <br /><br />I cradle-snatched David. He was just over 30. What a baby! <br /><br />We went into this marriage with eyes wide open. We were beyond fairy tale notions and from the get go, we fostered an equal partnership. This was further solidified when I was laid off one week before the wedding. I had these firm ideas about keeping our money separate, about two careers. Losing my job right before we made our public vows, seems to pull us in together, as one. <br /><br />And you know what? It worked. We really are a team. Nine years later, I still love my man and can't imagine life without us together, a solid corporation with our two little underlings clammoring for attention. <br /><br />It's good. I'm happy to be here nine years later with this walk down the aisle being the smartest thing I ever did!<br /><br /><br /><img style="visibility:hidden;width:0px;height:0px;" border=0 width=0 height=0 src="http://counters.gigya.com/wildfire/IMP/CXNID=2000002.0NXC/bHQ9MTI1ODYwNjgyMjkzOCZwdD*xMjU4NjA2OTM*NjE2JnA9Mzg2MzYxJmQ9Jm49YmxvZ2dlciZnPTEmbz1mMmEwYTkxMjE2NTM*ZjM2YjVmNTc1YjA1MTI1YzU1OSZvZj*w.gif" /><a href="http://s51.photobucket.com/albums/f378/mizlandry/?action=view¤t=weddingpicreduc.jpg" target="_blank"><img src="http://i51.photobucket.com/albums/f378/mizlandry/weddingpicreduc.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"></a>lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-74665243289568751332009-11-16T20:39:00.000-08:002009-11-16T20:49:45.678-08:00Lifestyle ChangingAfter a year in the doldrums, I think I am officially in the process of making some significant lifestyle changes. Some of the lifestyle changes have been foisted upon me these lovely times we live in: I've been pretty much unemployed with the occasional freelance project since may and other situations in our lives have me back to living as well as we can somewhat impoverishly. Some, I have to implement myself. The crazy circumstances we found ourselves in, caused me to send any kind of healthy living into the toilet. This means that my high hopes of losing weight this year, pretty much did not materialize. I didn't focus on it for anything after May. Until then, I had actually dropped 10 pounds. <br /><br />It took awhile for us to figure out the shift in our economic lives. But, we've managed to stay afloat and at the 11th hour, it turned out I could get unemployment. That was nothing short of a miracle. But, now, we can make it. Miles is socked away at kindergarten half days and Audrey gets to attend her preschool once a week in exchange for odd jobs that I do for them. I also found a pretty cool mommy and me class in the 'hood where we sing songs, play, do crafts, and learn things. I like it. <br /><br />I have hit a nice rhythm with domestic life. I clean the house, do the laundry, run the errands, prepare the healthy mom dinners. It's not so bad. I like it, even. I don't really WANT to work right now unless it's on my own terms. This last part is a bit difficult. I've had a few interviews but nothing has happened yet. I am getting freelance projects as it seems the economy improves. Truthfully, freelancing is the best thing for me right now. We'll see. <br /><br />I got things in order enough, I was finally able to focus on what I always put last on the priority list: myself. I just can't ignore the weight I've gained and the utterly crappy way I feel toting this excess baggage around. This propelled me to begin going to the gym again and to walk sheepishly back to my Weight Watchers meeting. <br /><br />Ugh. <br /><br />As usual, I wasn't able to lose all my weight in one week. Damn that! But, I have to say, I'm slowly doing the things I'm supposed to be doing. Cutting out the stuff, watching portions, exercising. And, it's great. I love it. My hope is to cross this god-awful birthday I have coming at the end of January 20 pounds lighter than I was on October 27. We'll see. In the meantime, I'm finding some rather tasty healthy recipes. Who knew cauliflower with cumin and lemon zest roasted in the oven would be so delish. <br /><br />It is.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-47221492102607733292009-10-08T09:57:00.000-07:002009-10-08T13:39:01.910-07:00Biloxi, 1969<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnjId2PQB50bMaVN-kjnt16VkQAoyoQtkSw1HoDeGhZ5DrWSxYTDMKkuDhbUZLaAIb8ZPhZZ0rJ2RfGQpTez5Pb95VrZlMJ8EFj9xDjX4orWB1eA9WWyV0qGc_ZWz4XzMZZvJwnbcYgs/s1600-h/biloxikidpool_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 317px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQnjId2PQB50bMaVN-kjnt16VkQAoyoQtkSw1HoDeGhZ5DrWSxYTDMKkuDhbUZLaAIb8ZPhZZ0rJ2RfGQpTez5Pb95VrZlMJ8EFj9xDjX4orWB1eA9WWyV0qGc_ZWz4XzMZZvJwnbcYgs/s320/biloxikidpool_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5390280250061636050" /></a><br /><br />(First in a series on family vacation memories).<br /><br />My summer of '69 was spent along the Biloxi Gulf Coast. I was four, my brother was two, and my cousin Jeff was about 18 months old and an only child for a very brief moment in his life.<br /><br />I'm sure this vacation was a big deal at the time. My dad owned a very well-maintained 1963 Buick, probably his only possession of any value prior to his marriage to my mother when he was just 21. Since having my own kids, I understand the sense of freedom and promise they must have felt after being chained to the difficult life of having babies. Babies really cramp the style of people who like the social life; who want to hit the road in 1963 Buicks; who are still young.<br /><br />In 1969, my brother was newly potty trained and this meant it would be a lot easier to hit the beach, stay in a motel. We all went in one car with my daddy driving, his first-cousin, Donald, riding shotgun, smoking his pipe. Kurt got the place of honor in the middle of those two, a mini man among giants, free of safety seats and restraints. In the wide back seat, "Miss Clara," (Mr. Donald's wife), their baby son Jeff, me, and my mama.<br /><br />I was only four so I remember the things four-year-olds remember, or seem to remember. I remember gun metal skies with lightning streaking across. August in the Gulf region meant a conveyor belt of thunderstorms and, unknown to everyone at the time, a deadly storm was plodding along toward our little redneck riviera. The grown-ups formed a protective barrier so we were able to see a new world and not worry about forces of nature or traffic jams.<br /><br />In my little mind, going to Biloxi was a great expansion of the world. It was far away. A two and a half hour drive and when you crossed the border into Mississippi, everything was different: kudzu, pine forests, different colored asphalt, blue signs, rebel flags, tighter drinking laws. Even New Orleans loomed big with stacks of interstate ramps that switched us over to a round about easterly route, overlooking the CBD, and shooting us off to Slidell.<br /><br />Because this pulls from a four-year-old's memory, I offer you flashes of what sticks in my mind: the dolphin show at this giant metal covered amphitheater; actual waves in the Gulf compliments of a soon to be bitch of a hurricane; a ferry ride to Dolphin Island; cloth training diapers hung on the motel patio; and lots of time spent in the kiddie pool with a new friend.<br /><br />Our hotel was nothing more than a Holiday Inn. I remember we took home the logo towels and used them for swimming lessons for years. And, I remember the lamps in the room. I don't actually remember the lamps, but I remember Mama, Daddy, Clara, and Donald talking about them. They loved the lamps.<br /><br />Hurricane Camile cut our time short in this first Biloxi excursion. We left in a haste of quick packing and dark skies and lightning, at the time thinking the storm would come our way like Betsy did in 1965. I knew that my parents and Clara and Donald were worried because Betsy was bad enough for them to give them stories to tell all their lives. We packed back into the car to head home, listening to staticky AM news reports, and watching hostile skies.<br /><br />Hurricane Camille hit on August 17, 1969. While hippies danced in the mud in Woodstock and people died in Vietnam, Gulf Coast residents had to look in the face of the dark side of nature. When we returned home, we all spent the storm together at my grandparents' house across the road from our house. We were spared the full force of the storm. we are on the "good" side. I remember hearing rain and wind throughout that night. My grandparents' house had a tin roof so debris and rain knocked hard. But, the household felt relief around the hurricane lamps, plotting the storm course based on Nash Robert's broadcast which switched to only radio once the power went out. <br /><br />The devastation from Camile affected my community greatly. Betsy survivors shipped clothes, food, and money to the neighbors on the Gulf. I parted with a beloved doll. And, Mama, Daddy, Clara, and Donald thought about those lamps. Those lamps they loved and joked about stealing. They regretted not taking them. <br /><br />I don't think the motel where we stayed survived. Soon after, a new one was put in its place. We rode the beach again after the storm seeing slabs left over from the tidal wave, the SS Camile boat that landed in a place of honor to come a monument to the storm. That storm would be the worst people would see...for awhile, at least.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-71217046299253340792009-09-24T14:12:00.000-07:002009-09-24T14:53:31.871-07:00Bunco?I'm in a Bunco group. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://i.ehow.com/images/GlobalPhoto/Articles/4803383/bunco-main_Full.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://i.ehow.com/images/GlobalPhoto/Articles/4803383/bunco-main_Full.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />There are a lot of things I never imagined myself doing: marriage, childbirth, going to church, keeping a clean house. But Bunco was so far from the possibility of anything in my imagination. Before I was asked to be in a Bunco group, I didn't even know what Bunco was, much less have any desire to play. But, the person who asked me is someone I adore, so I went. I found out after it's this suburban mom thing and the connations associated with all that made me gag. If my 25-year-old self saw me now, she'd disown me.<br /><br />But, now I play Bunco. <br /><br />Bunco is this simple dice game that involves no strategy, not much knowledge of anything except the ability to read the dots on a dice. Given that we are aging moms on the verge of bifocals, this part isn't always so easy. Mostly, we drink and chat and eat. When you're not hosting, you get a grown up night in a nice house, eating on nice plates and food appears and you don't have to get up and see about anything if there's a scream or a crash (and usually, screamers and crashers have been handled offsite by cooperative spouses).<br /><br />The great thing about our group is that we really aren't suburban moms. We live in Oakland in this sort of urban/surburban twilight. And, our organizer has a pretty relaxed approach to it. The commitment is low. No one gives anyone any grief for not showing up. It starts around 6:30 and is over by 9:30. All the women offer up some serious cocktail and food action. I don't have to do any homework like I would on a book club. The game is actually kind of fun. I get to yammer about myself to people who don't know me. And, they let me curse. <br /><br />What's not to like? <br /><br />Of course, the thing is, if I were to start a group, there are other things I'd pick over bunco. I get these ideas, ya know, and of course, I have no follow through. But, if it weren't for Bunco, here are the wine-associated activities I'd like to have a group of women meet for: <br /><br />1) Poker<br />2) Games of Killer Sorry or Monopoly or Clue<br />3) Arts and Crafts<br />4) Nighttime urban hikes<br />5) Political discussion<br />6) Movies<br /><br />My mom belonged to a Po-Kee-No group when I was a kid. When it was her turn to host, I would get so excited watching her pull out the barely used fancy snack dishes that sat on a little merry-go-around. She broke out canned pineapple, cheddar cheese cut into neat cubes and olives and made dips. My job was to pre-toothpick everything so the ladies could just grab and munch. The game itself was so cool, in a dark laminated box with it's tiny playing card images and chips. I would play pokeeno alone when I could get away with it.<br /><br />Even though I knew most of the women who attended, it felt different knowing they were all coming without their kids or husbands and I never got to see them in that way because we were kicked out of the house and sent to the movies with my dad who used this chance to take us to see many a dying animal saga: Old Yeller, Where the Red Fern Grows, Flipper, Lady and the Tramp, The Aristocats, Benji. <br /><br />In spite of myself, I really enjoy the Bunco gatherings. Our organizer, perhaps unbeknown to herself, pulled together an interesting hodgepodge of women. Some of the women are Catholic school moms of varying degrees of orthdoxy, two are from the preschool community, with a few neighbors and random friends thrown in. Surprisingly, tho, she managed to pick a group of down-to-earth, nonjudgmental types and it makes for a very enjoyable evening. <br /><br />My luck with Bunco, though, sucks. Twice I've gotten the "booby" prize, which means I had the lowest score and get my ante amount back ($10). I can't even practice to get better. I just have dumb luck.lynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3058132886253679589.post-85195612123739407332009-09-23T11:02:00.000-07:002009-09-23T11:03:45.376-07:00Vegan Food for Carnivores With SoulI am the last person to be steered toward vegetarianism. And, even the word “vegan” sends me into convulsions. Often, I think that people who are most successful at being vegetarians don’t really like food in the first place, so giving up meat is easy for them. So when my friend Melody sheepishly suggested we try a vegan soul food in Oakland, I had to laugh, but I agreed with the full understanding that I was probably going to be hitting the McDonald’s drive thru on the way home to kill the health aftertaste.<br /><br />For some reason, California can offer the world on a plate. But, when it comes to Cajun/Creole or soul food, I am consistently disappointed. I went to one Oakland spot after it got a gazillion raves and as I ordered I gushed to the waiter at how excited I was and he was all, “well, this isn’t going to taste like Louisiana.” (And he was right). Many times, I’ve dragged my homesick, deep-fried deprived, fatback-decrepit self to the soul flavor of the month ready to be satisfied. And, many times, I’ve left feeling bloated and wanting a plane ticket to Armstrong International Airport.<br /><br />There was one ray of hope for a brief moment in time while I was pregnant with Miles. A New Orleans native named “Chef D’Z” opened a poboy shop on East 14th in San Leandro. David and I went there a few times in our little Blue Focus, circumnavigating the African American Harley Riding Group that was usually parked out front drinking from brown paper bags and revving their engines. I’d crawl out like Moby Dick coming out of a clown car: a belly followed by a person looking for jambalaya. Chef D’Z got me through a pregnancy where I’d crave red beans and rice, jambalaya, poboys, and crawfish. His place was so good, it was like it had been lifted up by a giant crane right from New Orleans and plopped on the outskirts of San Leandro. He boiled crawfish in the back for football games. It was the real deal. Alas, Chef D’Z took a trip home to Mardi Gras and got into a terrible car accident. We went for a last poboy and his mama was PISSED and told us that she didn’t move out to California to work at no restaurant and soon after, the great beacon of real Louisiana food that I did not have to prepare myself was extinguished.<br /><br />Since then, I’d take reviews of soul food restaurants in Oakland at their word, summon up some friends and go sample the fare and while initially feeling like I was getting some semblance of home, in the end, I was always left flat and disappointed.<br /><br />Along comes Melody with her whacky ideas and her links to the East Bay Express reviews of Souley Vegan. I figured, what the hell. I read the reviews. Melody and I get together once a month more to hang out than have an incredible foodie experience. I wasn’t going to let the food thing be the focus but after reading the reviews, I really did feel the need to offer my expert opinion. Souley Vegan was named best soul food restaurant in Oakland--Not best VEGAN restaurant or best Vegan soul food, but best soul food in Oakland. Hard to believe, I thought.<br /><br />The comments after the article were mostly glowing with a few people complaining about the dirty curtains and the service. They all seemed to love the food.<br /><br />I was still skeptical.<br /><br />Tonight, there we were, the first customers of the evening, greeted by the sweetest woman (who is the sister of the owner) and told as first timers, we should just get the everything platter.<br /><br />The platter consisted of lentils, black-eyed peas, sweet potatoes, mac and cheese (fake cheese, of course), greens, cornbread, barbecue tofu, and southern fried tofu with an extra-added bonus of red beans and rice and fried okra.<br /><br />OK, I know y’all read that and stopped short at the tofu section of that sentence. I did too. I was not looking forward to that. The other stuff, I was ok with, but I figured the cornbread would be “souley” lacking in cornbreadiness, and I activate my gag reflex at the idea of non-cheese cheese. I also gasped at the array of mint teas and such. I figure if I’m going to be eating tofu, I’d at least like a beer. I must admit, I skipped on the tea and stuck to tap water.<br /><br />OH well.<br /><br />After a short wait, out came our plates. And there it was. The things that could pass without any sort of meat in them (the greens and beans) surrounded by fried tofu thingies.<br /><br />I kept an open mind, but the expectations were low.<br /><br />But, it smelled AMAZING.<br /><br />I decided to just get the tofu over with right away and dug right into the barbecue. And, lawdy lawdy miss clawdy, that barbecue tofu was THE SHIT. I know using the word shit in a review about food is kinda gross, but IT WAS THE SHIT. I loved it. The sauce was amazing. In fact, the sauce was so good, they could pour it on actual shit and it would be good.<br /><br />Each dish we sampled was just absolutely delicious. I can’t believe it. The deep fried tofu looked, dare I say it, like catfish and I didn’t even think I was eating tofu. The crust on it was perfect and so flavorful.<br /><br />Restaurants out here fry stuff, but the batter never has any flavor. I complain about this often. But here, wrapped around bean curd like some sort of sacrilegious middle finger to meat eaters everywhere was the most kick ass fried whatever I’d ever had. I didn’t care. It was good.<br /><br />The greens were spicy but not overly so and complex and not bitter at all. Usually, I find vegetarian versions of greens fall flat. The red beans and rice would make my Maw Maw weep and say a novena in disbelief that beans could taste that good without any salt pork or sausage. I loved the spices used. And, again, they don’t just put a bunch of cayenne in stuff and call it dinner. The fried okra was good (well, even among the real deal, fried okra is vegan), lightly battered and nice and crispy. The sweet potatoes were wonderful, without being too syrupy or mushy. And, I just want to know how in the hell they got vegan mac and cheese and vegan potato salad to taste equally as good as the dairy based counterparts. No lie! It was good and it was kinda freaking me out.<br /><br />So, folks who doubt me, go check it out and tell me what you think. I ain’t giving up the chance to walk cat-a-corner to the Everet and Jones for full on meat bbq, but I tell ya, the Vegan Soul Food at Souley Vegan makes me really think hard about being able to have some good tasting food without hurting anything who’s had a mother.<br /><br />http://www.yelp.com/biz/souley-vegan-oaklandlynnlandrieshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04357810449947665152noreply@blogger.com0