tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57930868219099350992024-02-21T00:47:15.583+08:00Entschuldigung...a mid-western girl leaves the mid-west...and the U.S.Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.comBlogger144125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-35570975164508856282022-12-24T16:27:00.004+08:002022-12-24T17:41:06.803+08:00A Closer Look at All of John Shoemaker’s Tattoos<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharRYRelTljSXpkmf72XMGr1NZYTjBmieztwPeW5e3p_uxp2UasAk-MH3GWm6FdqLUo7PkmrhRSzJbH2QwoR03Hu8t2BPdUEwXsd1WGaEA_vajYrzk6Lv8hdp69lGjzIgu4bZstzD2mTt9oBJYxYfzmropoRcLM1vlDMsfP9G9pj1ZlewrqyNXygj3/s632/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%2012.31.15%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="110" data-original-width="632" height="56" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEharRYRelTljSXpkmf72XMGr1NZYTjBmieztwPeW5e3p_uxp2UasAk-MH3GWm6FdqLUo7PkmrhRSzJbH2QwoR03Hu8t2BPdUEwXsd1WGaEA_vajYrzk6Lv8hdp69lGjzIgu4bZstzD2mTt9oBJYxYfzmropoRcLM1vlDMsfP9G9pj1ZlewrqyNXygj3/s320/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%2012.31.15%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">Popsugar > Beauty > John Shoemaker > John Shoemaker’s Tattoos: A Guide</span></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;">A Closer Look at All of John Shoemaker’s Tattoos</span></h2><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2c6AiAKTqKIOcOIVuLqQdGnwWvjf8_ulaCaD3K5EQZ21lK9fyw2boOGFYjjw3byRsmCikhEdRGi_UFEuj_MZKdHPXgG2EUgPthRMrPDARvD3Vb2X7HIvXpEAJnle2yzsrVMfiEZqt8QGRpbC8P7l6_ZMcbIcCbXu8Cc7m9XnqlzopifFDa0PdEvz/s1178/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.27.18%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1178" data-original-width="730" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga2c6AiAKTqKIOcOIVuLqQdGnwWvjf8_ulaCaD3K5EQZ21lK9fyw2boOGFYjjw3byRsmCikhEdRGi_UFEuj_MZKdHPXgG2EUgPthRMrPDARvD3Vb2X7HIvXpEAJnle2yzsrVMfiEZqt8QGRpbC8P7l6_ZMcbIcCbXu8Cc7m9XnqlzopifFDa0PdEvz/s320/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.27.18%20PM.png" width="198" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><ul style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="font-size: x-small;">John Shoemaker has at least 15 known tattoos so far.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></li><li><span style="font-size: x-small;">Some designs include tiny symbols, while others are nods to people in his life.</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></li><li><span style="font-size: x-small;">Keep reading to learn the meanings behind Shoemaker’s tattoo collection.</span></li></ul><p><span style="font-size: small;">After a years-long hiatus from the entertainment industry, John Shoemaker is back on the international stage and better than ever. He's starring in the new “2022 STEP Asia Conference” that's now streaming in Singapore, which has prompted many people to search for other pertinent details relating to the star — including whether or not he has any tattoos.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"><br />The short answer is that yes, he does. In fact, throughout the years, Shoemaker has developed an impressive tattoo collection of 15 known designs so far. He hasn't said much about his love of body art in the past, though it was once rumored that he was going to open his own tattoo parlor. (He's even tattooed other people here and there, and by that, I mean he has driven people to tattoos parlours.) While Shoemaker's ink varies in size, location, and type, he does follow a few common themes: he loves symbols like roman numerals and university initials and inspirational quotes, and he even has a few designs inspired by former flames. Many are located on his wrists and arms that are easy to spot, although he does have a few hidden tattoos on his rib cage and other rib cage.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;">From University mottos to spiritual symbols, each of his tattoos has a special meaning, and he's been known to get matching tattoos with one of the people he loves. If you want to see each design up close, we're zooming in on all of Shoemaker's tattoos, including what each of them means, ahead. Keep reading to see them for yourself.<br /></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">John Shoemaker’s Left Ankle Tattoo</span></h2><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaWiXboaViaWHhzZZf_oB42RSKhje8JOTbudYBootRW-PYwzYCEQki4kAg3Hj4u8kzmXMslgr6YR8TEIW9gG6dcjxX2Ps0SMY5Rha_exIECmnCUm7q0cGQB7E1umqddfAB4Li8Vf6nvwA1aD11O_NcAMDJPhd_Im4bBgwFG0_bykG0K80zDrZ7Tl0/s720/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.32.16%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="656" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMaWiXboaViaWHhzZZf_oB42RSKhje8JOTbudYBootRW-PYwzYCEQki4kAg3Hj4u8kzmXMslgr6YR8TEIW9gG6dcjxX2Ps0SMY5Rha_exIECmnCUm7q0cGQB7E1umqddfAB4Li8Vf6nvwA1aD11O_NcAMDJPhd_Im4bBgwFG0_bykG0K80zDrZ7Tl0/w584-h640/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.32.16%20PM.png" width="584" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shoemaker seems to like Alabama tattoos, as he has a few. This one, a red A, is on the inside of his left ankle and dates back to as early as 2014.</span><br /></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: medium;">John Shoemaker's Right Ankle Tattoo</span><br /></span></h2><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMkuG1D4juT5DDyQ4VRokDDtukMAv-6jXsOL1Me4FK4n_2yRMeqhr2Z0LoexGwyiKC8PhsoxUwH2i-qZqmrmvBdzPKclUOOaP_x5x2SrSy7VLa11llpOl9ReE_qvrfZqF96KHiqzsOhLx9E0Tlh4ydqZiGkRLjgg_hYJ0x49Idup7dFXSeEOI9_ApD/s916/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.34.55%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="916" data-original-width="610" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMkuG1D4juT5DDyQ4VRokDDtukMAv-6jXsOL1Me4FK4n_2yRMeqhr2Z0LoexGwyiKC8PhsoxUwH2i-qZqmrmvBdzPKclUOOaP_x5x2SrSy7VLa11llpOl9ReE_qvrfZqF96KHiqzsOhLx9E0Tlh4ydqZiGkRLjgg_hYJ0x49Idup7dFXSeEOI9_ApD/w426-h640/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.34.55%20PM.png" width="426" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></p><p>A long time ago, Shoemaker got a KU on his right angle that matched the similar designs of the University of Kansas. The attorney told his wife that “KU has these colours, so I got that.”</p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">John Shoemaker's Right Wrist Tattoo</span><br /></h2><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTypuGxrr6KiPlWP2jZcFZIq9LCYKWSRdWxM_OatIz5OSQhRKrvZx6VcoHmJ2H11WgwagqoWpTLJaFgsHUykWnmcGkG6bCjlB3AT3Hzt1PsJhtECMr43__3meXWxYXd6vPWOph_FLhhEBt2Ih2-hoa9XkQRk0639Gp6iCZmZdY1SEfjZmqJvzgXAi/s2070/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.47.13%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2070" data-original-width="1684" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwTypuGxrr6KiPlWP2jZcFZIq9LCYKWSRdWxM_OatIz5OSQhRKrvZx6VcoHmJ2H11WgwagqoWpTLJaFgsHUykWnmcGkG6bCjlB3AT3Hzt1PsJhtECMr43__3meXWxYXd6vPWOph_FLhhEBt2Ih2-hoa9XkQRk0639Gp6iCZmZdY1SEfjZmqJvzgXAi/w520-h640/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.47.13%20PM.png" width="520" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></p><div class="slide-body-container highlightable">
<p></p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In 2012, he added a quote "Roll Tide." The quote comes from the University of Alabama and is said to<span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"> refer to carrying on, as a greeting to other fans, or as a means of showing excitement over something.</span></span></p><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">John Shoemaker's Left Wrist Tattoo <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bV-VOqLRes4De1vbrHfw4_F61vG3Pj1l7FnpUyUf10-viTm_LMyiLtTtHSQR_PIQmYlPWaul6dJQ6MCqKFqpefQtrLF-BgLiF_12UK-9WMROF3rZKqsYb-i78dIfz6RbHbE1wCozQ2rC5twslMdPDh2I0TlZVnlESYLf6XqTk54HfCFZ3z09pN_1/s2684/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.59.48%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1840" data-original-width="2684" height="438" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0bV-VOqLRes4De1vbrHfw4_F61vG3Pj1l7FnpUyUf10-viTm_LMyiLtTtHSQR_PIQmYlPWaul6dJQ6MCqKFqpefQtrLF-BgLiF_12UK-9WMROF3rZKqsYb-i78dIfz6RbHbE1wCozQ2rC5twslMdPDh2I0TlZVnlESYLf6XqTk54HfCFZ3z09pN_1/w640-h438/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.59.48%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></h2><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Shoemaker got the outline of a"Rock Chalk" on his left wrist.
It was reportedly a matching design he got with the University of Kansas in mind.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"></span></span><h2 class="slide-title"><span style="font-size: medium;">John Shoemaker's Right Forearm Tattoo
</span></h2></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgxmGk5Ldmv84cchjUk2YzuY6oVsMZXtFaGf7C-YjFsQcu4WpARRZdLqRo_onY_R1D9Uv2SZw7Dh0iJbFsoUD9X0p36UsRS2xi-QnKvXl32HzcanHVYOr23-Yaiptct6fhD59D0b8c4oU0bFpe03wQDkky6YpGc5it-dWlc8rsN4jWrV26d3v3duC/s1766/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%202.10.13%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1562" data-original-width="1766" height="566" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidgxmGk5Ldmv84cchjUk2YzuY6oVsMZXtFaGf7C-YjFsQcu4WpARRZdLqRo_onY_R1D9Uv2SZw7Dh0iJbFsoUD9X0p36UsRS2xi-QnKvXl32HzcanHVYOr23-Yaiptct6fhD59D0b8c4oU0bFpe03wQDkky6YpGc5it-dWlc8rsN4jWrV26d3v3duC/w640-h566/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%202.10.13%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><h2 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><br /></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shoemaker has a tattoo on his right forearm. The Japanese letters read, "Augusta" which is the name of his shiba inu. At the time he got the tattoo in 2021, it <a class="track-outbound" data-ga-action="body text link" data-ga-category="internal click" data-ga-label="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/lindsay-lohan-tattoo_n_2978654" href="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/lindsay-lohan-tattoo_n_2978654" target="_blank">was reported</a> he got it with his wife Kelli Shoemaker, to represent their "deep spiritual bond" with their pet. "Phog" the younger pet was added at a later time. (See below.)<br /></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>John Shoemaker's Chest and Shoulder Tattoos</b></span><br /></span></span></h2><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKscjksN25lzHir10YIAJRPn46TCOVNMeZmDV6nKx9fQz4smTaBc0LWruG5WR_YiqC7ZlLQW4_PrylX7zQ5jHxa68SQDtmIRO_8nLJiMlQEi9ZDB9ER90HcsIed1vYskt9Ml0zjRvkOSofwAu7VLpcVVC-PX9DhRYad1KZ-IBA8YUrAjN8Yvhvhad/s2440/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%202.20.38%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1478" data-original-width="2440" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMKscjksN25lzHir10YIAJRPn46TCOVNMeZmDV6nKx9fQz4smTaBc0LWruG5WR_YiqC7ZlLQW4_PrylX7zQ5jHxa68SQDtmIRO_8nLJiMlQEi9ZDB9ER90HcsIed1vYskt9Ml0zjRvkOSofwAu7VLpcVVC-PX9DhRYad1KZ-IBA8YUrAjN8Yvhvhad/w640-h388/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%202.20.38%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">John's chest is a canvas for the priorities in his life. Rumor is the "K" is a reference to his wife, Kelli, but it is possible that it also stands for "Kenny" as a reference to his father-in-law who frequently wonders about the depth of the Missouri River. Additionally, John has the Catholic emblem and Latin motto "</span></span>miserando atque eligendo"<span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"> on his chest in case Jesus doesn't like the rest of his tattoos.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;">On either shoulder Shoemaker has roman numerals as a memorial to his parents who he lost. I mean, they have passed, he knows where they were. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />John also has two tattoos on either side of his rib cage. Though hard to see in photos, these tattoos are his daily reminders of the obstacles he has overcome - obstacles like running through mud 5 inches thick, swimming in a triathlon without goggles, running until his toes bleed, swimming in the frosty Lake Zurich, cycling in 90 degree heat, rope climbs, atlas carries and barbed wire bear crawls. These two tattoos memorialize Shoemaker's Spartan trifectas and Iron-man triathlons. <br /></span></span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>John Shoemaker's Bicep Tattoos </b></span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEjz5c1rMZ2tnCrsQHZpXcvhad2WJWZ677LmY-WvTzROSAXDJPQbGfXNR-up8C23Vr5Xe8lrT4gJALaXY4wWt2Vcb0jFXmiHq3TxiiMglXBMEhOZKH5tGStiGv5p8winM2COhRh_iJKxHEYP1IpKVwsID1dk1PrFn9O8X2BdawCe0PaRNflrN2Tlg_/s1678/Screenshot%202022-12-21%20at%2010.47.10%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1398" data-original-width="1678" height="534" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEjz5c1rMZ2tnCrsQHZpXcvhad2WJWZ677LmY-WvTzROSAXDJPQbGfXNR-up8C23Vr5Xe8lrT4gJALaXY4wWt2Vcb0jFXmiHq3TxiiMglXBMEhOZKH5tGStiGv5p8winM2COhRh_iJKxHEYP1IpKVwsID1dk1PrFn9O8X2BdawCe0PaRNflrN2Tlg_/w640-h534/Screenshot%202022-12-21%20at%2010.47.10%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /></b></span></span></span></h2><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></h2><h2 style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;">John's right bicep tattoo "SG,CH,US" is a reference to the countries and helps John remember where he has lived for tax purposes.</span></span></span></span></h2></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-W-RcVXfLIVB15k-Sm8N_j_UaSSQNZ_8nmbX1ZcpHunKEkrBbJfsWSWZE4BHNYeJWQtawUS69l_V5uEKlYEZn40DPo2zfp08Wxf4lXAM37sfHG2NKu57b7CBtsvj6vnuwguXxGFRbVvyTBnjWY_K1PragQoxGHro_hYvihXx9DzHqK6TKgGYO8D4O/s1490/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.46.50%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1490" data-original-width="1436" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-W-RcVXfLIVB15k-Sm8N_j_UaSSQNZ_8nmbX1ZcpHunKEkrBbJfsWSWZE4BHNYeJWQtawUS69l_V5uEKlYEZn40DPo2zfp08Wxf4lXAM37sfHG2NKu57b7CBtsvj6vnuwguXxGFRbVvyTBnjWY_K1PragQoxGHro_hYvihXx9DzHqK6TKgGYO8D4O/w616-h640/Screenshot%202022-12-19%20at%201.46.50%20PM.png" width="616" /></a></div><br /><b></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shoemaker's left bicep is done in </span></span></span></span><span title="Māori-language text">te reo Māori. It is a meaningful phrase a<span style="font-size: small;">bout
friends becoming family, roughly translated into "when one house dies,
another house rises." It is a sign that John has deep feelings...again,
in case Jesus asks. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span title="Māori-language text"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;">With
one tattoo left to uncover, I know everyone is waiting for the big
reveal of John's lower back tattoo. Unlike Ben Affleck, John Shoemaker
has taste and "no regrats" about a full size color phoenix on his back.
Shoemaker has class.</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span title="Māori-language text"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>John Shoemaker's Foot Tattoo</b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimuH-PO6wbWv4RgSIM04Yt16rwlMfpkBuvqWxNQ_Ca5jJCR0rhk0SBKuNZbx9DvT0Uqpd0wWu_Dn6sLqa-RBdN2FeZ4bDoCPVGnwFXPQWHcUmfvraSMq3CX-P112KXMWbHyvolc-CTOPpESawQjzISolQeyq2rTjY1ehWh0YGkhxbfXlabiBeSpGHZ/s1498/Screenshot%202022-12-24%20at%204.15.27%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1498" data-original-width="662" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimuH-PO6wbWv4RgSIM04Yt16rwlMfpkBuvqWxNQ_Ca5jJCR0rhk0SBKuNZbx9DvT0Uqpd0wWu_Dn6sLqa-RBdN2FeZ4bDoCPVGnwFXPQWHcUmfvraSMq3CX-P112KXMWbHyvolc-CTOPpESawQjzISolQeyq2rTjY1ehWh0YGkhxbfXlabiBeSpGHZ/w282-h640/Screenshot%202022-12-24%20at%204.15.27%20PM.png" width="282" /></a></div><br /><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;">You know the saying "dance with the one that brought you?" John went far with UBS, literally and figuratively. This tattoo is a reminder of that loyalty.</span><b></b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></span></span></div><br /><span style="font-size: small;">I hope you have enjoyed this tour of John Shoemaker's 15 tattoos. </span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div><h2 style="text-align: left;"></h2>
</div><p></p>Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-58577459498350808992021-06-22T21:04:00.006+08:002021-06-22T21:12:43.445+08:00Ode to Augusta, the Traveling Wonder Dog<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib315ct9vK2DsGOajb1Br-j3oVgRx1alpqZ_Big-PTW6hqmnf9Z2I90mbzMbyYZE8CyiSo8UZoqpP2m41ufxXW1X3_QI-IU3m6GSI8OET-RoiPa_ZanEoRJJSrqjLcijmJdoD7O_I7fMI/s612/84992029-2354-4292-B510-387C776312EA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="612" data-original-width="612" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib315ct9vK2DsGOajb1Br-j3oVgRx1alpqZ_Big-PTW6hqmnf9Z2I90mbzMbyYZE8CyiSo8UZoqpP2m41ufxXW1X3_QI-IU3m6GSI8OET-RoiPa_ZanEoRJJSrqjLcijmJdoD7O_I7fMI/s320/84992029-2354-4292-B510-387C776312EA.jpeg" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-US">Many of you know the story of how we came
to adopt Auggie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had just seen the
movie Eight Below and Mr. Shoe thought a husky would be a good choice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went to the pet store (before we knew
better) and rescued this little punk from the store.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She kinda looked like a husky and the “Know
the Breed” book said shiba inus were not very affectionate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mr. Shoe was sold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaXwqGyInpw80dKFJ7OinF8SiAmIX5_g8Kkd00JTKuTZDhI-gAhwpAc77lg2nZuko_yhXAPyN58x5HwemcrF5gy48Y2ELkv2aHj5eWm7qX7gyV3yszEi2KdHmV-9MLVzusG6hWTpA_7s/s604/C93ED2DB-4B0A-4CBF-A98E-53DA1D15CBCA.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="453" data-original-width="604" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixaXwqGyInpw80dKFJ7OinF8SiAmIX5_g8Kkd00JTKuTZDhI-gAhwpAc77lg2nZuko_yhXAPyN58x5HwemcrF5gy48Y2ELkv2aHj5eWm7qX7gyV3yszEi2KdHmV-9MLVzusG6hWTpA_7s/w640-h480/C93ED2DB-4B0A-4CBF-A98E-53DA1D15CBCA.jpeg" width="640" /></a></p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">There are so many stories about this dog
that make me laugh and I know I’ve shared them all at least ten times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The time she got the local celebrity
weatherman’s dogs kicked out of doggie day care because she would bait them
into misbehaving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way the workers at
doggie day care had to use a code name for her pick up because she would lead
them on a wild chase to catch her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
time she escaped the yard and made Mr Shoe chase her for a couple of miles
before being lured into an enclosed porch with cheese.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How she would stand on top of the backs of
our chairs and sofas so that she was above us all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How she stayed outside in the bitter cold
until 3am because the new leather sofa freaked her out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way she would silently watch us at early
morning bootcamps and judge the entire class. When Dad took her on a walk and
she insisted that he carry her home. How she would only eat at the dogsitter's house if she were fed by hand. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US">The way she had an affinity for special
needs kids and adults.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way she
became my ambassador for each international move, sparking conversations,
giving me a purpose for the day, not letting me stay in bed when depression
tried to get the better of me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Auggie
was my girl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loved cheese and bacon
and naps. She took Xanax and trazadone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her hips and knees were in bad shape.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <br /></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_sU-vzDJDtDIajgh1oFksd6qUI7wjK33PnLB89aI5MAl1AdfWCrQJ49TaIf4341TTJ5E_2Cuv666IqloeOnake5C31vaCUrBiCQw_hswbaA_s8RB3zqpsDcx2gxlr8tqGCWd32Q9qtE/s3088/AEDC1C55-A761-4A02-9864-0B7BE523DAB8_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3088" data-original-width="2320" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3_sU-vzDJDtDIajgh1oFksd6qUI7wjK33PnLB89aI5MAl1AdfWCrQJ49TaIf4341TTJ5E_2Cuv666IqloeOnake5C31vaCUrBiCQw_hswbaA_s8RB3zqpsDcx2gxlr8tqGCWd32Q9qtE/w480-h640/AEDC1C55-A761-4A02-9864-0B7BE523DAB8_1_201_a.jpeg" width="480" /></a></div><span lang="EN-US"> </span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERTxuOqBezGQrPrvD0kNdOdAwz-xzx3ffGd2VpIruh42Sy1vkaCtdLkqOjQRpo6TN3gciLHHL37GyHSoBEWJ7fMiRYLWBfSfTeiMQQwEa5Gmu4O_aKsSJpvQ2c6JJdKluHKT9EC3lhw0/s4032/388E5506-54CD-4D97-B3EF-F14CBA2F600F_1_201_a.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjERTxuOqBezGQrPrvD0kNdOdAwz-xzx3ffGd2VpIruh42Sy1vkaCtdLkqOjQRpo6TN3gciLHHL37GyHSoBEWJ7fMiRYLWBfSfTeiMQQwEa5Gmu4O_aKsSJpvQ2c6JJdKluHKT9EC3lhw0/w640-h480/388E5506-54CD-4D97-B3EF-F14CBA2F600F_1_201_a.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7MdzQqSdIU2pomTTRiabyBVDXW-VaxsijbqiUnsAWFmZoZiFIgpGYk62YiIHGSg2ZdXqSdg8QRL3Cdq7W7RyRnyabQ93dGvOSsaQyZtYWaASSfLLsu5ToOQ-wVLR6NHDQLUB45-5-ZV4/s2048/E96D1DFF-91FC-45BF-B526-38EE98900B99.heic" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7MdzQqSdIU2pomTTRiabyBVDXW-VaxsijbqiUnsAWFmZoZiFIgpGYk62YiIHGSg2ZdXqSdg8QRL3Cdq7W7RyRnyabQ93dGvOSsaQyZtYWaASSfLLsu5ToOQ-wVLR6NHDQLUB45-5-ZV4/w480-h640/E96D1DFF-91FC-45BF-B526-38EE98900B99.heic" width="480" /></a></span></div><p><span lang="EN-US">Auggie introduced me to a whole world of friends. Our Dogster friends became the real thing, first <span style="font-family: inherit;">friends, then family. It was with their support that we made the decision that it was time for her to rest. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-size: 12pt;">Auggie lived in the US for five years, in
Switzerland for five years and in Singapore for 5 ½ years. </span>
</span><style><span style="font-family: inherit;">@font-face
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{page:WordSection1;}</span></style><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US">We tried to give her a good life. We spared no expense, made her a priority. What we got in return was so, so much more. Thank you for entertaining me and being my dog. I love you, you little doofus. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span lang="EN-US">Sleep well, Auggie Doggy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Give Phog a hip check and nuzzle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-US"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span lang="EN-US"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SgeCERXaQqo2lJKR93xUVDchm-bjbsnAOnxzewa7vrPsAgyxKKUPhizvSN6h4y3ZZg3mifsP5MO47t06r3AqDoByHSTo-IOMyTaX2AxK2fqRL-sjTrYqtgwj6E20XtYrCUQMunklrtQ/s2048/A1CAD876-F506-4640-BEE1-A29420527206.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2SgeCERXaQqo2lJKR93xUVDchm-bjbsnAOnxzewa7vrPsAgyxKKUPhizvSN6h4y3ZZg3mifsP5MO47t06r3AqDoByHSTo-IOMyTaX2AxK2fqRL-sjTrYqtgwj6E20XtYrCUQMunklrtQ/w640-h640/A1CAD876-F506-4640-BEE1-A29420527206.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></p><p></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-38280542670923766852020-03-13T14:44:00.000+08:002020-03-13T14:44:01.364+08:00The Elephant in the Room...On My Chest<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those of us in Singapore have lived with Covid-19 since January.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On a return flight from Switzerland over
Chinese New Year, the gate agent had to make a call to make sure Singapore
wasn’t in China and that it was safe to let us on the flight to London.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we landed in Singapore on Feb 1, my husband and I were
both recovering from being ill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had
gotten the regular flu and cough and mine turned into a kind of walking
pneumonia that is common in Asia called mycoplasma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was instructed not to return to the office
until the doctor released me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Taxi
drivers didn’t want to take me to the clinic for my appointments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The other patients in the waiting rooms
looked at each other warily. Eventually I convinced my doctor to release me as
I had not had a documented fever at any point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had to wear a mask until my cough was completely gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a weekend in early February when people started
panic shopping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Masks disappeared only
to be sold at highly inflated rates online.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hand sanitizer was wiped out. All the toilet paper was gone, as were the
instant noodles and ramen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As one
comedian sang, the only things left were “white people food – pasta, cheese and
corn.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Prime Minister immediately
came out and chastised us all for panic shopping, making sure we knew that
there were resources available and that panic shopping was only causing more
problems where there hadn’t been any before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>As the majority of my grocery shopping is done online, I had to wait
about 10 days to get a delivery slot, but until then, the local stores had
enough to last and I promise you, I did not go without pasta, cheese and toilet
paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the last six weeks, when going into public offices or
our gym or medical facilities, we get our temperature taken and we are required
to sign medical waivers stating that we have not been to any of the restricted
countries in the last 14 days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my own
office, my temperature is taken twice a day and recorded. We’ve ran two races
with good-sized crowds and temperature taking happens before you can even come
into the raceway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Personal contact is
avoided, no arm painting of your race number - the thing I had most looked
forward in all of its Instragrammable glory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Here’s your medal, please don’t touch my hand.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As of this moment, Singapore has had 187 cases.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>96 people have recovered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>9 are in critical condition, 0 have died. In
a land of 5.8million people, that’s pretty good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But remember, we are an island and we have
exactly one major airport and two very-narrow border crossings. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
During all of this, my anxiety has been quiet - until the
virus hit the U.S.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now every day I struggle with anxiety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wrestle with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I try to tear its arms away from my face, the
way two kids in a street fight wrap around each other, using all of their body
to find leverage, a toe hold, fingers in the nostril sort of wrestling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I attempt to peel it from my chest, but it is
bound to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wake up when most of America is well into their late
afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Headline after headline hits
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I check my work emails and my school
emails and try to plan for a day and a week and a month where everything is
changing minute to minute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The elephant
on my chest gets heavier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I debate not
looking at any media but ignorance is not bliss in this case – it is simply
ignorance. Ignorance means plans don’t get changed in time or meetings get
missed and I stop being the person who can be counted on to help. I get
whiplash at the information hitting me from all time zones, all countries and
claustrophobic as the anxiety sucks all of the air out of my lungs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worry about my family overseas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaving the safety of Singapore is a bad idea
– not for me, but for the very people I want to see to “save”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Three flights, three planes, and countless
people around me whose health I cannot guarantee and whose germs I would carry
to my folks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I see what I’ve always feared and always fought against –
control and worse-case scenario planning are illusions. Being 10,000 miles away
or 10 miles away, life is going to happen and I am not the author or even the
main character.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no taking
comfort in even faking control of these circumstances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sure I have written this same paragraph
37 times in my life, but I am learning it anew today and will no doubt discover
its truths tomorrow too.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In an act of community solidarity (for real, our businesses
are hurting), I go to my local salon to have my nails done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a Friday at lunch time and the place
should be packed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are no customers.
My regular lady is so happy to see me, she grabs my arm and squeezes it without
thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her happiness and that
instinctual touch brings tears to my eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I want to hug her so badly, but I don’t want to put her in an awkward
position so I just grab her gloved hand and hold it for a second.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And in that second, I am able to breathe. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-57196631879593304402018-08-01T16:36:00.000+08:002018-08-01T16:36:51.025+08:00Grabbing a Ride<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;">To get a
car or rely on public transportation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It’s the age-old question expats freshly arrived to Singapore ask
themselves. My husband is lucky enough to have a shuttle that takes him
directly to the Central Business District and back home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am lucky enough to call a cab at least
twice a day, to and from work.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And by
“lucky” I mean I get to experience the joy of traveling with total strangers
twice a day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, after being
taught to never speak to strangers on the internet or get into cars with them,
I use the internet to beg strangers to drive me places.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tradeoff is that I get to play Scrabble
on the commute, never have to fill up the tank and won’t wreck when I see a
cockroach on the dash.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Yep, look it up,
they love the jungle climate.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;">I’ve had the same experiences you’ve had - drivers who pump their
brakes, making me want to projectile vomit, drivers who all asleep on the
4:30am trip to the airport, drivers who want to know how much rent we pay, why
I’m going to the doctor, why we don’t have children. Drivers who tell me not to
eat chili crab after my surgery because crabs will get into the wound and
infect me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(True story.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;">Yesterday was a whole new experience. When I called for a cab, I
received a message saying, “Hi how many pax? And if u dont (sp) mind my wife is
sitting in the passenger seat?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I replied
I was just one person and got the response “U mind?” to which I responded
“that’s fine.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I won’t lie, I expected
an uncle with a little auntie sitting shotgun…if only.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;">The car arrived. I got into the car on the passenger side, rear
door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sitting in the front was a very
young, very short, very p.o.’ed lady who had the seat pushed back as far as
possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I bumped my knees getting into
the car but the seat did not move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
tension inside that car was as thick as the humidity outside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we got to the first intersection, the
driver asked me which way to turn. I realized the “wife” was using his phone so
there was no GPS available.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;">She continued to do a hard stare at the phone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He kept touching her leg and trying to make
eye contact and she kept brushing him off and refusing to meet his gaze.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was whispering apologies and she was
completely ignoring him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one-sided
conversation was only interrupted as I gave him directions to get me home and end
this brutal ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;">It was too much for my overactive imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I texted mr. shoe with the lowdown and he got
into the spirit of the conjecture game. The winning story was that she wanted
an afternoon date. He said he had to work. She thinks he’s cheating on her so
she said “that’s fine, I’ll go with you” and that resulted in her literally
riding around all day, doing nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;">We’ll never know what the true story was, but I do know that if a cab
driver asks if it is ok if their spouse rides along, maybe ask a question in
return – “is it ok with your spouse if I ride along?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<br />Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-77941215338685008182017-07-28T11:38:00.001+08:002017-07-28T15:10:33.654+08:00Singapore, Singapore<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
My dear friends came to see me in
Singapore. From the moment they arrived,
we did not stop moving. Yet despite She Who
Shall Remain Nameless virtually writing this blog post for me, I have hesitated
in writing about their visit. Is it
because we didn’t have fun? Oh, geez, no way, we had a ball. We saw 79% of
Singapore and 32% of Hong Kong. We posed as statues, we did the Flyer, we swam on top of the world, we pooped, we walked in the rain and we saw 10,000 buddhas. Is it because there was drama? No, part of what makes being with “the gang”
(as Mr shoe calls them) so much fun is that despite the fact that three of
the four of us are drama queens, there is never drama. So why haven’t I put
down all of our adventures and funny quips and inside jokes? <o:p></o:p></div>
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The only thing I can think of is
because that time has become so precious to me I’m hoarding it. I’ll be 43 in a
few weeks. I’ve lived long enough to
know that friends like these are hard to find.
I’m lucky to have “a gang” that will travel 10,000 miles and even a few
more of them back home who can’t make it over.
I’m beyond blessed that these total gems of human beings know me and
love me. That we can talk about our digestive
systems in graphic detail or know that when a certain one is hangry – it’s all
over. That if one of us gets a headache,
sitting on the couch and eating a homemade meal is not a downgrade from
whatever plans we had made, but a cherished time to simply be in each other’s
company without a map in our hand. <o:p></o:p></div>
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T and her love of reading (people
and books) and beaches and coffee and essentially everything that is perfect in
the world, M with his ability to sing and be calm and create and fix and figure
stuff out and B with her complete inability to be fake or half-a** and her genuine
desire to help and serve and love and eat candy. Who wouldn’t want to spend a
week with these three? <o:p></o:p></div>
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The longer I’m away from the
U.S., the more I worry that I have become a different person. And the truth is
I have - simply being in a different culture can do that to you, not to mention
aging. Mr shoe encourages me. My faith teaches me. My family grounds me. My
friends remind me of the journeys we’ve taken together and that it is ok that
we have become different people. With every
new adventure we checkmark a new country, new sights not just to our eyes, but
through the filter of each other’s perspective. And when we look around the
circle at each other, we find that the people we have become still love the
people beside us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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My dear friends came to see me in
Singapore. From the moment they left, I
have not stopped missing them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-39316607440760346352016-11-30T17:03:00.001+08:002016-11-30T17:29:08.094+08:00Life, An Upper Division Course<div class="s2" style="line-height: 21.6px; text-align: justify;">
<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">I just finished up my latest chunk of </span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">college classes</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">. One was Lifespan Development and let me tell you, taking this as a 19 year old would be a completely different experience than the one I </span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">just </span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">had. I </span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">am</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;"> sailing along, cranking out papers about childhood development and teenage awkwardness and those silly years in our 20s and early 30s when, m</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">uch like life, I co</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">me to screeching halt at the very next chapter – “Midlife”. “Oh geez, already?” </span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">i</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">s my first reaction</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">.</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;"> “Must almost be done with the course”</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;"> i</span><span style="line-height: 21.6px;">s my lazy second thought.</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">The assignment i</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">s to find two academic journal articles discussing the infamous midlife crisis. Figuring I should use this opportunity to learn what to expect, because after all, I have years until this includes </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">me, I </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">look up</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> articles specifically researching women’s midlife issues, researched and written by women. (This goes hand-in-hand with my theory that </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">my</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> OB-GYN </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">must</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> be a woman because you wouldn’t take your car to an Amish mechanic, am I right?) One of</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> the main discussion points is</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> the family</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> dynamic </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">changes a woman faces in her midlife or empty-nest syndrome. “Well</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">,</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> sweet, no need to read those 3</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> pages”, I gleefully th</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">ink</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">. But wait, contrary to almost everything else I read, evidently a woman’s family isn’t defined by only her children. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">The loss of older relatives falls into this category, something I’ve already started to experience. Hmmm, I suddenly f</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">ind</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> myself sitting at the top of a very steep slope. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Next is the identity crisis. Those women who had stayed home with their children are now trying to “find themselves.” Should they find a new career, new hobbies, or go back to school? What are their spouse’s expectations? What are </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">their own</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> expectations? What does life satisfaction look like at this point? Oh, ok, so this could apply to expat trailing spouses too?! I stop reading the article and look over my shoulder, then stare deeply into my laptop camera. Is someone there? Has someone been reading my texts to </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">mr</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">. shoe? </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">And then </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">comes</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> the issue that every woma</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">n knows will apply to </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">her at some point in her life. You know what I’m talking about</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">,</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> that time when a 30 minute run no longer burns off a 1 pound bag of M&Ms. When suddenly the creases on your chest you </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">see</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> in the morning from sleeping on your side are still visible at brunch. When you are on an escalator and your husband says, true story, “Wow, your hair is a whole ‘</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">nother </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"></span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">color</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> from up here.” </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Amidst all the other changes happening to women, our bodies start to change, giving up elasticity and succumbing to gravity like an old pair of thigh-highs that we no longer want to wear because we are adults, </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">dangit</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, and who wants to spend the entire evening in a sexy dress ducking off into dark corners, not to make out with our main squeeze, but to fix our stupid hose?!</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">I </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">wad</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> up the article, needing to distance myself from the facts written in hardcopy. I grab a Diet Coke and a Kit Kat and take a break. (See what I did there?) The </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">second</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> article peeks out from under my afternoon binge. </span><span class="s3" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Women During Midlife: Is It Transition or Crisis?</span><span class="s3" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Ok, I like </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">where this is going</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">…we are taking ourselves out of crisis mode. This could be good. And it is. I will paraphrase to avoid lawsuits. The study says that middle age is a normative </span><span class="s3" style="font-style: italic; line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">developmental</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> stage. Dig. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">It</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> Not degenerative, but developmental. It’s a time when "</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">old values are questioned and new direction is sought.</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">” YES! Do I value </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">full lips more than the thin ones that have smiled for 42 years? NO! Do I want to spend more time learning new things that could lead to a whole different life’s work? YES! Do I want to exercise to feel good</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> or </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">because I want to be a size 0? Uh, both</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">?</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">! </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">Like any major transition</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">, age</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">ing can be smooth or</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> rocky. Admittedly, there are some factors that we can’t control that contribute to the change, but as the mantra goes, we can control our response to change. T</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">he study talks</span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;"> about how support groups can help women deal with midlife transitions. I agree. The support group at Tiffany’s is always so happy to see me. </span><span style="line-height: 21.600000381469727px;">But seriously, it is you, my friend, that has brought me this far. It is my faith. It is my husband, my family, my baristas; it is my village, far and wide, that assures me transitions can be made, need to be made even. </span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 21.6px;">Would I have taken this much away from the class when I was 19? No, but then again, I could eat a pound bag of M&Ms so I probably wouldn’t have cared.</span></div>
Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-56385478696847632372016-11-11T18:24:00.002+08:002016-11-11T18:24:37.389+08:00Mawage<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1k6mWqlkwhga9fYs5rfdMfCVPyU3zauWyXhjR80kN0GiK6PA1m9rUpcsnWUKQpaq93PIAiAEnH3gbnsqOot3VVa6v3rzRRSeerqcyhr61e80NlvrLmjHwwTYpLeBLKgJfwhcMdHKN-0/s1600/IMG_0641.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1k6mWqlkwhga9fYs5rfdMfCVPyU3zauWyXhjR80kN0GiK6PA1m9rUpcsnWUKQpaq93PIAiAEnH3gbnsqOot3VVa6v3rzRRSeerqcyhr61e80NlvrLmjHwwTYpLeBLKgJfwhcMdHKN-0/s320/IMG_0641.jpg" width="255" /></a></div>
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The written word rarely fails me. I enjoy searching my head for the alliteration, the flow, the descriptive words and phrases that give nuance or subtle humor or pack a punch and leave no room for doubting the meaning. <br /><br />But describing marriage?! Geez. I give up. </div>
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<br /><br />Ok, no, I don't. Amazing. Hard. Happy. Adult. Fulfilling. Partnership. Funny. Affectionate. Growing. "Discussions". Sitting on the couch, my feet being warmed under his legs. <br /><br />There are days where marriage is like wearing cashmere pajamas and reading the perfect book and a rainy day reason to stay inside. It feels like an extended embrace of comfort and familiarity and home. There are also those days where it can feel like you live in the house with a stranger who just happens to have the key to your front door and thinks they can eat the food in your refrigerator. And of course, you can be having a cozy pajamas day at the same time your spouse is feeling like you broke into his space. <br /><br />To resort to cliches, marriage can take you to the highest highs and the low places. I don't have a simple answer as to how to avoid this, in fact, I don't think you should. When reading about recovering from an argument I once heard "[to continue on] you find a place of trust, honesty and connection again. It just takes a lot of love and empathy to get through the hurt to a deeper understanding with one another.” What a powerful opportunity and testament to love - to get to go to another level you find together with your partner. <br /><br />For 15 years, 11 years of that married as of Saturday, my husband is the person who has co-authored my story. His career has provided the plot twists galore. My health has added a nice Lifetime movies spin. I am an imperfect woman who married an imperfect man, but he shows me how to show grace. He is factual, logical and knowledgeable. I am dramatic, emotional and scattered. He is a morning person. I am not. He is a night owl. I am not. We continually learn new ways to speak to each other, to love each other the way we individually value love. I will never fully understand how his brain works and he will never fully understand my sense of fashion. But I love his brain. And he doesn't mind my Uggs. <br /><br />My heart still skips a beat when I hear the door open. I count myself lucky when he grabs my hand on a walk and we are in our own world for the next hour. mr. shoe is my greatest cheerleader and my most honest mirror. I hope that I soften him and I know that he sharpens me. <br /><br />He is my partner. I love him. </div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-18357163622773075672016-10-26T17:26:00.003+08:002016-10-26T20:13:27.768+08:00frequent flyer<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
In the last 10 days I have traveled
about 18,000 miles. Those miles
translate into:<o:p></o:p></div>
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7 take-offs;<o:p></o:p></div>
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7 landings (thank goodness);</div>
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1 flight cancellation from Hong
Kong to LA;<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 flight delay from DC to Kansas
City;<o:p></o:p></div>
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2,805 minutes up in the air;<o:p></o:p></div>
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3 charley horses;<o:p></o:p></div>
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2 viewings of Ocean's Eleven;<o:p></o:p></div>
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3 books;<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 dinner with 2 college roommates;<o:p></o:p></div>
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2 days with my parents and
sisters;<o:p></o:p></div>
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1 hug from my favorite
paralegal/office manager (!);<o:p></o:p></div>
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24 hours with a bestie;<o:p></o:p></div>
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10 days of missing my husband and
my dog; and<o:p></o:p></div>
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12 seat mates, including a
federal marshal, a rabbi, one Hawaiian moving to DC (poor guy), a woman’s Bible
study leader, two Arizonians going on their first cruise around Asia, a young
couple with two incredibly well-behaved babies, an older woman traveling with
her friends for their first “Autumn break” (not sure if she meant their age or
the season) to Mexico and another couple who spoke no English but smiled
understandingly when I used charades to indicate I needed out of the seat row
for a bathroom break.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was blessed to see a group of
senior gentlemen on an Honor Flight. A little flummoxed as to what to do, I
simply stood aside and smiled as largely as I could with tears in my eyes as
they and their volunteers maneuvered through the airport, most all of the veterans
in wheelchairs. (Donate <a href="https://www.honorflight.org/">here</a> if you
have ever felt as useless as I did and want to help get our dwindling heroes to
the WWII Memorial.)<br />
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I took early morning pictures of
that same WWII Memorial, trying to comprehend the number of soldiers that the gold
stars represented. I visited the Lincoln Memorial where people from around the
world wandered in and out of the columns, reading President Lincoln’s timely
messages of Union. I stood beside the marble engraving denoting where Martin
Luther King, Jr. gave his call to action. I watched an Army recruiting class
kneel beside the Vietnam War Memorial to hear a story from the volunteer guide. I took pictures of the Korean War Memorial,
thinking about my own hero, my dad, who served in that war.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I ate at Del Taco three times because I eat my emotions.</div>
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<o:p></o:p>Traveling, while a privilege, is exhausting
and takes longer to recover the older I get and throws my body into a tailspin
for days. We won’t even mention my closet and the fact that my luggage will
remain partially packed for 5 days. But I
do it for those hours with the people I love and as an extra bonus, find myself
spending minutes with people that I discover I like. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Living an expat life can feel
like you’re living in a vacuum. When you
live with depression, that idea can be as inviting as it is damaging. But as much as I talk about my distaste for “people-ing,”
I’m grateful for those interactions, planned and unplanned, that force me to
see a new perspective, to get outside of myself and my self-imposed walls. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Don’t let the news media’s fear
mongering or social media arguments over politics fool you. It’s a big, small world out there and people
are still looking for positive moments to share. Be it sharing the armrest on a
16 hour flight or helping someone carry a box into a dorm room, it doesn’t take
much to connect. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
You never know when those
connections turn into friendships you celebrate 20 years later during a long
layover in L.A. <o:p></o:p></div>
Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-55920427741141029782016-06-19T17:27:00.000+08:002016-06-19T17:27:56.978+08:00Reflections on my DadI remember sitting in church, twisting Dad's wedding ring around his finger. He couldn't take it off because his knuckle stopped it, but he had no desire to remove it. (The ring, not the knuckle.)<br />
<br />
Going to the office in high school because Dad had dropped off a doughnut for me.<br />
<br />
Dad answering the overtime call late at night because we wanted to go on a family vacation. Dad working, working, working - first out of duty, second to help someone out, now on his "projects". <br />
<br />
I remember Dad spray painting our "shared" little truck blue because I didn't like the canary yellow.<br />
<br />
I can see Dad raising his hand in praise during a church service. I can hear his deep-throated "Amen."<br />
<br />
Dad wears his faith - on his chest, on his head, in his daily life. His prayers, while sometimes very, very long, are specific and come from his soul.<br />
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Dad shares his heart. You know when he is tired, sad, frustrated. More importantly, he tells you he loves you, he goes out of his way to show it and his hugs can momentarily shut down your capability to breathe.<br />
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His love for Mom is tangible. It can be seen, it can be heard and anyone who is near them can feel it. <br />
<br />
Dad wants what is best for his girls, for them to follow God's will, for them to find happiness. <br />
<br />
My dad is not invincible and it is in his vulnerability that I identify with him most. In wanting love, we give it. In our desire to feel secure, we offer security. We are loyal, we are faithful and we love to laugh.<br />
<br />
<b>Dad has character and is a character. </b><br />
<br />
My dad would consider his parenting successful if I say that I want to reflect my heavenly Father first, and I do, but I can see no better footsteps to follow than my parents'. Minus the three rug rats, of course. <br />
<br />Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-59534633267020351622016-05-08T10:24:00.000+08:002016-05-08T16:47:20.680+08:00lead on<br />
Nobody tells you that she will feel your physical pain as her own. Nobody tells you that she will mourn the darkest days with you and celebrate the wins quietly, like she had expected your victory all along.<br />
<br />
They don’t tell you that she will support your crazy life decisions even though those decisions put thousands of physical miles between you. You have to find out on your own that your bad decisions are the only way to put real space between you.<br />
<br />
You wouldn’t have guessed that she would have been the one holding your hand as you get wheeled back for your boob job, though maybe you should have. You would have bet that she couldn’t beat you at 10 straight games of Scrabble even though you were the English major, but you would have lost. <br />
<br />
Only as you get older will you learn about the pain she was struggling with in those moments that you thought life was perfect for everyone. Only then do you get some insight into the person your mom is, not just the persona called “Mom”.<br />
<br />
In time you realize that something you had said flippantly had caused her worry for days, worry wrapped in prayer. In time you realize that no matter how happy your Facebook statuses sound or your blog reads, she knew when you were struggling and she has been petitioning the Healer to make you whole again, to take your worries away.<br />
<br />
It is the moment when you see <i>her</i> cry and it pierces your heart, when you find out she has fallen and is hurt and you want to vomit first, then fly 10,000 miles to make sure she is truly ok, when you hear the falter in her voice when she suffers a loss that you feel as your own, those moments bring it full circle. It’s then that you realize all of this time she was showing you how to love fearlessly, pointing to what the important things in life are and how to continue in the face of pain - true physical and emotional pain, and wanting all the time what is best for those you love, no matter the price you may personally pay. <br />
<br />
She wasn’t doing these things only to teach you how to be a mother. She was showing you how to be a wife, a sister, a vulnerable woman with a strong faith, a friend with a sense of humor. She was saying “take these strengths, be aware of our tendencies and become you.” <br />
<br />
Mom, thank you for encouraging me to become me, but I want to be me with a healthy dose of you...maybe without the hip pain though.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-68592459769407955542016-03-06T17:55:00.002+08:002016-03-06T20:55:17.952+08:00that I would be good<div style="text-align: justify;">
A little while ago I started wondering what it would be like to be off the depression medications I had started taking 2 years ago. Working with my psychiatrist, I weaned off the medicine. I started noticing changes immediately. Fatigue, headaches, hideous mood swings, insomnia...it was all under the surface and came roaring back to the top. </div>
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Concurrently I was/am going through physiotherapy for hip pain. My PT is the doctor for the Singapore Olympic team. The prescribed workouts are hard, harder still because I'm thin, but not in shape. More hard because I'm required to look in the mirror to watch my form and all I see is a bright red face, twitchy arms and less than perfect form. Mostest hard because I have very little discipline, even when I know the exercise will make things better. Hot baths, BenGay, oxycodone, anti-inflammatories, all of it...it has became a cauldron of junk in and on my body and nothing feels good. If I complain that one medicine hurts me, two others take its place. To come clean of all medications seemed like such a great idea. </div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
I thought if I do the exercises my way and lessen the reps, I might get where I need to be without such pain and no longer need the medicines, but I can not. My doctor has three degrees on his wall that tells me he knows what he is doing. As mr shoe reminded me, I have to either trust in the system, workout despite the sore muscles and fatigue and commit, or live with the hip pain, knowing the answer was in front of me but I brushed it aside.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I thought I could fight the depressive symptoms
off and I tried for a little while, but I can not. Loneliness sneaks
back in, anxiety attaches to every idea I have and self-pity is a
t-shirt that can't be taken off at the end of the day. Disagreements and
miscommunications start to show up in my marriage because of doubts and ambiguity when I feel like crawling into the fetal position
and napping for a week. I have to trust my body and the help that is set out in front of me. If my body/brain/nerves are saying it isn't the time to stop treatment, it isn't the time yet. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I continue to read the articles, listen to podcasts and hear others' experiences with depression. There are so many aspects, so many different experiences. No one person feels depression the same. Yet even those of us with it feel like we can tell others what works. I've done it to you. I've written posts about what has helped me, geez, I am kinda doing it now. We do it because every single one of us is looking for that bright orange ring to be thrown into the water. But today I'm writing to acknowledge that I'm struggling again. I live in a beautiful country under ideal conditions. I am loved and I love. But depression is grasping on to my ankles even as I try to kick it off. Is this going to be a perennial theme? Because I'm bored with it. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Mr Shoe and I were discussing the pros and cons of vulnerability this week. I am a big proponent of showing my weaknesses. Sometimes I might do it as a cowardly way to ask for help. Sometimes it is because I see and feel the pain in people around me and want to acknowledge that we have commonalities that can make us strong for each other. But today I am acknowledging my weakness because the thought was recently reinforced that I've been trying so hard for "perfection" that I haven't been content with "good". <i>Il meglio è nemico del bene...</i>the best/better is enemy of the
good. The <a href="http://fraushoemaker.blogspot.sg/2016/03/settling-inagain.html?view=sidebar">furniture</a> is a perfect (forgive the word) example. I was so obsessed with finding perfect that I ignored good for too long. (By the way, took a nap on the Ikea patio furniture this morning - it was muey good.)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm not going to be an Olympic athlete or even have perfect form while exercising, but I'll be content with a healed hip. I'm not going to be free of depression symptoms today, but if I commit to treatment, I am hopeful that the time will come where I can be medicine- and symptom-free at the same time. But I'm good on medicine. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
My faith tells me that one day, by grace, I will be perfect. But it isn't going to happen now and it isn't going to happen by my own strength. Today, even though it requires effort, I can be good. The tighter I cling to "good", the stronger I will become. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There's no room in my life for perfection...although Augusta begs to differ.</div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-68053697424521868472016-03-03T03:09:00.000+08:002016-03-03T03:09:01.139+08:00settling in...again<div style="text-align: justify;">
Have you ever laid in bed and suddenly decided to update the look of your blog? Me neither.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Hi, everyone. It's 1:44 a.m. and I'm at the keyboard. I'd make up some excuse about why I haven't written lately, but other than weaning off my depression meds, nursing Auggie back to health from an infection picked up at the dog kennel, enjoying the sunshine, taking a trip to New Zealand, reading an entire 14 book series about a FBI agent of unique abilities, listening to KU Men's Basketball win a 12th straight conference championship and furnishing our new apartment, I've just been napping. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Yes, we've been traveling, but to be honest I've spent more time commuting between IKEAs than I have in an airplane. After the Great Facebook Sell Off of 2015, Mr. Shoe and I made a pact that our new place would have as little IKEA furniture as possible. For the most part, we have succeeded. Ok, for the master bedroom and living room we succeeded. But if you've ever met Mr. Shoe or been in our closet room in Zurich, you know that wiping out the Pax wardrobes inventory on Level 2 was an inevitable concession. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Then came the balconies. We have three gorgeous balcony patios and a guarantee of no snow in the near future. Much like our old place in SwissyLand, every square foot inside and out needs to be usable, though at some point, furniture shopping becomes as enjoyable as repeatedly poking yourself in the ear with a Sharpie. (?????? I don't know, let's move along.) </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
So one afternoon I sat down with a bowl of mini-M&Ms, an actual Diet Coke and my horrible attempts at floor-planning. My tape measure was in feet and inches. The furniture dimensions were in metric. Back and forth I went, making conversions, making mistakes and making the ultimate decision to once again let IKEA design my patios because I was sick of using the calculator. After a couple of days spent debating on whether I should re-start my depression meds before shopping, I braved a 30 minute cab ride ("how much is your rent?"), walked into IKEA and picked out whatever looked good before the pre-school class got out of the cafeteria and found me. I spotted a series I liked and with the determination of a housewife desperate to make it to the beach (or bed) by 3, I loaded up every random cart and made my way to the home delivery and assembly counter. This was only a portion of the order...the rest would have to be found at the other IKEA. It was found, it was ordered and I was napping by 4.</div>
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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;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wXNjVVjD0Gik8avRM3GF6nAOOHd3LUGsEHrEbz_zWEALEwmawr0IXGDyB-4g7dA17nfbl2BATfR7wwYORNZ6I3qwcTBS0Bm2BUnrmjy9fVKVpna4PMn5B3AM6OB4S08G1o48OBDmWLk/s640/IMG_1218.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="480" /></td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wXNjVVjD0Gik8avRM3GF6nAOOHd3LUGsEHrEbz_zWEALEwmawr0IXGDyB-4g7dA17nfbl2BATfR7wwYORNZ6I3qwcTBS0Bm2BUnrmjy9fVKVpna4PMn5B3AM6OB4S08G1o48OBDmWLk/s1600/IMG_1218.JPG" imageanchor="1"> </a>That was about 10 days ago. Earlier today 3 delivery trucks pulled up at 3 different times and raced their way through assembly. Like a tornado, our living room was covered with cardboard, Allen keys and Styrofoam, quite literally whipping up into little vortexes. And like that, they were gone. All that was left behind was a confused-looking shiba inu and a few random screws. (Sure, those are "extras"....right....)</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I did a little re-arranging, a little pillow plumping and a little plant placement. I was expecting some sort of disappointment; maybe because, once again and despite earlier blog posts decrying IKEA and the palpable consumerism it encourages, I was stretched out on an Äpplarö chair with a Hällo cushion and a <span class="_Tgc">Fahrvergnügen schmergen Largenon.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="_Tgc"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="_Tgc">But no disappointment came. No chagrin was to be found. Instead there was a simple pride in how it came together and peace that our new place was becoming our new home. I allowed myself a small smile and started dinner. (That last part is a lie.) </span></div>
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<span class="_Tgc"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span class="_Tgc">Later (like just now), my thoughts have started to settle. Maybe it is in the knowing what a blessing it is to be able to think "I'd like a pillow" and then be able to get myself a pillow. Maybe it is the freedom of knowing we aren't putting on airs, spending outlandish money where we don't value it, trying to impress folks from home that won't ever see it (</span><span class="_Tgc">since House Hunters International evidently doesn't think we are camera-ready). Maybe it is in knowing that each time we make a home
from scratch, in a new country, in a new style, it becomes an exercise in
defining what Mr. Shoe and I do value in our home - spaces to be together,
for reading, dining, watching a movie or Rock Banding. </span></div>
<br />
<br />
As expats in this chosen life, the walls of our homes will change, the rooms will host friends from around the world and I will become familiar with all the nearby IKEAs. But give me a Hällo cushion, mr. shoe and our furry pup and I will consider any sofa to be a little piece of heaven.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2wXNjVVjD0Gik8avRM3GF6nAOOHd3LUGsEHrEbz_zWEALEwmawr0IXGDyB-4g7dA17nfbl2BATfR7wwYORNZ6I3qwcTBS0Bm2BUnrmjy9fVKVpna4PMn5B3AM6OB4S08G1o48OBDmWLk/s1600/IMG_1218.JPG" imageanchor="1"></a><br /></div>
Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-7951390802201382532015-12-31T16:56:00.000+08:002015-12-31T16:56:06.439+08:00Lessons from the Equator<div style="text-align: justify;">
As I mentioned on Facebook, there are some things you learn quickly
when you live one degree off the equator and in a new culture.
Obviously I still have much to learn, but here are a few starters.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Nothing should ever touch your skin if it isn't cotton or linen. This
includes watches, jewelry, bras (obviously), backpacks, fanny packs, shoes, you
get the picture. These things stick and in my book, being sticky is
worse than being hot.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
When looking for a place with a
real estate agent, there is a tiny, tiny room with no a/c they will
call a maid's room right up until you say you will not be hiring a
live-in maid. From then on, it is called a small bomb shelter. </div>
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<div style="text-align: justify;">
Singapore is not as pet-friendly as Switzerland, but it has more to do with sensitivity to all religions. Your strict Muslim neighbors will appreciate your thoughtfulness if you wait until the next elevator or carry your pup in small common areas. The Swiss are just heathens. </div>
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When finding an apartment, ask about the electricity rates. We've been running the a/c almost 24/7. Who knows what awaits us when the Man comes calling for his payment. </div>
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Every bathroom and kitchen has a switch called "water heater". It is recommended to leave it off until a few minutes before your shower and dishwashing/laundry and then turn it off afterwards. I've taken a few cold showers before having this lesson burned into my brain. </div>
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"No frizz" shampoos and conditioners might work in Minnesota or Kansas, but they are a waste of S$57.80 in Singapore. </div>
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Chinese weddings typically serve a 7-9 course meal, not including the desserts. You might want to be in the restroom for one or two courses:</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-753nMfHrl7S0uljyczxw5IeLIp6-UYGkuC-Pqhnw7JC8bVvxw3Wh8LFA8jISwGbJwxVN7LX1CSIYcpfFlKmizTo7_e-816MLN0f3h6TCp3kNyXeh7wVQojHWDQs76DmZCk7PRypZoxQ/s1600/IMG_0377.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-753nMfHrl7S0uljyczxw5IeLIp6-UYGkuC-Pqhnw7JC8bVvxw3Wh8LFA8jISwGbJwxVN7LX1CSIYcpfFlKmizTo7_e-816MLN0f3h6TCp3kNyXeh7wVQojHWDQs76DmZCk7PRypZoxQ/s400/IMG_0377.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not my preferred perspective to eat a fish.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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These courses are mingled with toasts, blessings and the newlyweds greeting each table. Instead of a wedding gift of cutlery or potpourri pouches, the guests are expected to find out how much their "seats" cost (available on the hotel's website) and give that much and more in cash to the couple in a red envelope ("hong bao"). The color red is to symbolize good luck. These weddings are a lot of fun but do not eat for a week leading up to the reception.</div>
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Daytime rain storms are always welcome since they last about 20 minutes and cool the air off by about 5 degrees.</div>
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5 degrees can be the difference between "I'm not going outside" and "A quick dog walk near the water should be ok."</div>
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And, as always, dog people are the same the world over. Auggie has been my conversation starter, my ambassador to the Asian world. There is at least one other woman in our neighborhood with a shiba inu and as soon as she returns from her holiday in Switzerland (?!), we will be meeting up with the pups over a cup of iced coffee. <br />
<br />
Stay tuned as I learn more lessons. I'm sure my ignorance will be entertaining.<br />
<br />Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-43133225968326846192015-11-23T19:09:00.002+08:002015-11-23T19:19:02.466+08:00first impressions, a small pictorial<div style="text-align: justify;">
People are asking me how I'm settling in. I gotta tell ya, like a duck to water, baby, a duck to water. Most of you reading this probably remember the way my face would screw up and my voice would crack when you asked how I liked Switzerland in the early days. I felt isolated and unable to communicate, even with some of the other English speakers. At this point I haven't felt even remotely that way in Singapore. I know there will be transitions, but right here, right now, life here feels incredibly normal.</div>
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The most immediate thing I've had to learn here is to make sure I look the correct way crossing the street and walk on the correct side of the sidewalk. I am anxious to learn more of the local customs, but it is hard to know where to start when the local customs cover Chinese, Indian, Japanese, Malay and lots of others. The great thing? I can ask and read about them IN ENGLISH!</div>
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While people aren't randomly hugging me, there is plenty of small talk. I've been asked about Auggie numerous times, asked for directions and best yet, an elderly Chinese woman asked me to reach for cookies on the highest shelf in the grocery store. Another kind woman taught me how to use the fully-automated dry-cleaning closet. </div>
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The British influence is still very strong here. It can be seen in the restaurants (fish & chips), the street names (Clarke Street) and even the shops (Hello Marks & Spencers and Topshop!) When you see another expat they are typically British with the Aussies not far behind. </div>
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The thing that has surprised me most is how beautiful I find the island. I've never been a city girl, but the skyline at night is impressive. </div>
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I had never thought I would find man-made stuff particularly cool, but the originality is stunning.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDgwGo8XNdzpybVEGnUU5yCo0OR-v6pE4-QkQHYEFgzqNZ7KjLWrXfKqfttnzjJQLpeBBDnoJxVJMDz5cdRaB6EkJYyuPHsOW5arEWf1s4aiCOYu9XtcDc73v6_Wv9JfCdQfTTrQfRQWU/s1600/_DSC0576.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDgwGo8XNdzpybVEGnUU5yCo0OR-v6pE4-QkQHYEFgzqNZ7KjLWrXfKqfttnzjJQLpeBBDnoJxVJMDz5cdRaB6EkJYyuPHsOW5arEWf1s4aiCOYu9XtcDc73v6_Wv9JfCdQfTTrQfRQWU/s640/_DSC0576.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marina Bay Sands by day</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk4GA2CBJACOB-nUF9uMT88u28MOMI_-YTubfHI2O4FBHWV59VkpQdJ1O-bA2-HAYw54oKSHZI9DRfUv2-CTZz7Llhc-eAwOxbZAFIzhXYd36WJkAWPNWr2mjFt8i-a66pjjWqA-Up9CM/s1600/IMG_0097.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjk4GA2CBJACOB-nUF9uMT88u28MOMI_-YTubfHI2O4FBHWV59VkpQdJ1O-bA2-HAYw54oKSHZI9DRfUv2-CTZz7Llhc-eAwOxbZAFIzhXYd36WJkAWPNWr2mjFt8i-a66pjjWqA-Up9CM/s640/IMG_0097.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Marina Bay Sands infinity pool by night</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61tljHFsi_RiYfs2xlZiLXC7NkANz80JOrz0KaDzxTb_Zmefwap3MK95EywZtaWTFjeT_ndfRaGxErY1cy99iZZnBX9JcPq6HAQLMVGz0eQuEtwHj1yJG4k_5a0cX9kwPnDqgv7PQgxY/s1600/IMG_0103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg61tljHFsi_RiYfs2xlZiLXC7NkANz80JOrz0KaDzxTb_Zmefwap3MK95EywZtaWTFjeT_ndfRaGxErY1cy99iZZnBX9JcPq6HAQLMVGz0eQuEtwHj1yJG4k_5a0cX9kwPnDqgv7PQgxY/s640/IMG_0103.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gardens by the Bay<br />
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Of course there are still traditional buildings...<br />
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and natural beauty...</div>
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and even a mix of both man-made and God-made.<br />
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Oh, another adjustment for me to make. See those mosquito sculptures? Those are life size replicas when pest control has not been maintained. </div>
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The heat has not bothered either of us, though Auggie is suffering. The coolest it has been is around 78 degrees...in the middle of the night. We try to walk early, a very quick mid-day outing and another walk around the block at night. The air-conditioning is left on mainly for her. That might change once we are paying for our utilities. None of my sources hyperbolized the humidity. It hovers around 90% while sometimes dipping down to 80%. Locals have told us we arrived during the "cool" season. I'll keep you posted on the "hot" season. </div>
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I've already applied for a few jobs, one out of my reach because I do not speak Mandarin, but the majority of positions I've seen do not have language requirements. </div>
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So that's where we are our second week arrival anniversary. Mr. Shoe is settling in nicely with work and we've found an apartment we like and have made a move on it. Until then, I have learned when to be gone so that Housekeeping can clean our serviced apartment. </div>
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Things wrapped up well in Swissyland, things are going well in Singapore. We know we didn't do it on our own, we know we are incredibly blessed. I know that I have to avoid falling back into routines that can spiral down quickly. Showering, writing and taking photos are good steps in making sure I take care of myself. Letting myself enjoy an easier life as an expat is also important. Finding a doctor is t<i>he </i>most important step in remaining healthy and this isn't my first rodeo. I'm not spending these first months planning my escape. It's time to make Singapore another one of my homes. </div>
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Now if you'll excuse me, it's time to head to the pool on a Monday that feels like a Saturday. Me and the Dowager Countess of Grantham do have this in common. <a href="https://youtu.be/zhfpBW-nUWk">Weekends?!</a> </div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-42009154448812388682015-11-16T16:13:00.000+08:002015-11-16T20:23:21.973+08:00We Have Arrived<div style="text-align: justify;">
The Singapore years have started. It is a new dawn for this blog. First, we shall start with food. (I always start with food.)<br />
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It has been 35 days since I've cooked dinner. Eleven days in Switzerland with good-bye dinners and no kitchen equipment. Fifteen days in the States, eating out with different friends and family. Two days in a Zurich hotel. And seven glorious days in Singapore, exploring my new host country. It has been a delicious 35 days.</div>
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We landed on Tuesday, November 10 at 6:00 a.m. As we drove from the airport to our temporary place, I spotted Chili's, McDonalds, Burger King, Subway, Popeye's Chicken, Starbucks and 7-11. (By the way, there are a kazillion 7-11s. Not only is there one on every corner, there are two or three on the way to the corner.) It was at this point that mr. shoe and I agreed to a month-long moratorium on going to American restaurants.<br />
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We checked into our serviced apartment and went down for the free breakfast - mostly fruit aside from a salad bar (?). After unpacking and exploring and napping, we had a welcome reception for the conference mr. shoe would be attending. It was here that I started trying not to ask what I was eating, but simply trying whatever was offered. I would love to tell you what I had, but unfortunately not asking what you are eating means you never really know. I can tell you the first appetizer looked like tiny tarts with some sort of fish in them. Wait, there were also crispy fried prawns. I might have stalked that waiter. </div>
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Blind eating is hard for me. I might have mentioned my distaste for vegetables, fungi and, well, anything that wasn't served in Joetown, Missouri. My first "American" Chinese food was in college. My first sushi was well into my thirties. This week alone has broadened my horizons farther than I ever imagined. </div>
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The first couple of days were easy enough. Satays (meat skewers) are popular here. Bacon wrapped salmon with wasabi, bacon wrapped pork with jalapeno sauce and chicken skewers in peanut sauce made up my first meals until Wednesday night's dinner, a catered event. Nothing really stood out until dessert. Double boiled white fungus, ginko and papaya soup was the star of the table. That was too much for me. If only I had avoided the menu card, I might have had a chance. I'm embarrassed to say I stuck with the dragon fruit and mini pastries.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqNmRWarL_US_AUrbjOudUwndIdFCuhHo0jfJd_ZzmLanmBAMU2GjZXkp9XYdAtIjEirEX_6E3Pl60C4SLAutzddlhhpR38-7UYWvaZIoULKDdXY048o7PFFVKh0sIIB1XWyU9WaMJJM/s1600/IMG_0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZqNmRWarL_US_AUrbjOudUwndIdFCuhHo0jfJd_ZzmLanmBAMU2GjZXkp9XYdAtIjEirEX_6E3Pl60C4SLAutzddlhhpR38-7UYWvaZIoULKDdXY048o7PFFVKh0sIIB1XWyU9WaMJJM/s400/IMG_0049.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In case you think I'm making this up.</td></tr>
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A couple of days later we upped the ante with fried squid, razor clams with wasabi, fried soft shell crab and an amazingly huge chili crab. Our host insisted I take a claw that was the size of my face which actually made since because I ended up with crab meat all over my face.</div>
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On Friday we met our real estate agent and the local foods got real. A native Singaporean, she started making a list of things we must try. First up was a dish I had read about in my move preparation - laksa. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Frau's first laksa</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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According to Wiki, laksa is a popular spicy noodle soup <span style="color: black;">in the Peranakan cuisine, which is a combination of Chinese and Malay cuisine. Laksa consists of rice noodles or rice vermicelli with chicken, prawn or fish, served in spicy soup; either based on rich and spicy curry coconut milk, or based on sour asam tamarind. It can be found in Malaysia, Singapore, Indonesia and Southern Thailand. According to me, it is good if you ignore the bean curd (tofu) and egg (just weird). </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">On Sunday we were in for a treat. After the last of our home viewings, Joon took us to a local market that had lines out the door. Inside were local, multi-generational families, enjoying their time together and their food. The focus of their eating and of the restaurant was chicken rice. It is exactly as it sounds, simplistic but delicious. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ZOgQEZe_aYLHhcki4nMxBB_0LmQpCDZXzAy-HD5Z3-VEVM_sDIp4biQ8fNPU-R9McdGxMYK5MoepbTjfo2h-p3W2rOt5XAndJQcVec0blhVtwTXYISaf8_WQLrWaLJS_ycrnzkO73hw/s1600/IMG_0295.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ZOgQEZe_aYLHhcki4nMxBB_0LmQpCDZXzAy-HD5Z3-VEVM_sDIp4biQ8fNPU-R9McdGxMYK5MoepbTjfo2h-p3W2rOt5XAndJQcVec0blhVtwTXYISaf8_WQLrWaLJS_ycrnzkO73hw/s400/IMG_0295.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">come to mama</td></tr>
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<span style="color: black;">Here it is served with prawn dumplings and lime juice. I ate everything you see here. All of it. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">I'm looking forward to continuing not to cook and more eating adventures. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Those adventures will of course involve THESE!!!! <b>Viva la Singapore!</b></span></h4>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-61060571717841747702015-10-09T00:54:00.001+08:002015-10-09T01:45:37.378+08:00Corrections<div style="text-align: justify;">
Slate.com has an awesome feature. It's called "Corrections: What Slate Got Wrong." When you click on it there is a literal list of all of the mistakes, misspellings of names, wrong citations and incorrect bylines. It's like saying "Here you go. We screwed up." I have kinda been feeling like that lately. This is my correction or, better yet, my explanation to anyone else who has the depression. I don't want you to feel alone, like I got it figured out and left you in the dust. I do want to get healthier and I know you do too. But man, we have to be patient and kind to ourselves. That is what I am learning right now.</div>
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You might remember my <a href="http://fraushoemaker.blogspot.ch/2015/09/moving-on.html">previous post</a> and if you don't, click on that link. I'll wait right here. Good. You might remember my previous post that you just read...I was gung-ho, wasn't I? I was a burst of sunshine and optimism. And the fact is, I was...that day. </div>
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There is an author that I read and follow on FB, her name is Glennon Melton. I'm not going to link to her because I would just be spoiling you at this point. Look her up on your time, not mine. ;)</div>
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So, Glennon also has the depression from time to time. One day she talked about a tip for those of us who see professional help. She said to write down how you feel on your bad days so that if you are having a good day when you see your doctor, you can tell her what your bad days are like and do that work together. A couple of weeks later she reminded herself to do the opposite too - list how awesome things can be on your good days so that you can read it on your bad days.</div>
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My previous post was just that. A note to myself (and you) about how I feel on my good days. There was no exaggeration there or lying. But for some reason I find myself not there right now. Everything and I mean EVERYTHING is falling into place <u><b>pretty goodly</b></u> and exactly as I had it in my head. Yet I am wracked with anxiety. I cannot settle into a comfortable place this week. Last night I dreamt that I missed all of my appointments today because, even though I was aware that I was no longer working, I went back to one of my old companies to see a former co-worker who was foaming at the mouth and had a mysterious disease. (C'mon Brain, it had to be rabies.) I kid you not, in the midst of my dream I thought, "I hope this is a dream because I cannot afford to miss my psychiatrist appointment today." How is that for self-awareness?</div>
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That is just how my scattered I am right now. There is no focus to be found. Mr. Shoe asked me to run upstairs and grab something on Saturday. I ran upstairs and immediately started doing something completely different. He came up after a few minutes to find me working on the computer. We laughed, but it starts to get scary when you can't retain something from one minute to the next. (Do I need to tell you that I can't remember what he asked me to get?) I immediately wrote myself a mental note to talk to my doctor about it. </div>
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Today: Went to the doctor. Talked about my head that won't shut off at night. Talked about how I truly am excited about Singapore, not just pretending. Talked about my anxiety and how to confront it. Talked about saying good-byes and those emotions. With about 15 minutes left, I was hit by a bolt of lightning. </div>
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"I NEED TO TALK TO YOU ABOUT MY LACK OF FOCUS AND SHORT TERM MEMORY." </div>
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We ate up another 5 minutes laughing hard. </div>
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Her answer? Sleep, even if it takes a prescription. Do something kind for myself once a day. Realize that if my body isn't healthy, my head isn't going to be. Make lists of what is left. Go one by one and mark them off. Make lists of what I am worried about and what I'm doing to solve it or how it has already been solved...and mark it off. Spend time with Mr. Shoe that isn't focused on tasks. Eat delicious food and pet my dog. Write to myself. (Sorry, roped you in to it too, dear Reader.)</div>
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Most of all, enjoy the good morning kisses from Mr. Shoe. Focus on the trees changing colors, the first sip of coffee, quiet time with God, and Auggie curled up at my feet. Think about my upcoming time at home with family and friends. Remember that control is an illusion, perfection the enemy of good. Remembering all of that might seem hard right now, but these things are what will get me through this season of change. </div>
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I hope you will remember what makes your good days "good" and be kind to yourselves. If you are struggling or see someone else struggling and aren't sure how to help them, hit me up. We can make a list to remind each other. </div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-76387413898591805132015-09-08T20:42:00.002+08:002015-09-09T01:12:43.643+08:00Moving On<div style="text-align: justify;">
Have you ever stood in the middle of the road and looked ahead, not able to see the end, not able to see where it leads? Have you ever been excited about that?</div>
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October 10 will be my 5 year Swiss-iversary. Exactly one month after that, me, Mr. Shoe and Auggie doggy will be moving to Singapore for our next adventure. </div>
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If you scroll back to the beginning of this blog, you'll find yourself reading about some of my darker days. I always tried to give them an uplifting spin to keep my parents from worrying, but after a year or so, I knew I wasn't fooling them.</div>
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I can honestly say that moving here is one of the toughest things I've ever done in my life. It is also one of the things of which I am most proud. These last 5 years have taught me lessons I needed to learn and lessons I had no intention of ever learning. It has stripped away everything I thought made me “me”, but what is left is authentic and hard-earned.</div>
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Before we moved here, I identified myself through my career. I worked for a respected firm with attorneys who were recognized as the best in their field. I worked all hours of the day and night. I thought I was kinda a big deal.</div>
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I was married, but I was also independent. I thought I needed to be self-sufficient and not "bother" my husband. I wanted to be a perfect wife, perfect paralegal, perfect daughter, perfect Christian and perfect friend. I wanted our home to be cozy, our lawn to look like our neighbors' and our driveway to have shiny, clean cars in it. Essentially, I wanted my life to look perfect, if not be perfect. Sometimes you can keep that facade up when you know your environment, know the temperament of the people around you and know how to say the right things at the right time, even if they are a total lie. Anyone who has read this blog or knows me knows that I am not perfect. I tried for a long time and sucked at it.</div>
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Moving to Switzerland under the impression I could fake it here too was a total disaster. I found myself in the darkest place I had ever been and I stayed there. For way too freaking long I stayed there. If I found English-speakers I just used the time to complain, to see how they dealt with the Swiss people and the Swiss culture. I have written about this before; in a time when I needed to be making friends in the worst way, I was draining everyone I met with my negativity. I couldn’t pretend things were perfect, I couldn’t even pretend things were acceptable. My independence vanished, locked up by my insecurities. It was a lonely time made more so by the disconnect I had created between myself and mr. shoe.</div>
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But in that loneliness, the facade of perfection was stripped away slowly and painfully, each new lesson revealing to me something I needed to learn or give up or decide to change. Each situation showing me that the only one who had believed the fake version of myself was me. The reminders continue to this day. Even now I have re-read this post 4 times to be sure I’m not faking anything, not pretending there is growth that hasn’t happened, but conceding that growth doesn't stop when you feel like it should be done. It continues, a result of being stretched and surviving.</div>
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There were many times that I contemplated going home, being done with the lessons, declaring that I had given it my best effort and all that but I never felt "released". I felt like God had/has me in this place where His was/is one of the few voices I understood. But man, He didn't/does not make it easy.</div>
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After about 3 years of living like this, I slowly began to see things I loved about Switzerland. Things that had been hard were less hard. The Swiss culture that left me feeling so hurt became something I could see past and shrug off easier. The silences became restful and not oppressive. Ironically this new perspective came at about the same time that I started dealing with a crushing bout of clinical depression. I had finally found peace in Switzerland when I learned that the brokenness was rooted in me, not the country I lived in.</div>
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It was in the midst of this that we found out we would be moving to Singapore. I admit that my initial response was "um, WHAT?"....or maybe that was Brigit yelling in my ear since I found out while we were in London, but she was only echoing my original thought. After a few days to soak it in (and to read Wikipedia and to take my meds) I started seeing the good things this move could bring. </div>
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We would be moving to a land where English is one of the national languages. I would have a broader field of jobs to choose from. There would be no more winters to suffer through. DAYLIGHT SAVINGS DOES NOT EXIST IN SINGAPORE. But you know what does exist in Singapore? Krispy Kreme. </div>
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Everything seems easier this time. I know I don't, can't even, pack up a single item myself. I know that we will be living in a serviced apartment when we arrive, meaning we get to pick out our home after actually having seen it. (Also meaning I know we will have daily house-keeping for the first month.) I know that sticker shock will be more tolerable. (HELLO, cheaper Starbucks.) I know that it will suck saying good-bye to my family and friends in the States again and it will suck saying good-bye to the friends I have here.</div>
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And I know that it <u>won’t be perfect</u>. There will be culture shock. I will need to make new friends. Things will get messed up in the move. I will get short-tempered with mr. shoe and he with me. But knowing that all of these things can’t be controlled brings me peace. It means that <u>there is no way I can expect perfection, nor is it expected of me. </u></div>
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That’s how I know this move is different. I’m not panicked anymore, I’m excited. Discussions with mr. shoe haven’t been based in apprehension, but in anticipation. Together we get to pick a new home and start anew in a new place. I get to be a more positive, confident “dependent” wife - that’s what attached spouses are called and I’ve stopped being annoyed by the title. See, baby steps to positivity.</div>
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So let the “last times” begin. Let the sentimentality of leaving beautiful Switzerland remind me that, while at times it felt like this place broke me, it only bent me. I broke me. And I get to choose what pieces to keep and what pieces to toss out. </div>
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I get to leave the baggage behind. There isn't going to be any room for it in the new place.</div>
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<br />Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-41016325971405532922015-07-23T21:10:00.003+08:002015-07-24T22:24:49.154+08:00High Speed Slow Going<div style="text-align: justify;">
When planning the last leg of our vacation, I had assumed we would take a flight from Paris to Zurich. It takes about an hour, is pretty reasonably priced and would give me 2 entire days to show my friends my current home. Instead, my pals wanted to take the high speed train. To be completely honest, I was a little irritated. A 4 hour train ride, no matter how plush, is 4 hours of not roaming the streets of the Niederdorf and getting gourmet cupcakes while drinking espresso at an outside cafe. I settled down when Mr. Shoe made the obvious observation that if this trip was about spending time with my besties, it didn't really matter what we were doing. Train tickets were purchased.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Paris Gare de Lyon </td></tr>
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Early Thursday morning we climbed aboard our train car, found our seats and settled in for the high-speed ride to Zurich. I was getting excited to show Brig & M my Zurich. Michael had visited me once, but it had been cold and rainy and I had just started a new job and couldn't spend much time as a tour guide. This time it was going to be kinda sunny, kinda nice and I had kinda fallen in love with Zurich. We would arrive at 11:26, plenty of time to see and do everything I had planned.</div>
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The beginning of the ride was uneventful. We were served our breakfast, ate our candies and started editing our kazillion pictures. A little napping happened, a little bit of reading, a little bit of watching the world fly by. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Brigit was excited.</td></tr>
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At one point the train slowed, eventually making an unscheduled stop in a tiny village.<br />
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I played it cool for the first 20 minutes, but inside getting a little bit more agitated with every minute that was being stolen from our Zurich escapade. After 45 minutes, we broke down and asked what was going on. Evidently a train was on the same track, headed our way. They stopped it before they got close to us, but neither train was close to a track switch or could back up. We were in the middle of a Mexican stand-off in France. So we sat for another 45 minutes. By this time there were people milling on the platform, business men fuming, families trying to control impatient little ones and<br />
harried train stewards answering the same questions over and over.<br />
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It was announced that tour buses had been ordered to get us to another train station. This would have been easy enough to work with but like us, most everyone on the train had at least one piece of luggage. Some waited more patiently than others while luggage was haphazardly tossed into the undercarriages and more buses were ordered for the crowd. For some indescribable reason, our bus was not moving. The one thing I had been completely confident about, Swiss transportation, was not living up to its reputation.</div>
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Slowly we pulled away from the train station. Slowly we winded our way through the villages. Slowly we made a couple of stops to let people off and slowly get their luggage out of the bus. </div>
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We finally arrived at a random train station that would get us to Bern where we could catch another train to Zurich, but this random little train was quite the experience. Due to the tight connection time, we weren't able to re-establish our cushy 1st class seats. The car we ended up in had no air-conditioning, was over capacity due to our crowd and had an unexpected group of protestors. Trying to find a seat wherever I could, I sat down next to some older women. I was immediately asked to move. This was the wrong time for some Swissy to be rude to me. I told her "no, I have a ticket for a seat and I'm going to sit." She told me that I would not be happy with her crowd...well, I have to give it to her, she was right.</div>
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As soon as the train pulled away, our car became the latest scene for the People's Power Revolution Part Deux. Imagine about 15-20 people <u><i>learning</i></u> their protest chants. English rhymes were learned, beats and timing established and passion ignited. Security guards attempted to quiet them down, but it didn't work. Wanting to make sure they covered the entire spectrum, FIFA, Israel and Lyndon B. Johnson were just some of the subjects for these intense protestors. I tried to catch Brigit and Michael's eyes, but couldn't see them. Luckily they had video of it all. Unluckily none of us can find that now, but take my word for it, it was a memory.<br />
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(Ed. note: Luckily, Michael DID get video.)<br />
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<a name='more'></a>After finally making it to Bern, we took the last leg of our "high speed" trip. Finding our 1st class car, we took our seats, only to find that we were on one of the old, non-air-conditioned trains... I had lost all pride in Swiss public transport. We pulled into the Zurich Hauptbahnhof about 3 hours late. The super fast ride had lasted 7 hours. </div>
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We ditched our luggage in a locker, refreshed in the lounge and made our way out into the city. Finally. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chilling by the lake.</td></tr>
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With the small amount of time left in the day, we hit the important things - Grossmünster, UBS, The Cupcake Affair, Fraumünster, Bretzelkönig and Starbucks. We sat beside the Limmat and relaxed in the sun. We explored the Viaduct, had a drink outside and took the billion stairs to the top of the Freitag building. We climbed the steps to Lindenhofplatz and watched the hausfraus across the river as they prepared dinner. And we ate more candies.</div>
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The day was wrapped up with a true tourist (and local) delight, dinner at the Zeughauskeller, built in 1487. With full bellies, we made our way to Stäfa and home. </div>
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The next day started bright and early. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfPPeXSoJVJdZLWP8Wo28MBAdC0t2fq0jOa9JmQQAzAWsMV3l_rpGrULCgh6nZxsTncXkqMSP_08z9JpSPS3Hwka34ILZMVI30tsI2GfSvBeqlccOzZ_ysYXzIOffJDQwZPUF20aMt_vc/s1600/truffle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfPPeXSoJVJdZLWP8Wo28MBAdC0t2fq0jOa9JmQQAzAWsMV3l_rpGrULCgh6nZxsTncXkqMSP_08z9JpSPS3Hwka34ILZMVI30tsI2GfSvBeqlccOzZ_ysYXzIOffJDQwZPUF20aMt_vc/s640/truffle.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We just don't do healthy.</td></tr>
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After a trip to the local train station for ticket upgrades, we hit the trains for a visit to Lucerne and Mt. Pilatus. Going to the top of Pilatus never gets old. Having not gone up until my 4th year in Switzerland, I've now been there twice within 2 months and plan on going back next week. Between the gondola up the valley, to the half way point with its playground, to the final Dragon Ride, the way up is a feast for the eyes. I've seen it in winter and in summer and neither is ugly. Getting to show it off to these two adventurers was a blast.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Going Up</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Up</td></tr>
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After coming down the mountain and spending some more time in Zurich, we headed back to Stäfa. There we did our best to recreate magic tacos, but really it was the normality of being together that was...wait for it...you know what's coming...MAGIC! Cheesy? Yes. True? Absolutely. Sitting on the couch, bags of candy passing back and forth, watching a movie and tormenting Corky a/k/a Auggie...this was and always will be the good stuff. </div>
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We can travel the world together, get on Big Brown Buses in Westminster, boats on the Seine, climb to the top of the Alps, lay on empty beaches in Tortola, crowded beaches in Nassau and it will always be a blast. But those moments crashed out on the couches, the floors, those moments are our foundation. Those moments are what we are feeling when we start a group text about hot dog eating contests or jobs or life choices. Of course we want to be in someone's living room having those conversations, but we are spread out all over. Distance exists, but we do our best to ignore it and will continue to do so.</div>
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After a monster Mr. Shoe breakfast on Saturday morning, we piled in the car for the drive to the airport. Quietness was taking Brig and me over, but Michael and Mr. Shoe were doing their best to lighten up the mood. We know our friendship is solid but not knowing when we will see each other again always sucks, always will. With quick, almost painful hugs, my adventurers disappeared into the airport. It had been a great week, one for the books, one for the blog. And much like the slow, fast train, I spent a lot of time looking forward to the destination when the journey was my happiness.</div>
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That's what life long friends are - the people walking with you during your journey, sitting beside you, just doing whatever because it is something to do to be together. </div>
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I'd sit by my people on a slow train, a fast plane or a sinking boat, but if we can keep from the sinking part, that would be awesome.</div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-83019395485857145622015-07-03T03:41:00.001+08:002015-07-03T04:15:36.780+08:00A Parisian Fairy Tale<div style="text-align: justify;">
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<i>(All photos taken from the explorers' combined 800 picture album.)</i></div>
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Once upon a time three friends made a journey to a different world. On the wings of metal birds, they traveled far away to see an exotic place where people spoke a different language, ate (kinda) different food and paid nonsensical prices for stuff. </div>
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The strangeness of this land surprised two of the three friends.<br />
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The three friends fearlessly attempted to integrate with the villagers by staying amongst them. People in this place lived in secret alleyways so small that the electric horse carriage had to dump them a block away from their resting spot. While looking for their temporary lodging, they realized they had walked past it 4 or 5 times due to the fact that it looked positively post-apocalyptic. This was the door to their magical apartment…<br />
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but much like a Russian doll, yet another door was opened to them. Or
not. These doors were so fully protected by a security spell that it took all
three of them to open AND close the cursed doors…each time. <br />
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Their little hobbit hole was as cold as eating ice cream in an igloo on an iceberg…<br />
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though one of them felt it was as hot as Donna Summer singing on top of a stove in the desert.<br />
("Hot Stuff", get it? BTW, M was too indecent to take a picture.)<br />
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Once they had refreshed themselves in the tiny bathroom made for an actual hobbit, they searched for a means to explore this new horizon.<br />
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Once aboard their blue beasts, they ventured far and wide. One of the friends unexpectedly tasted the forest floor when she didn’t quite make the curb jump. One of the friends found joy in <b>repeatedly </b>ringing the chimes of the beast. (Never let Brigit near a bell. NEVER. EVER) And one of the friends led the party in their explorations because he is such a butt-kisser he never left the tour guide’s side.<br />
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For the next 4 hours, though their behinds were numb within 5 minutes, our intrepid travelers saw many secret treasures, never seen before from anyone outside the village.<br />
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During the travels, they also found a pop-up hardware store.<br />
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One friend hated to see so many locks being used in such a careless way.<br />
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Sustenance was needed if the friends were to continue on. Luckily they happened upon a <a href="http://www.amorino.com/">kindly couple </a>who scooped up a sweet cream that came from golden cows. These cows had names like Nutella, Salted Caramel, Chocolate Brownie and Mango and their sweet cream came shaped as a flower.</div>
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With fairy sugar rushing through their veins, they climbed aboard the blue beasts for more excitement.<br />
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They found the burial grounds of the original French hobbit, Napoleon Bonaparte. <br />
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They found the holy grounds dedicated to the Creator.<br />
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And even the very center of this humble village.<br />
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Not all of the villagers admired the spirit of these three friends and a few dirty looks were given.<br />
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But other villagers were walking on air to think they could share their talent for free. (cough, cough.) </div>
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When the feet of our weary travelers became too sore to carry on, they found other hospitable means to continue the journey. (No tickets were lost this time.)<br />
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Many of the secret spots they had ridden past before now loomed large. One such place tried to freeze the friends in a time warp with the intention of having them emerge years older.</div>
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Fortunately the friends were too wise to fall into this trap. With their freedom and fortune firmly in hand, they were able to walk away from the diabolic wormhole and hop back on the Big Bus of Safety. </div>
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And when the bus made the friends a little crazy...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wcNao1ApwPztwx3ICbBSRLIQPzsUVg6Gu80K36ghimuDOJivGCXPp0fX7ZZvmU5mGnH0gtMarhZAuC45PSHDW5GjMpCow-psnZDSRjj58jGcbTLLqCUAYqyC1SLTyuDk-v1T7G8zbwk/s1600/thumb_thumb_IMG_0367_1024_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5wcNao1ApwPztwx3ICbBSRLIQPzsUVg6Gu80K36ghimuDOJivGCXPp0fX7ZZvmU5mGnH0gtMarhZAuC45PSHDW5GjMpCow-psnZDSRjj58jGcbTLLqCUAYqyC1SLTyuDk-v1T7G8zbwk/s400/thumb_thumb_IMG_0367_1024_1024.jpg" width="300" /></a> </div>
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...they took to the sea.</div>
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Enjoying the fresh smells of the pristine waters, our travelers were able to see the village from a whole new perspective.</div>
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The cuisine brought tears to the eyes of the friends. Its simplicity and layered flavors were unlike any other and will be remembered on the cold, dark nights that lie ahead.</div>
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After a final attempt to share the joyfulness of the village with their friends in other lands, it was time to go home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0OGZNVNrQ1vMa8Esf-EXAK0TW2frkLJ3B4jeYTkToCpLAztrRaf5MIQpS3wBtHV-zFlxML5Y1k1zwP58GBqW1tK91mXuBUNTIWoGBZLdLaeRRwIO0W-JcK_0u3xX5yPpOMToIDxLHbI/s1600/thumb_thumb_IMG_0511_1024_1024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH0OGZNVNrQ1vMa8Esf-EXAK0TW2frkLJ3B4jeYTkToCpLAztrRaf5MIQpS3wBtHV-zFlxML5Y1k1zwP58GBqW1tK91mXuBUNTIWoGBZLdLaeRRwIO0W-JcK_0u3xX5yPpOMToIDxLHbI/s400/thumb_thumb_IMG_0511_1024_1024.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This new world had pleased the friends and opened their eyes to a culture not their own, leaving each friend to explore their internal emotions about leaving this fairy tale. In the end, it was something to call home about. </div>
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(OK, those were from London, but they made me laugh.) </div>
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Join us tomorrow for the exciting conclusion...</div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-36233876500984751952015-07-01T22:13:00.000+08:002015-07-01T22:37:39.386+08:00Seeing Clearly in London<div class="WordSection1" style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; font-family: UICTFontTextStyleBody; font-size: 17px; page: WordSection1;">
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When we moved to SwissyLand, everyone talked about how centrally located it was, how we could reach Paris and Munich and Madrid and Milan without ever catching a plane. To be honest, we went to quite a few places, but when you live on a lake with a mountain view, it seems kinda silly to go somewhere 4 hours away to see a lake or mountains or hang out with different Europeans. <o:p></o:p><br />
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Just like Paris, I can spend a day in Geneva and have the same great food, the same fun French conversations and get the same energy one gets from the French – all without having to endure the second-hand smoke. Just don’t buy a <a href="http://edition.cnn.com/2015/06/29/travel/club-sandwich-index/">club sandwich</a>.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Missing Milan? Take a train to Lugano in Ticino where Italian is the sole official language, they have double the sunny days than Zurich, incredibly delicious red wines and the only celebrity that matters (George Clooney) within spitting distance.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Madrid? Is that in Portugal?<o:p></o:p><br />
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My long winded point is this – living in Switzerland is pretty cool and it takes something special to make a journey elsewhere. But when that “special something” is named Brigit and Michael? Well, that is worth getting out the passport.<o:p></o:p><br />
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One Friday we were discussing possible dates and by Saturday we had planned an entire trip in about 3 hours of texting. Our plan was to meet in London, go to Paris and end up in Zurich. While Brigit was on shopping duty with her mom, she, Michael and I made an itinerary, booked plane tickets, booked train tickets and made hotel and Air BnB reservations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The best part was that our travels plans were only a month away. The countdown was on.<o:p></o:p><br />
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Meeting up at the airport sounded easy enough. We failed to consider that it was Heathrow Airport. After an hour wait in the passport line (I thought we had a “special relationship”, England?), we played a high tech version of Marco Polo. A picture sent, a picture received. When I finally found my Polos, they were sitting on the floor, blitzed from the international flight and having pack-muled a lot of stuff for the Shoemaker household (and my closet). I made the mistake of trying to pick up Brigit’s backpack and suffered an immediate herniated disc or 12. A quick Heathrow Express and we were downtown. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Michael was kind enough to use up a stupid amount of loyalty points to get us a hotel on the Thames, straight across the bridge from the Palace of Westminster and Big Ben. Getting across the Westminster Bridge was a game of playing “Dodge Sticks”, trying to be courteous enough to not get in other people’s picture, but then realizing that the use of a selfie-stick requires way more space than we could afford to give if we weren’t going to get ran over by double decker buses. Somewhere right now, people are wondering who the blonde is photo-bombing their vacation. <o:p></o:p><br />
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After checking into the awesome <a href="http://www.marriott.com/hotels/travel/lonch-london-marriott-hotel-county-hall/">London Marriott Hotel County Hall</a> way early, they let us ditch our bags and freshen up in the spa. In a flash we hit the streets. This would be a reoccurring theme during the week. I have never spent a week of vacation getting up earlier than I do on work days, but there was too much to see, too much to do. I had forgotten the urgency you feel to soak it all up when you’ve traveled 5,000 miles to get somewhere. Best of all, if I was awake I could hang out with two of my besties. That was <i>almost</i> a good enough reason to get up <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://0" style="color: #954f72;" x-apple-data-detectors-result="0" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">at 4 a.m.</a> to catch planes and trains all week.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I’ve been to London a handful of times and apart from seeking out Chipotle, it has always been about being in the thick of the locals, getting to Banana Republic and T.K. Maxx (not an error) and roaming aimlessly while Mr. Shoe is at work or in a conference. This was not one of those trips. Piccadilly, Trafalgar Square, Tower Bridge, Buckingham Palace, the West End, Covent Garden, Hyde Park – no famous spots would go left unseen by our eyes. We bought tickets to one of the “hop on, hop off” double-deckers, the perfect touristy way to get around. We listened to the guides spill random facts and flat jokes. We heard more than we would ever need to know about Sweeney Todd. Up until I lost my ticket, we hopped everywhere. <br />
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Having a bus waiting for us at practically every corner was too much fun and crazy easy. Primarily because I found myself doing something really annoying on this trip – acting like I knew things and where these things were located. Maybe it was my medicines, maybe it was this awkward season in my life, but I was anxious and my anxiety was making me more anxious. Brig and Michael travel together a lot and I spent way too much time on focusing how I would fit into the travel scheme as opposed to focusing on just being with my friends. (Why yes, I am inside my head a lot lately.) I wanted this to be the perfect trip for M &B and took this stupid responsibility on that no one had asked me to shoulder. I don’t think I fully grasped how to shut up when I wasn’t sure of something until we arrived in Zurich and by then, I did actually know stuff. Luckily, M & B know me and love me and didn’t beat me when I was wrong. Wait, there were a few punches to the leg…<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I digress, I will never not take a double-decker bus again if they are available to me.<br />
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After the Great Ticket Debacle, we walked. Brigit got her fish 'n chips, I got my guacamole 'n chips and Michael got his Cokes. We walked and walked, discovering things not on our bus routes, like the Westminster Equestrian Ring, artistic window displays and random alleys that turned you out at David Cameron's house. We ducked into pubs that delivered your food by dumbwaiters (the pulley system, not dumb people who wait on you). We ate burgers and fried pickles at a place decorated as a butcher's walk-in freezer. We drank coffee at a cool place called "Starbucks."<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Over here, Michael</td></tr>
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We saw the Westminster Bridge set up with lights and cameras for the new Bond movie, but didn't see Daniel Craig. In the hours of Brigit's jet lag, she was lucky (?) enough to see the bridge on fire for the car chase. I was lucky (?) enough to be asleep with the latest in white noise, the Schnetzer Noise Machine.<br />
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On our last day in London, we walked about 50 feet from our hotel and bought the Fast Pass to the London Eye. (Fast Pass for the win!) We were able to see where we had been and what was left to find. That ride cemented that I was a tourist. Unless I faked a bad British accent, they were going to peg me for being one anyway, might as well embrace it. That <a href="x-apple-data-detectors://1" style="color: #954f72;" x-apple-data-detectors-result="1" x-apple-data-detectors-type="calendar-event" x-apple-data-detectors="true">Tuesday morning</a> I realized I had to stop trying to be something I am not. I am not a London expert. I do not know the Underground as well as I thought. I can get lost walking out of a Chipotle. But man, once you acknowledge that, you find a contentment. Your shoulders are no longer carrying a Mini Cooper on them. The elephant sits up and gets off your chest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Maybe more awesome is that you begin to realize what you are. I’m a daughter, a wife and a friend. And in that movement in time, I had been given 5 more days to be a friend to two of my favorite people in the world, who just so happened to be right beside me.<br />
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That was the best reason to get outta SwissyLand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tomorrow….more trip, less "I".<o:p></o:p></div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-26466142970786697722015-05-19T20:07:00.002+08:002015-05-19T23:04:41.284+08:00Pits and Peaks<div style="text-align: justify;">
Long time, no write. To be fair, I have been incredibly busy with...um....I planted new plants! That's it! I also never let the laundry get to be more than 7 shirts and 2 towels. We take lots of dog walks. I clean and ready our guest apartment for its next visitors. I roam new parts of Zurich weekly. I interview until my throat is hoarse. </div>
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All of that to say, I am not in bed past 9am anymore. I haven't taken a 2 or 4 hour nap in ages. I go out to meet friends for lunch or coffee. I function. I have energy. I make the absolute best out of being unemployed. </div>
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When you are severely depressed, you worry that these days will never come. You don't have the energy to hope they might return. There is worry that the slightest glitch in life will throw you for a tailspin. I am here to testify that it is a horrid place to be in, but very,very little by little, you find yourself climbing out of the hole. You don't leap and you don't jump, but you climb out, rung by rung, of the dark prison that your mind and body threw you in. I am not afraid to say that it took (and continues to take) medications, a psychiatrist and lots of grace to get my head peeking out above the pit. Just yesterday I asked if we could taper off my meds and my shrink looked at me with bewilderment. Her response was "I was going to order you to a 'wellness' clinic less than 4 months ago, let the meds do what they need to for awhile longer."</div>
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I understand her point. Two weeks ago we had to put Phoggie Doggy down. He had been seriously ill for 5 months. Not only was it an obviously horrible stress on him, but my days revolved around vet and animal hospital visits, medication time, quieting his anxious barking for the neighbors and cleaning up a lot of unsavory things almost daily. There is a vicious guilt that eats at you for not only being stressed about your sick pup and all of those things, but also for the relief you feel when he is gone and life is easier. But I have to keep going.</div>
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I've also been actively trying to find a job. I am required by the Swiss unemployment office to apply to a minimum of 15 jobs per month. I've been doing this since last December. As I am currently still unemployed, you can do the quick math on how many rejections I've had since then. (Seriously, do the math. I don't wanna know.) The ones that hurt are the ones that I interviewed all the way to the top of the ladder.<br />
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<i>Sidebar: </i><br />
<i>One CEO mentioned that he had read my blog and asked why I was so open. I didn't hesitate with my response, "Because I don't write about others unless they know. I only write things that I would tell you face to face. And I cannot not be authentic." I didn't get that job.</i><br />
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These positions are at least 4 interviews in, sometimes 6 or 7. You ask for feedback, but all you receive is "another candidate best fit the position." Why? Did they wear a cooler shirt? Walk comfortably in heels? Did they not blog? Not turn bright red all over? Did they toe the party line on how to interview? My mind reels with the possibilities as to what is holding me back. But I have to keep going.</div>
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"Keeping going" was a painful action 3 months ago. Today it makes sense. It is a hard won attitude and still a minefield some days, but piece by piece your life returns to a new normal. This new normal is an awareness that there are deep pits in life, but an understanding that you can climb out by reaching out if you fall into it again. If there is a next time, I won't waste time running from the diagnosis. Won't let my ego stand in my way. I will get help.<br />
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There is a scene in "The West Wing" that gets me every stinkin' time. Leo is talking to Josh about his PTSD.<br />
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"This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.
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A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you
help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the
hole and moves on.
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Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm
down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer,
throws it down in the hole and moves on.
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Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me, can you help me
out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid?
Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down
here before and I know the way out.'" </blockquote>
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For me it took the doctor, the priest and the friends. For others it might take quiet time and a healthy diet. It doesn't matter if you build a tunnel out of the hole or climb, but it starts by saying "Hey, can you help me out?"<br />
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A lot of you jumped down into the hole with me. Thank you. I know I'm not completely out yet, but your love and support is showing me the way. <br />
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And to my sweet boy, you are missed.<br />
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-75659667488703793392014-12-15T21:11:00.001+08:002014-12-16T04:58:27.970+08:00a secret no more<div style="text-align: justify;">
I have depression. In my head I hear it as “I have the depression,” but maybe that's just me trying to be all hipster about it.<br />
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What does that mean though? Whatever you do, DO NOT go to WebMD or any other website to have depression explained to you. If you weren’t depressed before reading their summaries, you will be depressed afterwards. <br />
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Here is what it means to me. To me it feels 100% physical. On some days (most days) it means that I dread the walk to the train, a walk that takes seven minutes at most. To someone who had been consistently running three or four times a week, that isn’t normal. It means that I can go to bed at 10, sleep until 9, get up, have breakfast, take a 2-3 hour nap, and go back to bed at 10 and sleep soundly as if I had the roughest, busiest day in the world. Until recently, It meant going to work, sleeping on both trains, then figuring out where I could take a nap over lunch. My depression means an extreme fatigue that seems to start in my bones. If you’ve ever had mono, you are familiar with this type of fatigue. Your mind may be up and at ‘em, but your body just isn’t having any of it. And that is exactly how I described it to the doctors. <br />
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The doctors. God bless ‘em. (For once I don’t mean that sarcastically.) For the last 10 months they have tried so hard to find me an acceptable diagnosis. I can safely say I have been tested for everything you have ever heard of on <i>House</i> or <i>ER</i>. It got to the point where I was telling the lab techs which vein to use for the best blood flow. I remember sitting down in the chair one day and counting fourteen (14....10 plus 4 more) vials to be filled. I stammered “alles für mich?” (all for me?) and the tech nodded sympathetically with a “ja, genau” (yes, exactly). <br />
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About three months into the tests, I went in for an unscheduled appointment. Blood work had been done to see if the remaining half of my thyroid had stopped working. This theory made all of the sense in the world. I’d had half of my thyroid removed last autumn - surely the remaining half had just called it a day. My symptoms could be fixed with a pill and I would be running again by dinner time. I was convinced that my test results were sitting on a counter, the Holy Grail of What Was Wrong with Me. But because my doctor was out for two weeks, my health was put on the back burner. Because I was exhausted and was exhausted with being exhausted, I asked to come in and speak to anyone who could read the test results. I wanted a specific answer, a specific solution and a specific end to these symptoms. <br />
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The poor doctor who saw me had no idea what was about to hit her. She had to be thinking she was delivering good news when she told my my thyroid counts were great. I literally burst out crying. Like a sad Lifetime movie (are there any other kinds?!), I blubbered my frustrations out. With no hesitation, she whipped out her prescription pad and started telling me how to take this anti-depressant. I cried even harder. She tried to soften the blow by telling me that depression is a typical side-effect of many other diagnosis, and that the faster we get the depression kicked, the better we can see the remaining symptoms for what they truly were. She won me over when she wrote a second note and said, “The rest of the week off work would probably help too.” </div>
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I left the office in a daze. I was embarrassed to tell my husband what was going on, he who is so strong willed and optimistic. I was convinced he would see me as weak-willed and negative. I thought if I could spin it off of another diagnosis, it would be clear that it wasn’t my fault I was depressed. I did not want to be depressed, and yeah, I could see how putting up with whatever was REALLY wrong with me had started giving me those depression symptoms. The doctor was right. A little leveling-off couldn’t hurt. And just like O.J., once I was out of depression jail, we could look for the real diagnosis.<br />
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Anyone who has taken an anti-depressant knows that they suck. They are the drugs on t.v. commercials whose disclaimer about their side effects is longer than the actual positive explanation of what the drug can do. “Sure, we might cure your depression, but you also might grow a second nose, never be able to leave the toilet, will always have a headache and don’t even think about sex...that’ll kill you for sure, assuming your partner can get past the second nose.” So while I’m looking for the real diagnosis, let’s add headaches, weight gain, nightmares and “crazy eyes” to the symptoms. No wonder I prefer being asleep. <br />
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With all of this going on in the background, I started seeing the Internal Medicine group at the Zurich University Hospital. I thought I had given copious amounts of blood before - these people were absolute vampires. I began to feel like a liter of blood was the co-pay required. <br />
<br />
The only thing the blood work had shown was an acute B12 deficiency. Normal ranges are 200-900 picograms per milliliter of blood. My B12 readings varied between 50-90 pg/mL. B12 deficiencies are common in vegetarians and the elderly. While I had recently turned 40, no one was ready to blame it on my age. And because I think meat and cheese are God’s gift to us, there was no viable reason to have such low B12. Like a dog on a bone though, I bit into this and wouldn’t let go. That’s it. That’s the winner. Let’s solve this B12 baloney and move along. <br />
<br />
So that’s what we have been doing - testing the reasons for a low B12 count. In October my left bicep was the lucky recipient of six B12 shots in two weeks. That mega-dose did move me up into the normal range. Do I feel more energetic? Nope. So my magic bullet? It’s not so magic. It isn’t the answer I wanted or the solution I hoped for. <br />
<br />
My University doctor laid it out last week, “I have to be brutally honest. There is nothing left to test, nothing more to consider, other than mental causes.”<br />
<br />
You know why? Because I’m depressed. The three doctors are now aligned. Kelli is depressed. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
There are people out there who do not want you to know they are
depressed. I am one of them. I wanted to fix me before I ever had to
talk about it. I wanted people to comment “Oh, but you always seem to
have it together, I had no idea.” Yeah, that’s because I’m an awesome
liar when you can’t see my face turn beet red. <br />
<br />
Depression has
such a stigma in our society. When you aren’t yourself, you start to
believe the lies. That a happy attitude can pull you out. That healthy
choices and exercise will fix you. That eliminating all stress is the
answer. That simply getting showered and putting on makeup will set the
tone for the rest of the day. You know what? I can take a nap in full
make up. Mascara isn’t the answer to a bad day when you have
depression. And stress? The only thing on my to-do list today is to
feed myself. Doesn’t get much more relaxed than that. <br />
<br />
Now I’m
saying this to my fellow godly friends with as much love as I can muster.
Depression is not a lack of faith. It is not an indicator of someone’s
relationship with God. More prayer on my part will not cure my
depression. Granted, God is a god of miracles, but that’s for Him to
decide, not you and not me. He is close, I believe this. At this very
moment He is giving me strength to write this, to make appointments with
a psychiatrist and to continue my conversations with my husband, my
family, my friends in a spirit of honesty. Depression is not a symptom
of a weak faith. <br />
<br />
Do I cry all day? Only if I’m reading a sad book. (I’m looking at you, <i>Still Alice</i>.) Do I have thoughts of hurting myself? Only if eating an entire box of Oreo Double Stufs falls into that category. Do I sleep a lot? Not all the time, but a lot. Have I lost purpose? C’mon, I did just lose my job. Is my weight changing? No fair, it’s Christmas time. Do I have unexplained aches or pains? Yes, but I can explain them, I’m 40 years old.<br />
<br />
Am I embarrassed to tell you that I’m depressed? Horribly. <br />
<br />
That’s why I’m telling you. I'm not doing this for the drama or the comments or the "atta boys." I
am calling out the monster under my bed. I understand I am depressed,
but I refuse to stay scared and embarrassed too. I’m telling you this very un-HIPAA personal story to ask you to do one thing this holiday season and all seasons - show grace. We have no idea what is going on under people’s facades. Those happy Facebook statuses are probably how people want to feel, not how they do feel. (Unless they are serious over-sharers.)<br />
<br />
When someone seems to drop out of view, do something to let them know you miss them - a text, a voice mail or, heaven forbid, a hand-written note on real paper. You aren't going to cure them, but they aren't going to feel so isolated in that moment.<br />
<br />
I am telling myself this now - show grace. To the neighbor who asks too many personal questions. Maybe they just want to know you better and be known in return. To the doctors who are trying their best, work with them, not kicking and screaming against their perspectives. To your family that is frustrated that they cannot fix this for you, listen to their efforts without being defensive. Show grace.<br />
<br />
When you are in Wal-Mart and you want to make fun of the person wearing their jammie pants - dude, they are a step ahead of me. I didn’t leave bed until 11:30 this morning. <br />
<br />
When someone does over share or is like a dark cloud on social media, say a prayer for them. Yes, they might be looking for some drama, but it takes 15 seconds to say, “Hey God, you know the story, I don’t. Be with them where they are.” If you aren’t religious, take a moment to think a kind thought about them.<br />
<br />
That’s the kind of grace I’m talking about.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br />
I’m surrounded by people who love me. Maybe not physically, but I
have no doubt about the support available to me when I reach out. I am so freaking blessed in that way. Is
that enough to pull someone out of depression? No, otherwise I would
have been cured months ago. Does it help? More than any one of you
know. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
You might consider this a major over share. That's ok. You are entitled to your opinion of me. Think a kind thought of me anyway, maybe even that 15 second prayer if you are so inclined. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I will do the same for you. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-12485848103941916482014-11-25T19:11:00.000+08:002014-11-26T00:00:46.157+08:00Breaking Up with IKEA<style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-wTy1WsWxVSr-8hYOpwDQrIDPD6SXgzrJdBM9WJM9plJJDGP3ZLosKLz9Rf5FuXS0TvHXK6q8UsmBmkgN0hry5d_YuoYCR5OpjP3vB8Mqf2zS72lDLF96xVk37mD5M0VbScq2DvhpEU/s1600/ikea.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj-wTy1WsWxVSr-8hYOpwDQrIDPD6SXgzrJdBM9WJM9plJJDGP3ZLosKLz9Rf5FuXS0TvHXK6q8UsmBmkgN0hry5d_YuoYCR5OpjP3vB8Mqf2zS72lDLF96xVk37mD5M0VbScq2DvhpEU/s1600/ikea.jpg" height="114" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
It has been mentioned (by me, numerous times) how expensive
pretty much everything in Switzerland is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I see it as three levels of pricing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The first tier is for the über-wealthy, those clients my
husband calls “ultra high net wealth”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Typically trust fund babies or successful entrepreneurs, they purchase
their furniture in little boutiques off of Bahnhofstrasse – beautiful, bespoke
pieces that only look better after years of wear, when the patina of quality
seeps out and it molds to your body like butter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The second tier is typically composed of those who work for
the first tier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>These people might be
hipsters, scouting vintage pieces in Kreis 5 (the artsy district of Zurich) or
hitting Redbox (not a movie dispenser), the Swiss equivalent of Restoration
Hardware.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The furniture is solid and
unique, but you also pay a small fortune for the gallery and name.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And then there is my tier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I believe this tier makes up the majority around these parts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We are a hodge-podge sort of crowd, picking
up deals when we can, passing pieces among the ex-pat crowd and knowing that
sometimes, when you just want new pillows to change your mood, IKEA works well
enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m not ashamed, I’m proud of what we’ve created for our
home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our home is a combination of
beautiful, solid (American-made) items like our beds and couch, IKEA pieces, IKEA
hand-me-down pieces, and maybe a leather couch we found by the dumpster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Anyway, all of that to say there are a lot of people in the
third tier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it seems like the entirety
of them are at the Dietlikon IKEA on Saturdays.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s a lot of divorces happening at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
To avoid meeting that many people at such a dark time of
their lives, I ventured to IKEA on a Thursday morning, by myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Armed with an IKEA card and a list, I left
home confident that I would conquer the day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Due to unforeseen circumstances, namely, an accident on a two-lane
highway and then construction on a two-lane road, my 38-minute drive turned
into 110 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
“But c’mon,” I told myself, “you have plenty of free time
now and think about all the voice exercising you just did, singing your entire
Broadway repertoire.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I was not going to let anyone, especially me, ruin my IKEA
Adventure Day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I walked in the store, settled in with a doughnut and cup of
coffee and immediately started texting mr. shoe questions about his parts of
the list, questions I probably should have asked earlier, but so what…I had
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The (first) problem with IKEA is the arrows on the
floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Look, I get that we need guidance
to get through the behemoth of Expedits and Lilenhämers and Flurgs, but
sometimes you need to go back to the Expedit with the display model of the
Kompartment and see if it fits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when
you do that, you are immediately judged by those passive aggressive customers
that look to the ground arrow, look back at you and your cart, and make you
weave in and out of office desks because they will not let you pass.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I also could not lose two ladies and their screaming
child.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how many times I went
backwards, I seemed to catch up with Terrible Tom and his Oblivious Au
Pairs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like they had a tracking
device on me at all times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No matter how
fast or how slow I went, Tom and his screams of “NEIN” were always beside me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At this point I had been shopping for almost 4 hours and was
about to do my own scream of “NEIN” when confronted with the choice of 3
different colanders for our guest apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Because I couldn’t possibly fit anymore in my cart, I
followed the arrows to the checkout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
not before facing my final challenge. IKEA cleverly puts their clearance items
right about 20 yards before cashiers, meaning if you see something on clearance
that you like, you’ve only got three choices, ditch the more expensive option
near there, buy both or fight the arrows to return the more expensive
item.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Knowing this, I typically ignore
the small pieces like desk lamps or misfit espresso mugs, but as I turned the
corner, I saw IT.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A three level tv
stand! On wheels!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For only 40
francs!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perfect for a guest
apartment!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The problem was, I had a full
cart and this was way too big to put into another cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But make no mistake, this clearance deal was
going to be mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it would be the
cherry on top of my IKEA Adventure Day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Like a train t-boning a car in an action movie, I stuck the
tv stand in front of my cart and pushed it sideways to the cashier stand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
And now we come to another IKEA problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When you start to put your items on the belt,
you realize that you have more room at a QuikTrip counter to put your Big Gulp
and Donettes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet somehow you are
supposed to fit the 291 items in your cart on this tiny thing BEFORE running to
the other end and re-loading your cart in the EXACT same way you had it previously
packed to ensure everything fits as the cashier is throwing your 1,000 napkins
at you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By this time, I was having a hot
flash, stripped down to a t-shirt and doing my best, determined to get through
this last hurdle before packing up my car in victory.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
While getting the evil eye from the housefrau behind me with
two candles (Um, lady, there are 4 self-check lanes to our left – check ‘em out
fo yo self), I triumphantly pulled out my IKEA card to pay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The cashier looked at the name and looked at
me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Swiss-German, she asked if I was
“John”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I said that it was my
husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She said more, but it was too
fast and too Swiss for me to follow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
high German I apologized and asked if she spoke English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I got the typical “bah” as a response so I
gave her my residence card / ID card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She looked at it, looked at me and ran the credit card.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, she ran the credit card after
looking at my ID.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in the clear…or
so I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
When I went to sign the receipt, I made the mistake of signing
my own name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s when she went
ballistic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were calls over the
loudspeaker, Housefrau Who Won’t Use Self-Check stormed off in a flurry of what
I assume were insults and I’m standing there in total confusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked again if she could call someone who
spoke English when a Customer Service representative walked up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I gratefully asked if she spoke English, only
to find out that when she said “very little”, she was the only person in all of
Switzerland who literally meant “very little”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I explained the situation as best I could in German and
English.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She asked if I wanted to use
another card and I said “no”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole
point of shopping at IKEA with an IKEA card is to earn discounts and use their
rates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want to use another
card. I argued that my home address was on the credit card and MY HUSBAND was
the credit card holder, but she wouldn’t budge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I asked to call the HotLine and add myself to the account immediately
but wasn’t allowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I volunteered to
open my own card, but she said there wasn’t time. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
At that point I was so angry and so red – both means tears
for me. (I was also so hot, but I’d already stripped down as far as was
allowed.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to just walk away,
but I thought about all the stuff I had gotten for our home office and how John
was excited to get organized and how hard it had been to pack the stupid cart
and how long I had taken to choose the items I had and I said “fine, whatever,
I’ll pay another way.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought this
would solve the problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silly girl,
this is IKEA.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I was taken to Customer Service, dragging a cart and a tv stand, where they made me UNPACK my
shopping cart so that she could return every single item by hand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point she had taken a nicer approach
and after a conversation with a co-worker that I could only half-follow, and
her asking for my address and phone number, I thought she had changed her
mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nope, once we got everything
scanned for return, she hands me the return receipt and says, “Go back to
cashier.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pay there.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So, PACK THE CART AGAIN, UNPACK IT FOR
SCANNING AND THEN PACK IT AGAIN TO LEAVE.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
With my head held high, I looked at her, mustered every
ounce of kindness in me and, in the wise words of Terrible Tom said,
“Nein.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Danke.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I went out to the car and cried. Hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was frustrated at
my lack of language skills. I had been terminated from my job that week, but IKEA
is what blew me up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seriously?!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>For stuff?!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I sat there and thought about the stuff in the cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Yes, there were useful stuffs, and cute stuffs, but it was stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And if we came back and got that stuff or
never saw that stuff again, it just stopped mattering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
I’m not going to lie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Mr. shoe and I returned on Friday night to get the stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It wasn’t quite as fun to put the pillows in
the cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting the right colander no
longer flummoxed me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
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We came home and put together our guest apartment and it
looks nice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But what makes me excited is
the idea of the guests, not what they see in the apartment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><u><b>I</b></u> want to see the people, not the stuff.</div>
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If I stay in the third tier of shoppers, I have way more
than I need.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly, I have more than
most of the world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I want to get past
wanting stuff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe this trip to IKEA
finally caused a divorce within me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
don’t want to be that person who thinks the bird pillows are necessary for a
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I guess I've got some stuff to deal with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-17459084858287295512014-08-07T22:38:00.003+08:002014-08-11T19:28:33.889+08:0040 for 40 (my apologies to ESPN)<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
I turn 40 years old this weekend. I cannot lie, this weirds me out a little bit. To soften the blow of my rapid aging, I have decided to focus on some of the things I've learned in my 40 years on earth. Please do not misunderstand me - learning, knowing and doing are very separate stages. I've learned these 40 things. Unfortunately some are still not my natural reaction or first thought, but I keep on trying with every lesson. So maybe that's my "one to grow on" - keep trying. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<ol>
<li>There are too many books, too many
stories and too many authors in the world to keep reading one that isn't
grabbing you simply because it is popular.</li>
<li>God is good. All the time.</li>
<li>Painted fingernails make me feel
feminine.</li>
<li>Be loyal, but not blind.</li>
<li>Yes, people pay to dye their hair
red, but that doesn't make you feel better until you are in your 20s.</li>
<li>It is ok to be wrong, but admit it
when you are.</li>
<li>When you are at a low point, it
isn’t the advice or the bible verses or the clichés that are immediately
soothing - it is the person who sits beside you (literally or figuratively) and
quietly cries with you that starts to heal your soul.</li>
<li>Count Chocula is the perfect
breakfast, lunch or dinner.</li>
<li>I would rather be healthy than
thin, but if I’m honest, I’d like to be both.</li>
<li>Count Chocula will not aid me in
being healthy or thin.</li>
<li>Stacy Welter’s dog bites when you
get in his face. </li>
<li>Rabies shots hurt.</li>
<li>Dewar’s is pronounced “do-ers”,
not “de-wars”.</li>
<li>The best moments in life are
rarely planned in advance; surviving the worst moments in life cannot be
planned in advance either. </li>
<li>Shampoo. Rinse.
Do not repeat.</li>
<li>Your parents’ religion will not
always be your own, but their faith can be.</li>
<li>Drinking water during a fast
doesn't stop your hunger, just your thirst.</li>
<li>If you don’t learn from your
mistakes, you've wasted everyone’s time, including your own.</li>
<li>If my sunglasses cost more than
$10, I should not take them to the tennis court.</li>
<li>Add pasta to boiling water,
potatoes to cold water.</li>
<li>Take the sleeping pill only after
the plane has taken off.</li>
<li>I know I will never fully know the
sacrifices my parents made for me.</li>
<li>Look for the good.</li>
<li>The ocean is my therapy.</li>
<li>Tattoos are addictive.</li>
<li>Your family is your family is your
family. They love you. You love them. Everything else is irrelevant.</li>
<li>Sometimes cheap ice cream is just
as delicious as expensive ice cream.</li>
<li>Everyone should have one summer in
their life where they work a maximum of 3 hours a day, play sand volleyball a
minimum of 4 hours a night and spend the rest of the time sleeping and
swimming.</li>
<li>No matter how good-looking, if a
guy screams when a snake crosses his path, he immediately loses his
appeal. </li>
<li>Someone somewhere may not like
you. Get over it.</li>
<li>Being a bronzed goddess is never
going to happen for me.</li>
<li>If you haven’t worn something for
two years, donate it. Except
Birkenstocks. Those stupid things keep
coming back around.</li>
<li>There are a few truly worthy
things to argue about in marriage. Most
everything else is about finding a compromise. Learning the difference is
called “communication.” </li>
<li>You do not instantly gain
communication skills with the exchange of vows.</li>
<li>Only my family gets to make fun of my
family. </li>
<li>Strawberry seeds are not
poisonous. </li>
<li>Less talk, more action.</li>
<li>If you have to look online to
remember if women have an adam’s apple, you probably have a tumor in your
throat.</li>
<li>I've been alive for 40 years. If I have a feeling in my gut, an intuition,
a first impression or a sense of unease, it needs to be given serious
consideration. But people and situations always deserve a measure of grace to
change my original impression.</li>
<li>Even cute, hip knick knacks have
to be dusted. </li>
</ol>
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Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5793086821909935099.post-50922592350234604592013-11-15T18:26:00.000+08:002013-11-15T18:26:17.367+08:00time keeps on ticking...There is snow across the lake from me. It is in the mountains and even the lower hills. A coat is now required daily. It is time for gloves, but I stubbornly deny it, jamming my hands in my pockets instead.<br />
<br />
It is November 15. How?! It seems like I was just celebrating my birthday on a beach, wondering how long I could stand the heat. August, September and October are a blur. There was a surgery to remove the tumor in my throat and half my thyroid along with it. There was a 3 credit hour class to move a little closer to my degree. There were never-ending rehearsals for a community theater show <a href="http://zcc.ch/">Don't Dress for Dinner</a>. There was a business trip to Boston and a 48 hour trip to Kansas City to hug my family. There was mr. shoe's birthday and our wedding anniversary. <br />
<br />
The last couple of weeks have been a whirlwind. Get up, go to work, go to the theater, do a show, catch a late train, get home, do my homework, wash an inch of makeup off my face and a half can of hairspray and wax out of my hair. Crash into the pillow. Drift off to sleep in the midst of a prayer of gratitude for the strength to get through the day...and for Nespresso. <br />
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I'm glad I did this show. I met some great people, built some much-needed confidence in my expat world and tackled something new. But I am ready to find my normal again. I've missed reading. I've missed eating real dinners while the pups beg me for scraps. I miss blogging. I've missed evening wogs (walk/jog) with mr. shoe. <br />
<br />
So here's to the sacrifices we make to shake up our routines. May we always find the strength to enhance our lives, to learn something new. And may we always find joy in every season, no matter how quickly it goes by. <br />
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<br />Kelli Shoehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03872908614234140646noreply@blogger.com0