tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71069841220996384802024-03-18T22:29:32.405-05:00A Leg UpRamblings about life, thought up while resting my broken right leg, and beyond....Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-88013424604421405642015-07-05T08:35:00.000-05:002015-07-05T08:38:15.463-05:00Retrospection<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Retrospection: noun</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i> The action of looking back on, or reviewing past events or situations, especially those in one’s own life.</i></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In retrospect, if my then-husband and I hadn’t gone up to Vancouver, Canada to get acting work during the Summer of 1994, we may never have gotten a divorce.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In retrospect, if we hadn’t gone up to Vancouver, where I was sitting around doing nothing while my dual-citizen then-husband worked non-stop, I never would’ve gotten the opportunity to audition for the rinky-dink 3-piece country band, by claiming that I had fronted bands back in Los Angeles (a fact I greatly exaggerated). I never would’ve accepted gigs that paid only $50 for 4-hours a night singing at smoky dive-bars, VFW Halls, and Senior Citizen Homes. Even though I was under-qualified, had never sung Country, and had to painstakingly learn 30 tunes, I’d been making a minimum of $200.00 per hour as a Marilyn Monroe impersonator back in L.A. </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJirGD5ZnS1E_jayhm77jnTiTIA1UoOLs-wYDLamWCVsY7FrzGUxau1dOEXJhUKpkKqYvi2TO6l0wOr-HqpT5nKEMYlhwV1Js-RC37zLJ-KlH_8e2hvbPftb6K3iu-9_WBnkAGu5CFW8/s1600/Canada+band.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBJirGD5ZnS1E_jayhm77jnTiTIA1UoOLs-wYDLamWCVsY7FrzGUxau1dOEXJhUKpkKqYvi2TO6l0wOr-HqpT5nKEMYlhwV1Js-RC37zLJ-KlH_8e2hvbPftb6K3iu-9_WBnkAGu5CFW8/s320/Canada+band.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rinky-Dink Country Band</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">If we hadn’t gone to Vancouver, and if the then-husband hadn’t gotten all of that acting work, while I never got cast in anything, and if I hadn’t shown him my ugliest jealous behavior, he never would’ve said to me (in an effort to be kind): “Don’t worry that you’re not going to make it as an ingenue. Look at that woman who just got a role in 'The Titanic’ movie! She’s been struggling all these years, and finally got a break, and she’s in her 80’s. It can still happen for you when you’re older!” {</span><i style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Gee, thanks}</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In retrospect, if he hadn’t made that comment, the comment that became a tipping point, contributing to my wallowing in a deep depression bordering on suicide and spending long hours alone journaling in coffee shops while he was off working as an actor, I never would’ve discovered the creative expression of writing songs. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">If I hadn’t been singing with the rinky-dink 3-person country band (guitar, bass, me on vocals and a drum-machine), I never would’ve been hanging out on a break at 1:00 a.m. in a seedy bar outside of Vancouver in the middle of Nowhere, Canada, reading an article by Pam Tillis in which she talked about “writing from title.” I never would’ve had the impetuous thought on the long drive back to our apartment, that instead of driving off the cliff, maybe I could write a torturous country song instead. I was convinced I could do it, because all of the 30 songs I’d recently learned seemed so simplistic that anyone could write them. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">If we hadn’t gone to Vancouver that Summer, If I hadn’t started spending all of my lonely hours writing heart-wrenching country songs, (a</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">lbeit, they were very bad songs, and the then-husband didn’t hesitate to tell me just how bad they were every chance he got) </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I never would’ve gone back to L.A. with the hair-brained idea that I could become the next Country Star. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I never would’ve checked out the book from the library: “Get Hot or Go Home” about the making of the Nashville Star, Trisha Yearwood. I never would’ve had the thought, “it would be so cool to go to Nashville, but I can’t because I’m married.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In retrospect, if I hadn’t checked out that book from the library, and if I hadn’t forgotten to take it and several other books back on time, my then-husband never would’ve flown into a tirade, accusing me of being a “chaotic mess.” He never would’ve screamed, “I’m sick of you, I want a divorce!” {<i>yep, those overdue library books were the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back}</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I never would’ve noticed that article in The (L.A.) Scene about an upcoming class all about “Getting into The Country Music Business.” I never would’ve met my next mentor and teacher, Phil Swann, who wrote for Steve Bloch, owner/publisher of Southern Cow Music, and I never would’ve met my future “spousal equivalent,” Steve Bloch himself. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I never would’ve imagined that three years later, single at 40 years of age, I’d pack up only what I could fit into my car, and I’d move to Nashville, Tennessee. Especially since just months before this I was looking to buy a home in Southern California and I told my mentor (mentioned above) that I wouldn’t consider moving as far as Northridge, California, because I would be too far away from Hollywood--a statement he has not let me live down even after 17 years.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In retrospect, I never dreamed that after one year of living in Nashville, I would decide to stay longer and that the time would fly into 17 years, and it’s now the same length of time I lived in Los Angeles. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I’ve often asked myself over the years: “What am I doing in Nashville?? How did I wind up here?” And whenever I dredge up the past to look at the trajectory of my life, I marvel at the perfect order of events. I’m grateful that my far-from-perfect marriage ended 20 years ago. Only in retrospect does the unfolding become so clear. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">We pass through the present with our eyes blindfolded. We are permitted merely to sense and guess at what we are actually experiencing. Only later when the cloth is untied can we glance at the past and find out what we have experienced and what meaning it has.” </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6343.Milan_Kundera" style="color: #666600; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">Milan Kundera</a><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;">, </span><i style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/3838" style="color: #666600; text-decoration: none;">Laughable Loves</a></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-76210444857620322562014-01-25T17:12:00.001-06:002014-01-25T17:14:05.130-06:00Raining Cats and Dogs<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMBjytLqJ3DlRqRB88WGYUrNgToYg2EKlfBACw41acFqEVffd2uOtDIIeDa74INiz4p-Bmi7ekz1fDvXEO0ivjdrC1btepWMouAaDT65b_00xmzNKApW5vzwS7GnSycPMtlpcpvixyrQ/s1600/s175nvuucdwjgaf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigMBjytLqJ3DlRqRB88WGYUrNgToYg2EKlfBACw41acFqEVffd2uOtDIIeDa74INiz4p-Bmi7ekz1fDvXEO0ivjdrC1btepWMouAaDT65b_00xmzNKApW5vzwS7GnSycPMtlpcpvixyrQ/s1600/s175nvuucdwjgaf.jpg" height="150" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It's 45 degrees out and I'm sitting in the front yard, enjoying a little sunshine before the freezing weather returns later today, taking a much needed emotional break from tending to Spike, our 12-year-old great dane mix who is in the house suffering right now. I'm journaling and watching the two remaining semi-feral kitties play. (Sadly, Lillian, the third kitten, a precious little girl, got hit by a car a few weeks ago, leading me to start allowing these cats to sneak into our bedroom window and sleep in our room on the freezing cold nights). This has turned into a routine. The kitties hang out in our room, going in and out of a slightly-ajar window to eat and go potty outside. They haven't had access to any other part of our house, but they're now </span></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;">sharing the front yard with our dogs; only the dogs don't even realize it, because they've never been introduced! </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"> It's</span><span style="font-size: large; text-align: left;"> so odd sitting here watching the cats play, considering this is what I've enjoyed doing for the past 12 years with my three dogs. The kitties make sure the coast is clear--that I'm the only one in the yard--then they slip through the picket fence and their fun begins: they chase each other, wrestle, hide in the bushes and dart out again, take pottie breaks, chase each other some more, and look over at me to make sure that I'm paying attention--just like a couple of toddlers, only these two cats are teenagers by now, I guess. I can't help feeling guilty for laughing out loud. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-align: left;"> <span style="font-size: large;">12-year-old Spike has been struggling to stand up on her own for two weeks, apparently as a result of a degenerative disc disease which has decided to rapidly take over. Spike is a gentle, stoic dog, now reduced to being hoisted up by her haunches with a large sheet wrapped around her hips just to get up long enough to go to the bathroom. The vet thinks that with treatment, ie laser therapy, acupuncture, chiropractic and meds, Spike may get better (or not), but it will take about two weeks of intense treatment to find out. Lily, our 11-year-old great pyrenees suddenly hurt her back leg on our walk today, and keeled over onto her side where she lay without moving for a good five minutes while Steve ran home to get the truck. Fortunately, she stood up again and limped home on her own. I guess we'll know in a day or two if she is okay. 10-year-old Shortie has begun to limp as well. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"> So, I'm facing the not-so-far-off end of my dogs' lives, while experiencing the joy of watching the kittens' youthful enthusiasm. I remember when my dogs were young and rambunctious, hiking with me at Edwin Warner, chasing squirrels, and leaping up on the bed with ease. Back in the house, as I type this, tears running down my cheeks, Shortie hears me sniffle, looks up and limps over to me, concerned. She hates it when I cry. </span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMZXBov5KtoGxbGF6-N9SpWaG3a2XRoBEfAK_hh2mw2R3mBI_w8krCRLRL3m_qkHJQj1aYbJ-6n5tMhzuPdnAa54ICrbyyl073KnOTB0BIyFS0uxH0Y1u2L0DflYP6DVqLvnpX1B6MOi0/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMZXBov5KtoGxbGF6-N9SpWaG3a2XRoBEfAK_hh2mw2R3mBI_w8krCRLRL3m_qkHJQj1aYbJ-6n5tMhzuPdnAa54ICrbyyl073KnOTB0BIyFS0uxH0Y1u2L0DflYP6DVqLvnpX1B6MOi0/s1600/Unknown-1.jpeg" height="640" width="457" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-57900146004916207132013-09-01T16:22:00.003-05:002013-09-02T14:32:28.724-05:00My Mad Cat Capers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I am not a cat-person. I don't understand them, I'm allergic to them, and ever since the time my mom decided to start her short-lived career as a persian cat breeder, and she locked up about 20 cats in cages in her garage, I have been turned off to cats. The litter box is a disgusting invention, and the smell of it permeating a home is way worse than any dog smell, in my opinion.</span></span><br />
<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;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LgBUpmOpFl22LHK7oHNs-kjbHV4Nem4ocFWjxWjNxxgBcKkiOyUvvk-CH9qWXlJJQon3bTPLkrwV1n11FITInPKJHyhlWGvyalYnUCUJ7TXfRhaxVcFvqWzq4nuY5SgLVyENPB7_tmk/s320/Mama.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="239" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mama and her 3 kittens</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></span></div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But when I noticed a black and white cat hanging out in my backyard with her three kittens on Memorial Day, I couldn't help but want to see the babies. I'd been told by my 93-year-old next door neighbor, Eloise, who had just moved into a retirement home, that she felt bad about leaving a cat behind. It wasn't her cat, she said. She'd just been feeding it scraps whenever the kitty would show up on her back porch. So, I knew this mama cat resting with her babies in the bushes had to be the same cat, and now that Eloise had moved, the mama-cat had transplanted her kittens over to my yard. I immediately knew I had to help. I may not like cats, but I love babies of any kind.</span>
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6LgBUpmOpFl22LHK7oHNs-kjbHV4Nem4ocFWjxWjNxxgBcKkiOyUvvk-CH9qWXlJJQon3bTPLkrwV1n11FITInPKJHyhlWGvyalYnUCUJ7TXfRhaxVcFvqWzq4nuY5SgLVyENPB7_tmk/s1600/Mama.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></a><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Knowing nothing about cat behavior, I learned quickly that the mama was feral, or a stray that hadn't been touched by a human in a long while. She hissed any time I got closer than about 4 feet. Still, she was hungry, so I'd put down a can of cat food and walk away.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the mornings, I started watching the cats from my bedroom window. I'd call out "mama" and "meow" to let the mom know I was there. (I read an article that told me it was a good idea to "meow." I figured it was worth a shot). It turned out that mama was more frightened of me than the kittens were. After just a few days, the first brave soul came out of the bushes to eat wet cat food from my hand. I couldn't believe his mustache! I named him Charlie. I didn't know if "Charlie" was a boy or a girl, but the name could work for either sex. When I snapped my first photo, I could see that Charlie still had blue-ish eyes which meant the kittens were around 7-8 weeks old.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPgislmJW_3mAfKqdHPtb8DHdpHESoj-vr11-VmvhKZmKdEcY8UTsVBKfEdUnSQA_cQvYBTgfv6EC2gvHEkQZK52O5KOZpR92O3yB2PgCX9NbGyj7BJFzo78bc43jshKKLdqYdyaWwtn0/s1600/Charlie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPgislmJW_3mAfKqdHPtb8DHdpHESoj-vr11-VmvhKZmKdEcY8UTsVBKfEdUnSQA_cQvYBTgfv6EC2gvHEkQZK52O5KOZpR92O3yB2PgCX9NbGyj7BJFzo78bc43jshKKLdqYdyaWwtn0/s320/Charlie.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie Chaplin, at 8 weeks old</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">From the moment I had two of the kittens eating out of my hand, I became obsessed with them, but I had no intention of bringing them into our home. With three large dogs, we have our house full. I didn't want to have to train the dogs not to kill the cats, and then there's that litter-box repulsion. So, I started spending about a half-hour each morning and evening in the backyard with the cats (before walking the dogs out our front door). I thought maybe I could train the kittens to get used to human contact, so that possibly I could find someone to adopt them. It got to where I could pet two of the kittens while they ate, and I was almost able to pick them up (before they'd jump out of my hands). The third kitten usually hung back with her mother; she was much smaller than the other two, and much more skiddish.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After three weeks of positive interaction with the kittens, just as one of the kittens was beginning to play with me, I came home that evening and all 4 cats were gone. I was heartsick (but also a little relieved because I knew I couldn't keep them!). My friend told me it was for the best. If I wasn't going to bring them into my house and tame them, it was best for them to learn their feral ways from their mother so that they could survive in the wild. Nonetheless, I was worried sick about them, and concerned that the mom could get pregnant again while she was out roaming the 'hood. I spent a week searching and asking neighbors if they'd seen the kitties, and then I looked out my window one morning and they were back! They all ran up the stairs to my back porch crying for food, and I wondered where in the hell had they gone, and why?? </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1JuT0xnne28dmilxjyu1ufjm4XBAHURq4XVldaVguLSHi0XagT6iiJfXh_pFu2LRHiy_v0zAg1y0R3I0vHIZPyZc8yd9QhyHXNM6AI1wvuuIOAEf5g_vZZXDp0OfxdwbNK_zPpQDSr8/s1600/Oona+6:19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgS1JuT0xnne28dmilxjyu1ufjm4XBAHURq4XVldaVguLSHi0XagT6iiJfXh_pFu2LRHiy_v0zAg1y0R3I0vHIZPyZc8yd9QhyHXNM6AI1wvuuIOAEf5g_vZZXDp0OfxdwbNK_zPpQDSr8/s320/Oona+6:19.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rudolph Valentino, starting to play</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">It became clear after it happened several times that the mom was taking her kittens away from me so that they wouldn't have human interaction. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">After another couple weeks of on-again, off-again appearances, I found out where the cats were living on the off days. I spotted them four houses down, hiding under a car about 11:00 p.m. one night. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">The next morning, I asked those neighbors if they had seen the cats and if they were feeding them. They told me yes, they had been feeding the mother cat, that she'd given birth in their yard, then she had taken her kittens away but had recently brought them back! I was stunned. Mama Cat had another family! I felt cheated on. Those neighbors said they'd been feeding the mother cat occasionally for years, and that they'd watched several litters come and go. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Meanwhile, I had been </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">reading up on feral cats, and how quickly they can multiply. I had already contacted "</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.petcommunitycenter.org/feline-fix">Nashville Community Pets</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">," a feral cat organization who could help me get the cats fixed. I borrowed traps, I was ready to catch the cats, but they had moved down the street! I asked the neighbor if she was willing to trap and neuter the cats. She said she didn't know how and was afraid to try. So, I convinced her to stop feeding the cats, so they'd come back down to my house for food. I'd trap them, and take get them to get fixed. Once they were fixed, they could move back down to her house, but at least they wouldn't procreate and have more generations living on the streets.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My plan in place, I watched day and night for the cats to return. With my flashlight, and my cans of cat food, I'd walk four houses down at midnight and meow, and one-by-one the kittens would meow back, then they'd creep out from under a car, run along some bushes to the edge of the neighbor's property where I laid in wait with the food. This went on for several nights. I even recruited my sister to help me when she visited in July. They'd come crying to me for the food, but they wouldn't come back to my house. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I was discouraged, and the feral cat organization wanted their traps back. Then, after 10 weeks, when I was on the brink of giving up, I set the traps in my backyard, hoping I'd get lucky. The kittens decided to come back at just the right time, and they walked right into the traps. Then the mama came back and she walked right into a trap too. I also caught a possum, but I let him go. Unbelievably simple. All four cats were fixed one month ago today. The mama was indeed pregnant again, so she was fixed just in time. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">After they recovered in cages in my basement, I released them all, and the mother quickly ran away. The kittens apparently decided to stay. Or else the mom abandoned them. I don't know. But now I have three semi-feral, five to six-month old kittens living in my back yard, sleeping in my carport, eating square meals, playing with me and coming when I "meow." I still can't pick them up, but they are warming up to me! Rudy caught his first mouse. Lillian finally let me pet her (for a moment) this morning. And Charlie will meow like a Banshee when he's hungry. Mama has shown up a couple of times for a free meal, but she hisses and bats at her kittens and won't let any of us near her. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I still don't understand cats, but spending time with them is opening my heart and mind--I just might be a cat-person, after all.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVmAzoEkl9pvWGNT49QQH27nwXdt4XnhsOn0wShrNVOxxVbeVm_i5qHaGyI8BHVHzBCR1l_fqyGGWtGwJUvqtQ4CRU5HN5azeusrYCxhq4mmm5r6eu9wiPp7j_Io5Md4yQWrg__nM-uE/s1600/Rudy+too+9%253A1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLVmAzoEkl9pvWGNT49QQH27nwXdt4XnhsOn0wShrNVOxxVbeVm_i5qHaGyI8BHVHzBCR1l_fqyGGWtGwJUvqtQ4CRU5HN5azeusrYCxhq4mmm5r6eu9wiPp7j_Io5Md4yQWrg__nM-uE/s320/Rudy+too+9%253A1.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rudolph Valentino (Rudy), at 5 months</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfc-kjD3dyAFW2ka_hKaAA_s9Kujs5sKkg2d_wSAqdRAYrKGENstC0X5ZjDmPLmPdOODJDYcVdy4Vd0AtCLiKFK0C7DzGk_qfThEAHMu2ZOcPoURic6X2U96djTOzzjXRZCMg39GPJLM/s1600/Lillian+Gish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVfc-kjD3dyAFW2ka_hKaAA_s9Kujs5sKkg2d_wSAqdRAYrKGENstC0X5ZjDmPLmPdOODJDYcVdy4Vd0AtCLiKFK0C7DzGk_qfThEAHMu2ZOcPoURic6X2U96djTOzzjXRZCMg39GPJLM/s320/Lillian+Gish.jpg" width="239" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lillian Gish, at 5 monhs</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWVibmwUjgkK89FZ1Fp-ebQKTv5L-8plFYlWzHqhTGCEuYBtl15CoOEVqY6arXyp2851xtfP8Cj6Miizoj8b2cGy4Bi9Qw-ZPz0PE0DGSQrnvonwAHU5Z5gOJMjPHKNeCFaCeKqinhPBE/s1600/Charlie+9:1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWVibmwUjgkK89FZ1Fp-ebQKTv5L-8plFYlWzHqhTGCEuYBtl15CoOEVqY6arXyp2851xtfP8Cj6Miizoj8b2cGy4Bi9Qw-ZPz0PE0DGSQrnvonwAHU5Z5gOJMjPHKNeCFaCeKqinhPBE/s320/Charlie+9:1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charlie, at 5 months</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-56517158588907080082013-02-11T08:04:00.000-06:002013-02-11T08:15:01.637-06:00Breathing Deep<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><blockquote type="cite">
<div>
<center>
<div style="font-family: Times; font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><blockquote type="cite">
<div>
<center style="text-align: left;">
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don't resist them--that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality.</span></span></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like." </span></span></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #351c75;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">--Lao Tzu</span></span></span></center>
</div>
</blockquote>
</span></span></center>
</div>
</blockquote>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I woke up last Sunday morning in Carefree, Arizona, feeling like the name of the town suggests. While everyone else at the wellness retreat I was attending slept, I journaled, writing down my positive thoughts about the workshop we had on Saturday, which was all about how a breathing practice can change one's physiology, creating balance in the heart and mind. I went for a 40 minute contemplative walk taking deep breaths and snapping photos of the cacti, the jack rabbits and the golf course. I was remembering my dad, who died three years ago to the day--but I didn't feel much sadness, just fond memories. I felt peaceful and connected to the Universe. After my walk when I looked in the mirror, I noticed how calm and happy I felt.</span></span></span><br />
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Then I called Steve. Steve was holding down the fort at home the best that he could, while grieving the unexpected death of Eric, one of his best friends, since Friday. Spike, our 11 year old great dane mix, had been sick with a very high temperature a few days before I left; but she'd been treated by the vet and her condition was stabilized, so Steve and I thought it was okay for me to leave town. </span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Spike is lethargic again, and she wouldn't eat her dinner last night," Steve said. I took several deep breaths, recalling an exercise from Saturday, to help me stay calm. "You're going to need to take her temperature," I said. (Steve had told me before I left that he wouldn't take Spike's rectal temperature-the thought of it grossed him out, or scared him, or something). "You're going to </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">have</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> to take her temperature," I said, without emotion--(while feeling a freaked-out fearful anxiety welling up in my chest). </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Slowly and methodically, between deep breaths, I walked Steve through the process of how to take a rectal temperature: where to find our digital thermometer, how to turn it on, where to find the sanitary probe covers, and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">how to cover the thermometer tip, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">how to lubricate it, how to insert it, step by step, over the phone, while I sat in the arizona sun by the pool, acutely aware of my breathing.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Spike's temperature was 105. I knew this was dangerously high, as we'd already been through this with the vet last week. So, I coached Steve all day Sunday while he iced Spike down and covered her with wet, ice cold towels that he changed every 15 minutes. I called Steve every half hour for a temperature update. While Steve stayed by Spike's side, I worried from 1,700 miles away. And I started thinking about the inevitable: Spike is going to die. Just like my dad. Just like Steve's friend Eric. Just like we all will. I went from bliss to grief in a matter of seconds and I kept breathing. I felt raw, just like I felt from the moment my dad was diagnosed with cancer, until he died four months later.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Steve and Spike were both troopers. Steve saw Spike through two hellish days until I came home. And Spike could teach me a lot about grace and dignity (and breathing deep). She has always been a regal girl. She was calm and agreeable while Steve took her temps and kept the ice coming. She gently responded as the veterinarians probed, ran tests, took shots and x-rays, and gave her an ice cold bath. She apparently has some mysterious disease that is incurable, and the vet says that if we can keep her stable with steroids, "to consider it a win." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOs4IdnhtN6vYlDPJOSDG1nU2eCPOoe_sBa2BbOqG1AqnOSWP695AhyphenhyphenfsH9TzqoJzhWUCeCTLYdiwmIdOT9CowkHnlvfwA9ODy3kE2PcTWGw5powHaMYN911u6J3cKuugEZq6vItPOEQ/s1600/IMG0001.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNOs4IdnhtN6vYlDPJOSDG1nU2eCPOoe_sBa2BbOqG1AqnOSWP695AhyphenhyphenfsH9TzqoJzhWUCeCTLYdiwmIdOT9CowkHnlvfwA9ODy3kE2PcTWGw5powHaMYN911u6J3cKuugEZq6vItPOEQ/s320/IMG0001.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Spike, in her younger days</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today, one week later, Spike is feeling somewhat like her old (younger) self--I know this because she wanted to hang out in the front yard this morning and while I was on the phone she managed to escape and she took Little Shortie with her! Lily, our great pyrenees, came to the door to let me know her friends had gone AWOL. I felt my panic rising, as I searched for the two of them and I went to the worse-case scenario in my mind. I was breathing deeply when I spotted Spike and Shortie in our <i>back</i> yard (somehow they'd wiggled through a hole in the fence), visiting with a neighbor's pitbull (who had jumped his own fence and was in our backyard too). Spike was enjoying the moment. I went from panic to gratitude in a split second. Breathing Deep. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig764zUhcZjVbBGQs4JSMxk5kXTuu5fJfirEn3Mcv1tLHnpOjIW99SZqoha59MoytR7cpbn4l0m3Wtww-mazIFWGBJcNBU7EWnQgbvM7GANgDtxrUOJZPk_LzBWXZvmK9xfgG8dtA48LM/s1600/000_0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEig764zUhcZjVbBGQs4JSMxk5kXTuu5fJfirEn3Mcv1tLHnpOjIW99SZqoha59MoytR7cpbn4l0m3Wtww-mazIFWGBJcNBU7EWnQgbvM7GANgDtxrUOJZPk_LzBWXZvmK9xfgG8dtA48LM/s320/000_0006.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-49500202597980826302012-12-18T12:43:00.002-06:002012-12-18T18:40:05.333-06:00Looking Forward, Looking Back<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This morning, I was trying to think up something inspirational and informative to blog about--other than the obvious horrifying news topic on my mind right now (</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">there's nothing soothing or significant I can add to the conversation about the tragic event that took place at Sandy Hook Elementary school in Connecticut last Friday. There is nothing to say. Just a heavy sigh).</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I feel incredibly grateful that I have gotten through 2012 relatively unscathed, with my future still ahead of me.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Given that December is my favorite month of the year when I take time to reflect on what I've accomplished in 2012, and I dream about what I want to accomplish in 2013, I decided to focus on this when a title popped into my head, and the title seemed perfect. I immediately thought, "Surely it's been done; after all, it ain't that original." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">
</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, I referred to that most awesome source of information for writers of the 21st century: Google. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And I found the most wonderful song and video written and performed by Slim Dusty, an Australian singer-songwriter I'd never heard of. Nothing expresses a sentiment better than a great lyric and melody.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I shed some tears as I watched an Old Slim Dusty singing "Looking Forward, Looking Back" and reflecting on his life. (Slim Dusty died in 2003 at age 76 after a career in music that spanned nearly seven decades). Again, I was filled with gratitude that I have great friends, a supportive "spousal equivalent", loving sisters, brothers, nieces, and cousins, sweet dogs, enough money to get by, and good health. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As the Connecticut rampage reminds us, we never know how much time we'll get to live on this earth, and I'm blessed to be one of the fortunate people alive in her fifties, looking forward to another day. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here's the sweet and simple song/video:</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WI3i7Rf-Qg0">Slim Dusty singing "Looking Forward, Looking Back"</a></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-7023949842686524872012-11-13T12:14:00.001-06:002012-11-13T12:23:54.475-06:00It's About Time<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: 16px;"><span class="huge bqQuoteLink" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 15pt; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/r/ralphwaldo106883.html" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: black; font-size: 20px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="view quote">Adopt the pace of nature: her secret is patience.</a></span><br /><span class="bodybold" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; font-weight: bold; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/r/ralph_waldo_emerson.html" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; color: #0000aa; font-size: 13px; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-decoration: none;" title="view author">Ralph Waldo Emerson</a> </span><span style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br /> </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I can't believe it's been six months since I've posted anything on this blog! I had planned to post at least once a month this year. So what happened? LIFE. ("</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Life</span> is<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> what happens to you, while you're busy making other plans</span>".)</span></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></i>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As I sit here reflecting upon where the months have gone, (or the year 2012 for that matter), I can see that I've been quite busy. It's only when I allow myself the time to sit and reflect that I realize I've accomplished a lot. Most of the time I beat myself up for not doing enough, and lament that so much time has passed. I wonder if this is just something my particular being does, (I recognize it's a pattern of mine) or if this is a human condition? Some days there's so much I want to get done that I become paralyzed and can't figure out what to do first, so I fiddle around with Facebook, watch t.v., or do any number of other procrastinating activities. My ex-husband used to accuse me of running around like a chicken with it's head cut off, creating busy-work in order to feel productive--but I digress...</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(What about a J-O-B, you might wonder, if you're someone who doesn't know me and you're actually reading this blog). </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Being self-employed can be a curse. Without a boss telling me what to do, I have to juggle my possible money-making activities with my many creative pursuits (which sometimes make money), and somehow find a way NOT to continually go into fear (about not making money) or overwhelm (usually connected to my fear about not making money).</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, yesterday was a rainy, chilly Monday. I had no real estate appointments and I was looking forward to working from home. I have no house that I'm currently renovating, no vacant rental properties to get filled, and no theatrical productions to perform in. I guess I could've written a song, but it seems that songwriting has moved to the bottom of the to-do list at least for now. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I planned to get on-line to search for homes to show buyer-clients, and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I planned to work on the homework due for a marketing class this coming Wednesday (I haven't even started), and I planned to send out thank you notes that are long overdue, and to contact any and all possible real estate prospects;</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> then I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">planned to finish up my new acting resume and search on-line for possible plays to audition for, and I planned to exercise, and oh, I can feel myself going into overwhelm just thinking about it!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So I decided it was finally time to get back to the blog, 'cause I didn't feel like doing any of the above. I looked for inspiration for something to write about and couldn't come up with a damn thing (Kind of like my songwriting these days.) I got into my usual head trip: "who cares about what I have to say?" "who's gonna read this anyway?" "what can I express that I haven't already said over and over ad-nauseam?" </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What started out as a healing blog </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">while I was laid up with my broken femur</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> (for my own personal healing, not anyone else's) has turned into a blog without a cause. Except I realize: The femur is healed, but I'm still broken.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Now it's Tuesday, and I'm sitting in front of the fireplace for the second morning in a row. With just five more minutes until I head off for a real estate appointment, I find this inspirational message from the blog-o-sphere: Things<a href="http://thedailylove.com/change-happens-slowly-not-all-at-once/">-happen-slowly-not-all-at-once</a> ...Perfect. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Some things I've done since May:</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIJ8AfPn3R05W4El1pIkXyHG3-JY1Ya6-sgtUyMMJANbOgLJPPspRgHoCu68fMcWBHk2DokQPxXVEu1iKz1FAfTHm3XJooHrAfVaDZFZRgDCAG1kF0Bw3d84O_kBDx0NCaHGggKv6-Sg/s1600/66+PEACHTREE+KITCHEN.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIJ8AfPn3R05W4El1pIkXyHG3-JY1Ya6-sgtUyMMJANbOgLJPPspRgHoCu68fMcWBHk2DokQPxXVEu1iKz1FAfTHm3XJooHrAfVaDZFZRgDCAG1kF0Bw3d84O_kBDx0NCaHGggKv6-Sg/s320/66+PEACHTREE+KITCHEN.jpeg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Did a major home renovation, then got the home rented out</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8MCyTZa4gPCbXLkqfI3ubs91jUe0dVVz7uNaQqvolomeZm1EKnNCsgZgFb2tJZm_PTL2gRjxCx9yeVd-ldvPOjPmU-2a1vvFlErRdsUM7vpeAaEi1T3wjZXBFbE99Pcorfpvhyphenhyphen-N3CQ/s1600/398330_408345605863942_100000655182396_1307961_130669214_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEij8MCyTZa4gPCbXLkqfI3ubs91jUe0dVVz7uNaQqvolomeZm1EKnNCsgZgFb2tJZm_PTL2gRjxCx9yeVd-ldvPOjPmU-2a1vvFlErRdsUM7vpeAaEi1T3wjZXBFbE99Pcorfpvhyphenhyphen-N3CQ/s320/398330_408345605863942_100000655182396_1307961_130669214_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sold some Real Estate<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskgN_Q-PKPfUNzH_HZLObeDIHhUw9f13AYFEYb3qPZBouDoGCdVg4cbGurn2saQK5syk7yIlidjWG947BgXD9wr9rTrrN-tkfxmSyKPgIz-S4PKedR1M3OPO6bUAlhpGGDcSe52wsViA/s1600/Dixie_pub2_beach_72.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhskgN_Q-PKPfUNzH_HZLObeDIHhUw9f13AYFEYb3qPZBouDoGCdVg4cbGurn2saQK5syk7yIlidjWG947BgXD9wr9rTrrN-tkfxmSyKPgIz-S4PKedR1M3OPO6bUAlhpGGDcSe52wsViA/s320/Dixie_pub2_beach_72.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Performed in "The Dixie Swim Club" at Chaffin's Barn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-3pcg4YnhMDV14_RLz6OsQyLnjAc1hSQUnBLqngxdI5xlxxUBCJSR4JExLI9_W2kmAA10BBGsbJ51qBi3QSWKOWqypMMW9MlYTJY1FVJ5TPI62vj8qk3LRI17IcLL7CBIcVd_2YPalI/s1600/Texas+cruise+ship_1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz-3pcg4YnhMDV14_RLz6OsQyLnjAc1hSQUnBLqngxdI5xlxxUBCJSR4JExLI9_W2kmAA10BBGsbJ51qBi3QSWKOWqypMMW9MlYTJY1FVJ5TPI62vj8qk3LRI17IcLL7CBIcVd_2YPalI/s320/Texas+cruise+ship_1.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Attended the Texas Songwriter's Cruise</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiw3KZ7U7ZWvWb9_hNnFxgXHhp03HrZ7Oqsf9n4KbTxtUB9g78Re2yjQMueKaIMiA4pgj4P4zh4Y0KSqtsq0Ol8fwj3-pZUbo93t8FaasaKRelcd0R4imXr4-vv2XU6JYw_QBqDn4HPVE/s1600/285726_2435147816037_275403210_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiw3KZ7U7ZWvWb9_hNnFxgXHhp03HrZ7Oqsf9n4KbTxtUB9g78Re2yjQMueKaIMiA4pgj4P4zh4Y0KSqtsq0Ol8fwj3-pZUbo93t8FaasaKRelcd0R4imXr4-vv2XU6JYw_QBqDn4HPVE/s320/285726_2435147816037_275403210_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Went to California to see friends, attend a conference, and visit my sisters</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-10776434303423447732012-05-27T11:48:00.000-05:002012-05-27T11:48:08.436-05:00Finding Good News in Bad Manners<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> "Opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one." However, most polite people will keep their unsolicited opinions to themselves. So, I thought maybe the stranger was kidding when he posted under a recent photograph of me on my Facebook page: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"Boy, have you let yourself go since the show" </span></span></b></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">(The show being "The 20-Minute WorkOut," a t.v. exercise show which I starred in back in 1983, when I was in my 20's). </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150512851364253.393430.89805279252&type=3">Link to the photo</a></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was taken aback by the comment. I examined my photo carefully, and saw what the stranger must've been seeing--I had wrinkles, my teeth didn't look perfect, and considering it was a head shot, and my face must've looked fat to him, he was obviously able to tell that I'd put on weight in all of the other parts of my body. (When I posted the photo back in November of 2010, I thought I looked pretty good--otherwise, I wouldn't have posted it!)</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Since I couldn't be sure of the stranger's motives with his comment, (and I was dying to know) instead of merely deleting the guy's message, I responded with a sarcastic "Thanks!" (I figured if the guy was kidding, he'd reply back with something like, "ha, ha, gotcha!)" But instead, this was the reply I got: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><b>"surprised you took that as a compliment, it wasn't meant to be, you looked better on the show then you do now" </b></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> I was aghast. So many thoughts started whirling through my head: <i>I should just delete his damn comments, and delete my horrid photo. Obviously I've been in denial about how I look to the outside world. Obviously, I'm old, ugly, and fat. Who the hell do I think I am posting a photo of myself on Facebook for all of the Assholes with Opinions in this world to view and judge? Who in the hell does this asshole think he is?? How dare he find my facebook page just to insult me!</i> My adrenalin was pumping, my solar plexus was on fire--I was raging mad. Against my better judgement, I found myself going back and forth with comments to this person, with the insults from him just getting worse. There is no reasoning with a person who is self-righteous in their opinions. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Finally, enough of my <i>real </i>Facebook friends jumped in and responded, and ridiculed the stranger into a public apology. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Though this person had no evidence (other than a single photograph) for making his generalized statement, since he has no idea about the personal struggles or triumphs or roads traveled by Holly Butler over the past 30 years, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">the good news is that there <i>was</i> a glimmer of truth in his blatant, big-mouthed proclamation: In the domain of my weight, I <i>had</i> let myself go! In 29 years, since the 20-Minute Workout aired, (and I was at my tiniest) I have put on up to 50 pounds--1.72 pounds per year. What this jack-ass surely doesn't know though, is that I've already lost 20 of those pounds in the past three months, and he has fueled my fire in a big way, helping me to stay on course! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">So, thank you, Mr. Who-Ever-You-Are for your profound wisdom and astute observation. Although I have no intention of getting back down to my baby-weight of the 80's (sorry, I guess you'll just have to watch re-runs), I am on my way down--20 pounds and counting!</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxi9cBPioVz-uItu3nPAEZ9phmBpKLEMnhDQbRbyo0sxrTfCEUkBIsyKD86hwIM2BDEHuYdKjCe3vwPVUGTqgFG9agOumVg1NhliHWOj9jbTatUcBI3nlHXpmW95_fx1UOSFQmjjDP9G4/s1600/395503_10150590382189253_89805279252_8837144_1569493268_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxi9cBPioVz-uItu3nPAEZ9phmBpKLEMnhDQbRbyo0sxrTfCEUkBIsyKD86hwIM2BDEHuYdKjCe3vwPVUGTqgFG9agOumVg1NhliHWOj9jbTatUcBI3nlHXpmW95_fx1UOSFQmjjDP9G4/s320/395503_10150590382189253_89805279252_8837144_1569493268_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The now infamous photo--Yep, I have really let myself go!</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-47822939635172681752012-04-30T20:56:00.002-05:002012-05-06T19:25:33.922-05:00True Confessions and True Grit<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Back in January, I wrote on this blog that I intended to get my weight down by exercising diligently. I promised to take three water aerobics classes per week, hike at least three days a week, and work-out to my 20-Minute Workout tapes several days a week. (see: <a href="http://hollygayebutler.blogspot.com/2012/01/oh-how-i-long-to-be-fit-and-fabulous.html">"Oh How I long to be Fit and Fabulous after 50"</a>)</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, around mid-February (February 22nd to be exact), I was feeling pretty good, like maybe I'd dropped a little holiday weight gain, so I decided to step on the scale after my water aerobics class, and weigh myself for the first time in a year. To my absolute horror the gym scale registered my weight at the highest I'd ever seen it!!! I knew the scale had to be wrong. There was no way in hell, that in just one year, I could have gained 18 pounds--broken leg, or no broken leg. I complained to the gym manager, telling her the scale must be wrong. And I spent the rest of the day fantasizing that perhaps the hardware in my femur weighed a good 10 pounds, even though it's titanium, and apparently titanium is as light as a feather, and it still doesn't explain an <i>18 pound </i>weight gain!! </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After several people told me that titanium couldn't possibly explain my weight gain, I decided to go and buy a scale. I'd prove once and for all that the gym scale simply had to be wrong. On February 24th, I brought my new scale home, removed all of my clothes and stepped on it. Awwwwwww, Sh__!!!!! My new scale agreed with the gym scale. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">169 pounds. Closer to 200 pounds than 100. Startling, since at 5'6'', I used to be a lean 125. I thought I had been eating healthily and yet, I had to face the fact: I had packed on 18 pounds in a year, and about 30 pounds since I moved to Nashville 13 years ago. I've been in denial way too long. I was so disgusted with myself that I decided on the spot to start a diet journal, documenting every morsel I put into my mouth, and counting up my daily calories--since obviously my "healthy diet" wasn't working. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC29LcGUth2NYd09k6wQRfCPXHBVSlFkS2KZ_WEppzVGUdicXCEZ6OzLmqS1J6XY3s8xvSZDT2QyPfSLfjgEVHhhaBBUOjgzX8HzyUf_dr5UBUzTylhiMxjbhdvN0_QdKeRFOq2sTCwqw/s1600/581053_307748739302120_240492956027699_751063_79503819_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC29LcGUth2NYd09k6wQRfCPXHBVSlFkS2KZ_WEppzVGUdicXCEZ6OzLmqS1J6XY3s8xvSZDT2QyPfSLfjgEVHhhaBBUOjgzX8HzyUf_dr5UBUzTylhiMxjbhdvN0_QdKeRFOq2sTCwqw/s1600/581053_307748739302120_240492956027699_751063_79503819_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I have no idea why I convinced myself for years that I didn't need to keep track of my weight. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Buying the scale was the best thing I ever did. I step on it everyday, and today, after 9 weeks of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><i>real</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> healthy portion-controlled-eating, and lots of exercise, I'm down to 153. My next goal is 140, and I know I can do it! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-1672323533264109752012-03-06T17:39:00.002-06:002012-03-06T22:49:53.677-06:00Just the Break I Needed<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">One year ago today, on a beautiful, sunny morning, I took a step in my yard and slid backwards down into a 3 feet deep hole (dug by my dogs) that swallowed my leg and snapped my femur in two places. That moment will be forever embedded in my memory. And today, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">during a matinee performance of the play I'm in, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">as I was joyfully doing the charleston backstage, I flashed on all of the pain I endured, and all of the baby steps it took me to get as far as I've come. Finally, after one year, I'm wearing high-heels again, skipping on-stage, and dancing.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">If you've never had a serious accident, you might think I'm overdramatizing because you can't relate. (Just like people who haven't lost their parents can't relate to what it's like to be a member of the parent-less club). But as a member of the "Broken Femur Victims Unite" group on Facebook, I know there are others out there around the world who <i>can</i> relate.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was talking to someone a week or so ago, who was telling me about his recent broken bone, and he made the statement, "it was just the break I needed." "Wow," I said. "What a great pun." And I started reflecting upon how <i>my</i> break created a great break for me too. It really shook up my routine. It decimated my habits, and I've been developing new ones. It slowed me down. It made me think. I discovered the generosity of friends and acquaintances. I discovered that I could enjoy just laying around. I re-discovered the absolute importance of daily exercise. I started a blog. I got back into acting. And now, in retrospect, I'm really grateful that I got to have the life-altering experience of breaking my femur.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, I'm celebrating my anniversary today, doing the charleston! And every year on March 6th, I'll give thanks and congratulate myself for my resiliency, and my sheer determination to rise above a hugely challenging situation. Both of my parents would be so proud. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABxoGlguBFx_zx0wtD9bs2vu_Z-log-3ceaHkyYIHlRFm1_vYtKWsaZGfLPwzbu_Jy36MiQ9_egno0H_h3eU6mwrZllKVRkqesBzXaB9QyXcZ7W1eAWuzDS3TjmNUpqot_KiqIW1Vpp4/s1600/422554_10150638410476839_790866838_8833105_1662117358_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiABxoGlguBFx_zx0wtD9bs2vu_Z-log-3ceaHkyYIHlRFm1_vYtKWsaZGfLPwzbu_Jy36MiQ9_egno0H_h3eU6mwrZllKVRkqesBzXaB9QyXcZ7W1eAWuzDS3TjmNUpqot_KiqIW1Vpp4/s320/422554_10150638410476839_790866838_8833105_1662117358_n.jpg" width="244" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-76673902940067269422012-02-18T08:11:00.000-06:002012-02-18T08:11:54.402-06:00No Business Like Show Business!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It's hard to believe it's been four years since I've performed on stage in a play. Four years since I got my real estate license and decided that I needed to focus on making money at the age of 50. I'd been eking out a living as an actress and songwriter long enough! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I remember bemoaning my choice to my friend, Nancy, at a women's support group, and I'll never forget her words of wisdom: "But you're </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">still</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> an Actress. You're just <i>acting</i> like a real estate agent right now." Truer words have never been spoken.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I got my real estate license, I imagined a flexible lifestyle where I would incorporate all of my various creative interests: Acting, songwriting, creative writing, fitness, home renovations and dog wrangling. But somehow, I found myself <i>always</i> working (I believed I had to be available 24-7 to succeed in real estate). That is, until I broke my femur last March. Nothing slows you down like not being able to walk! </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Over this past year, being slowed down by the broken leg turned out to be a blessing (cliche, I know, but these things usually do turn out to be blessings in some way, if you choose to figure out the way). It allowed me time to soul search, and while I was searching I realized I wanted to find my way back to doing what I love. Fortunately, Steve, my "spousal equivalent", prefers to be around me when I'm happy, so when I announced that I was "auditioning for a play, and after I finish the play, I'll work hard at real estate again, " he cheered me on. And, as if the Universe were supporting me too, the audition was one of those rare instances in my life where I went in expecting to be hired. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, it's been three weeks so far of reporting to rehearsals at 9:00 a.m., working with a group of professionals who share passion for the theatre, memorizing lines and stretching emotions, all under the direction of <a href="http://www.twtp.org/about/our_story">Maryanna Clark</a>, who has built an impressive theatre company, <a href="http://www.twtp.org/">The Tennessee Women's Theatre Project</a>. I haven't been this thrilled to get up in the morning since I had to be on set at 6:00 a.m. when I was a series regular on a short-lived soap in Los Angeles (with my very own trailer!). </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've been hiking most days after rehearsal (for my femur) where I run lines, and soaking in the tub most nights (for my femur), where I run lines again. I love the process of figuring out how my character walks, talks, and feels. I'm obsessed with my role, it's all I can think about. And, as if the Universe couldn't be any more on my side, I'm getting real estate calls, referrals and leads without focusing on real estate at all!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The play, "<a href="http://nashville.broadwayworld.com/article/THE-DISAPPEARANCE-OF-JANEY-JONES-Next-Onstage-From-Tennessee-Womens-Theater-Project-20120208">The Disappearance of Janey Jones</a>," opens in one week, and I will get to "play" for three more weeks of glorious performances. <i>There's no business like show business, like no business I know.....</i></span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-21199128390915174812012-02-04T00:46:00.001-06:002012-02-04T00:50:34.134-06:00Famous Last Words<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As my father was approaching his final days in this world, he told my sister Beverly and me one evening: "You two have done all right for yourselves; "Holly, you never got what you wanted, but you've done okay." Beverly and I exchanged looks and laughed, but I didn't know what he meant by the comment. Was he talking about my failed marriage, my not-so-illustrious career(s), the fact that I never had children, or that I wasn't financially successful?</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I didn't ask Dad to clarify. He was tired, over-medicated, and dying, after all. But now, two years since we lost him on February 3, 2010, I wish I could tell Dad that I'm better than "okay." I always wanted him to be proud of me.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I was a teen, Dad would often say, "don't worry about getting a boyfriend at your age, there are so many fish in the sea." Late one night my freshman year, he showed up at my friend Tina's house, (where I was supposed to be spending the night) and sat in her drive-way until I rode up in a car with Tina's boyfriend at 3:00 a.m. My dad grounded me for two weeks, but believed me when I told him that NOTHING happened in that car. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I was suspended from school my senior year for calling my band teacher a "prick", Dad met with the principal, and sided with me when I explained that m</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">y band teacher had ridiculed me in front of the class.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Dad believed in me. When I was jealous of Beverly in high school because she was prettier, more popular, and head songleader, he'd say, "yes, but she can't play the flute! You're the first chair flute player!" And, when I got my first professional theatre job at Disneyworld, it was my dad who received the call, came down to the Modesto Junior College, and pulled me out of class to excitedly give me the news. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There were so many times when my dad was there to pick up the pieces when I crumbled emotionally, and many more evidences through the years of my dad's support of me and my dreams. Oh, how I wish he could've been around this past year to watch me overcome a broken femur, and see me slow down enough through the healing process to realize that I can choose to spend more time doing what I love. He'd be thrilled to know that I'm performing again in a <i>professional</i> theatre production!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I sat here writing this, I had an epiphany: What my dad was trying to convey with his comment was that he <i>still </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">believed in me, all the way to the end. He was trying to tell me that not only have I "done okay", I am okay. </span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvu4TFPEdITbDFkJYQAZd359UeoLCKqouUC0OUi5YzxhbgT6fPKGWejQRuhCkinqIe1TUMQx40lSgLlyZcqPLKp5tBsbDFTMwgpeo-0A_cc-JAUZ36WZWfR04SyzOzg5Gykw22GSc-BrU/s1600/91de309e75cc49eab922b46711713951.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvu4TFPEdITbDFkJYQAZd359UeoLCKqouUC0OUi5YzxhbgT6fPKGWejQRuhCkinqIe1TUMQx40lSgLlyZcqPLKp5tBsbDFTMwgpeo-0A_cc-JAUZ36WZWfR04SyzOzg5Gykw22GSc-BrU/s320/91de309e75cc49eab922b46711713951.jpg" width="263" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Dad, joking around while making pancakes! </span></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<blockquote type="cite">
<div style="word-wrap: break-word;">
<div>
<div>
<blockquote type="cite">
<br /></blockquote>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</blockquote>
<div>
<div style="word-wrap: break-word;">
<div>
<div>
<blockquote type="cite">
<table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
</tbody></table>
</blockquote>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<br />
<br />Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-43408092942351507392012-01-26T10:48:00.002-06:002012-01-26T16:13:42.719-06:00The Proof is NOT in the Pudding<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The proof is NOT in the pudding. It's in the <i>putting</i>. As in <i>putting</i> one foot in front of the other, <i>putting</i> your best foot forward and <i>putting</i> your body into motion. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At my senior water aerobics class yesterday morning, Jackie, a stately, slim, and glowing woman old enough to be my mother told me: "You just have to make yourself do it if you want to live long." She went on to say, "I'm in better shape now than I was when I was 41." She told me how she had slipped a disc in her back at 41, and that it felt like forever before she could lift anything again. She's pleased that she can now easily lift a shrub in her garden.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">We were talking about the fact that I was sore from my workout the day before. My "workout" being that I single-handedly moved an enormous couch out of our tiny den, (while Steve was at work and knew nothing about my impulsive decision to rearrange the furniture and dispose of said couch) by pushing, pulling, and eventually lifting it up on end and stuffing it through the door. I felt so strong and powerful! It was like lifting weights and I totally forgot any limitation my right leg might have had. While I was moving the furniture around, I thought about how much I enjoyed renovating homes, and that it might be just about time to tackle another home renovation, if we could find a cheap fixer-upper. Coincidentally, (or maybe there are no coincidences) I got a call from a real estate investor right after class who told me about a CHEAP fixer-upper that Steve and I might be interested in buying. (Wow! I'm thinking, just look at what moving a couch can do...) For good measure I got on my exercise bike and rode it hard for 20 minutes.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I don't know the origin of the phrase, "The proof is in the pudding," but I think the only proof I'd get from pudding is weight gain.</span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-10898171152973421292012-01-15T13:11:00.000-06:002012-01-15T13:11:10.618-06:00The Cold, Hard Facts?<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"I hate to burst your bubble, but you ain't never gonna be the way you was back then."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This was the jokingly friendly greeting I got upon my arrival to Senior Water Aerobics class on Friday. My classmate friend had just read my last blog post and watched my 20-Minute Workout video before coming to class. She laughed as she let me know that "gravity" had taken it's toll on all of us and we're destined to remain in the shape we're in now. I smiled and told her that "my bubble had been burst long ago," and I reminded her that I'd be happy just to get down a pant size!</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbbvqVj9wC_ffPHNLoPZjOkCELgPqX2eeKI4m4XBZcSYToAFcNIIOKW-baW65ULIN_X0NIDpGQJOgKOqnhNTR2M6LfeOAq3b2F7G_5P8MgZ1vx3g0mxwuuLmbkB5iLqP-ibSC_NIixw0/s1600/Measasize12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbbvqVj9wC_ffPHNLoPZjOkCELgPqX2eeKI4m4XBZcSYToAFcNIIOKW-baW65ULIN_X0NIDpGQJOgKOqnhNTR2M6LfeOAq3b2F7G_5P8MgZ1vx3g0mxwuuLmbkB5iLqP-ibSC_NIixw0/s1600/Measasize12.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(As you can see, I need to get down at least a pant size)</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The truth is, trying to lose weight has always been a struggle for me. Back before the 20-Minute workout days, before folks talked about <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bulimia_nervosa">anorexia/bulimia</a>, I was a part-time bulimic for awhile. I knew there was something wrong with my closeted bingeing and purging, but when I read someone's letter to Ann Landers, I realized I had a potentially serious problem. I hadn't known there was a name for my condition, or that anyone else had discovered my secret method for weight management. It was 1979, I was 21 years old, a student </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">in the dance program </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">at Cal State Fullerton, and I believed that I was too heavy to be a dancer, but that didn't keep me from eating. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I went through fast food drive-thrus on a regular basis, loaded up on junk food, got depressed and upset, and forced myself to throw up soon after. When I finished reading the </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">letter to Ann Landers, and her supportive response, I walked straight to a local athletic store and bought myself a pair of bright yellow Nike running shoes and started jogging. My logic was that I could eat like a pig, if I exercised more.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">But it wasn't until 1981, when I was introduced to <a href="http://www.karenvoight.com/">Karen Voight's</a> intense aerobic class by my long-time pal, Brian, that I completely kicked the bulimic habit. Aerobic classes were definitely a healthier obsession, and when I worked out strenuously, I could eat whatever I wanted (I'm sure my youth had something to do with this). Somehow along the way, I overcame my eating disorder without therapy by reciting the following mantra whenever the urge struck: "if you're gonna eat like a pig, you must suffer your consequences." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">By the time I was cast in the <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0300709/">20-Minute Workout</a>, I was working out five hours a day! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Still, even at my smallest, I felt that I was bigger than the other girls on the show, and was self-conscious about my weight. At my lowest, I weighed 116, (and that only showed up on the scale one day during 1984). In general, my weight seemed to waver around 125, and I was a medium, not a small.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Now, I'm an extra large! And this crept up on me slowly over the course of several years. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Maybe it <i>is </i>gravity! Or hormones. Or metabolism. But I suspect it's because I stopped working out the way I used to (hell, I stopped workout out entirely!), while continuing to eat the way I was used to.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Since 2009, I've tried several dietary approaches: I've been a vegan, then a vegetarian; I've avoided gluten, and limited my sugar, and yet I can't seem to get the weight off. I have women friends here in Nashville who are slim and fit, and they all have something in common: <i>they exercise regularly and vigorously in addition to eating less</i>. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MX8KJisE8bmXoidOt1DIvXN_l0YYxd1c3aTAhLWJ3vf9Sr-LVT93CJUXUiMhwPP679kVN4MZR6YniNKU27Z3lnvcaeTuPZ1l0ozxF0wbzzbmOuvkg1USBrIV4rnaH5KCIPKmxmNHnik/s1600/47101_427429121838_790866838_4656698_1188820_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="247" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_MX8KJisE8bmXoidOt1DIvXN_l0YYxd1c3aTAhLWJ3vf9Sr-LVT93CJUXUiMhwPP679kVN4MZR6YniNKU27Z3lnvcaeTuPZ1l0ozxF0wbzzbmOuvkg1USBrIV4rnaH5KCIPKmxmNHnik/s320/47101_427429121838_790866838_4656698_1188820_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, no, I may never get back to where I once was, but I'm convinced: I won't get anywhere if I don't exercise--daily and diligently. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-59274580526877806302012-01-11T15:32:00.004-06:002012-01-11T23:56:32.745-06:00(Oh, how I long to be) Fit and Fabulous After 50!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">With every new year, comes the promise of a new beginning, and this year, 2012, I'm grateful that I have a leg to stand on, and I'm ready to start really using it! While I was laid up last year with my broken femur, I had time to read a few books, and one of the books I read, </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.youngernextyear.com/">"Younger Next Year, (For Women)"</a></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> stresses the importance of exercise after the age of 50. The fact that exercise is good for you is something I've known for decades--I got into aerobics back in it's heyday, 1981, where I was trained by fitness guru </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large; line-height: 19px;"><a href="http://www.karenvoight.com/">Karen Voight</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> herself. I was one of the instructors on the original </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/20_Minute_Workout">20-Minute Workout T.V. Show</a></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, and was a personal trainer in Los Angeles for many years after that. But exercise was never really my passion, just a means to an end. I wanted to be taken seriously as a Hollywood actress, so I actually turned down the second season of the 20-Minute Workout because I didn't think it would further my career! </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When I finally cast aside my dreams of stardom in 1998 to move to Nashville to pursue a new career as a country songwriter, I became further and further removed from exercise. The food in the south, the lifestyle of drinking wine at every songwriter round, and the relaxed environment all contributed. I've allowed myself to get out of shape and overweight (Karen Voight would be so ashamed). Being laid up last year with a broken femur didn't help matters any. But the book, "Younger Next Year," makes it ultra clear that I need to get myself moving, and not just a little bit. This book makes a strong claim that if I want to live a long, full, life, I need to exercise strenuously for a minimum of 6 days a week--not just to lose weight, but to avoid <a href="http://ag.arizona.edu/maricopa/fcs/bb/exercise.html">bone loss and osteoporosis</a>. I've already broken one major bone, I sure don't wanna break any more!</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So this year, I'm going to follow the advice of "Younger Next Year." I have possibly 40 pounds to lose in order to be as small as I was back in 1983 (when the 20-Minute Workout show aired) but I don't think I need to get <i>that </i>small again! Right now, I'm simply going to focus on getting out of my "big girl pants" and comfortably back into my pants from 2010! (Notice that I don't disclose the <i>size </i>of my pants)<i>.</i></span></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijTTeeVU5hrRn6RbJHQ3j9yuAInbnatujugkTx4bgjOKbdhzagQPoyb1h5KM15nG1VzrnsXVacdI9qShIEsxkN4ve4RAFwq6PMdABMbx7Mp2UbyQ7IQzxVIfk1AF8ZXyyTZMMLVMd8GU/s1600/canedance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></a></div>
<div style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', 'Bitstream Charter', Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijTTeeVU5hrRn6RbJHQ3j9yuAInbnatujugkTx4bgjOKbdhzagQPoyb1h5KM15nG1VzrnsXVacdI9qShIEsxkN4ve4RAFwq6PMdABMbx7Mp2UbyQ7IQzxVIfk1AF8ZXyyTZMMLVMd8GU/s1600/canedance.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiijTTeeVU5hrRn6RbJHQ3j9yuAInbnatujugkTx4bgjOKbdhzagQPoyb1h5KM15nG1VzrnsXVacdI9qShIEsxkN4ve4RAFwq6PMdABMbx7Mp2UbyQ7IQzxVIfk1AF8ZXyyTZMMLVMd8GU/s320/canedance.jpg" width="320" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm now on day three of an experiment: </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">1) I'm committed to working out to the 20-Minute Workout dvds I have in my possession EVERY DAY to see how it works for women past 50. I can already confess that I must modify the work-out to a low impact version. I still can't jump on my recovering leg, besides, I recall that somewhere back in the late '80's while I was still an aerobic instructor at the <a href="http://articles.latimes.com/1999/apr/19/health/he-28827">Voight Fitness Center</a>, high impact aerobics were beginning to be considered <a href="http://www.proteinpower.com/drmike/uncategorized/dangers-of-aerobic-exercise/">"dangerous"</a> and low impact aerobics became the norm. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">2) I'm still continuing my Senior(yikes!!)Water Aerobics class three days a week, where I do get to jump in the water without hurting myself. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">3) I'm committed to hiking 2.5 miles around Radnor Lake twice a week.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So this is the plan, until I come up with a better one (or some lame excuse). 'Til then, my younger self is inspiring me with a four more, three more, two more...</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/RGTB6y8aJ6M?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></div>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-6455144034665654202012-01-09T23:52:00.001-06:002012-01-11T13:35:37.392-06:0020 Minute Workout: Episode 57 Video Sample<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/5vMyLkUSrvI?fs=1" width="459"></iframe>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-65879347043262776352011-12-31T17:43:00.006-06:002012-01-11T13:42:27.590-06:00Out With the Old!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JXdXgEAYLCEheipSkJb49LrTRJ6uL5ae7qFNfSGbP7XMrrzOegqhQmA_qgsjZd8zMJeHK3Oo7c9myuITScVqpiE4LG-mxSfeP77v7jfmXVch7sDy2uQ56Wrn3f6UDecTUrP3rwIJuNE/s1600/228344_210400605658444_100000655182396_669350_4164237_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JXdXgEAYLCEheipSkJb49LrTRJ6uL5ae7qFNfSGbP7XMrrzOegqhQmA_qgsjZd8zMJeHK3Oo7c9myuITScVqpiE4LG-mxSfeP77v7jfmXVch7sDy2uQ56Wrn3f6UDecTUrP3rwIJuNE/s320/228344_210400605658444_100000655182396_669350_4164237_n.jpg" width="194" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JXdXgEAYLCEheipSkJb49LrTRJ6uL5ae7qFNfSGbP7XMrrzOegqhQmA_qgsjZd8zMJeHK3Oo7c9myuITScVqpiE4LG-mxSfeP77v7jfmXVch7sDy2uQ56Wrn3f6UDecTUrP3rwIJuNE/s1600/228344_210400605658444_100000655182396_669350_4164237_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JXdXgEAYLCEheipSkJb49LrTRJ6uL5ae7qFNfSGbP7XMrrzOegqhQmA_qgsjZd8zMJeHK3Oo7c9myuITScVqpiE4LG-mxSfeP77v7jfmXVch7sDy2uQ56Wrn3f6UDecTUrP3rwIJuNE/s1600/228344_210400605658444_100000655182396_669350_4164237_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6JXdXgEAYLCEheipSkJb49LrTRJ6uL5ae7qFNfSGbP7XMrrzOegqhQmA_qgsjZd8zMJeHK3Oo7c9myuITScVqpiE4LG-mxSfeP77v7jfmXVch7sDy2uQ56Wrn3f6UDecTUrP3rwIJuNE/s1600/228344_210400605658444_100000655182396_669350_4164237_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a name='more'></a></a><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">My favorite time of the year is the last two weeks when we celebrate the holidays and wrap up the year with friends, family, and parties. I finally let myself off the hook for all of the things I didn't get accomplished during the year, and I look forward to getting another chance at another year to figure my life out. Yippee and Hallelujah! </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">December 31st calls for reflection and taking stock of the year I'll leave behind. However, this morning, I found myself taking a trip down memory lane and journaling about special New Year's Eves of my past. I remember a New Year's Eve in Tokyo, Japan in 1984. I was nearing the end of a four month stint working at Tokyo Disneyland as <a href="http://wn.com/Diamond_Horseshoe_show">Slue Foot Sue in the Diamond Horseshoe Revue.</a> Those were a wild four months of singing and dancing all day, then going to discos and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">partying 'til 5 a.m.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, and spending time hanging out with the 80's band, Wham, and The Rod Stewart band. I was young, carefree, and made great friends I will never forget. On December 28th of that year, I went to a <a href="http://www.japan-guide.com/topic/0101.html">Bonenkai</a> party ("year forgetting party") with a group of Japanese friends, where we drank tons of beer meant to wash away the old year's worries and leave our troubles behind. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">New Year's Eve, however, was not spent partying. I went to the home of a Japanese fashion model friend named Seishi, who's mother had prepared a special traditional New Year's Eve meal of <a href="http://www.justhungry.com/2003/12/toshikoshi_soba.html">toshikoshi soba</a>, and at midnight, we went to a Buddhist temple in Tokyo and stood in line to bang on a huge gong. Buddhist temples all over Japan ring their bells a total of 108 times to symbolize the 108 human sins (whatever they are) and to get rid of the 108 worldly desires (whatever they are). Japanese believe that the ringing of the bells can rid their sins of the previous year. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As it turned out, the New Year is the most important holiday in Japan--years are traditionally viewed as completely separate, with each new year providing a fresh start. January 1 is a very auspicious day, and the day is supposed to be full of joy and free of stress and anger, while no work should be done. I love this way of looking at the new year, and I am embracing it! </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Coincidentally, right after I finished journaling this morning, I got my first 2012 New Year's greeting from a friend on facebook who lives in Japan! She wrote, "Akemashite Omedtou!" It was 4 a.m., New Year's day in Japan. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">2011 will go down in my history as the year I broke my femur. Now, I would like to walk forward into 2012 without leg pain. I'd like to forget the broken leg ever happened--it's sooo 2011. So tonight, I will drink to wash away the old, and I'll raise my glass at midnight and toast a fresh start. And this year, I think I'll ring a bell 108 times slowly while chanting, "out with the old, in with the new." </span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-91987946884850434572011-12-09T13:54:00.077-06:002012-01-12T11:39:45.567-06:00My Year of Treading Lightly<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 16px;">This morning, as we lay in bed, Steve reminded me of this old chinese story: </span><br />
<div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; min-height: 14.0px;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;"><img alt="Chinese Word for Luck!" border="0" src="http://www.naute.com/funimages/chineseluck.jpg" /></span></span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: center;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Good Luck Bad Luck!</span></b></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">There was a farmer who used an old horse to till his fields. One day, the horse escaped into the hills and when the farmer's neighbors sympathized with the old man over his bad luck, the farmer replied, "W</span></b><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">as it bad luck? Maybe.</span></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">" </span></b></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">A week later, the horse returned with a herd of wild horses from the hills and this time the neighbors congratulated the farmer on his good luck. The farmer's reply was, "G</span></b><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">ood luck? Maybe.</span></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">" </span></b></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Then, when the farmer's son was attempting to tame one of the wild horses, he fell off the horse and broke his leg. Everyone thought this was very bad luck. The farmers only reaction was, "</span></b><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Bad luck? Maybe."</span></b></span></div>
<div style="font: normal normal normal 16px/normal 'Trebuchet MS'; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Some weeks later, the army marched into the village and drafted every able-bodied youth they found there. When the army saw the farmer's son with his broken leg, they let him off. "</span></b><span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;">Good luck? Maybe." </span></b></span><br />
<span style="text-decoration: underline;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: purple;"></span></b></span>It's been one helluva year. Breaking my right femur on March 6th was certainly some damn bad luck. It's shaped my entire year, and been a real challenge emotionally and physically. But there's been some good luck mixed in. Like the unexpected surprise when Vanderbilt Hospital waived a large portion of my bill last month, after I fretted over it for several. And although I lost some home buyer-clients in the months while laid up with my broken leg, I just sold a beautiful home that <span style="text-decoration: underline;"><a href="http://www.thesantastory.com/">Arita</a></span>, one of my best friends, gave me the privilege to list, and I'll have some Christmas money. </div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Trebuchet MS; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br />
I was looking forward to celebrating the home sale yesterday (Thursday) by taking the day off to just lay around and relax. But then again, did I really deserve it? After all, Steve and I just got back Sunday from a nine day trip to Hilton Head, Savannah, and Charleston, where I worked (a little) with Steve critiquing the songs of country songwriters in Georgia. Some more great luck: Steve's cousin donated a week's stay in a beautiful condo and we earned money while we were there! <br />
<br />
So, Wednesday evening, while leaving a songwriting workshop, I stepped off the porch of the host's house, landed on an uneven place, and fell all the way to the sidewalk, twisting my ankle and scraping and bending my right knee in half. The four other songwriters I was leaving with scrambled to pick me up, carried me back inside where I sat awhile with ice on my knee and ankle. As planned, I spent the whole day Thursday laying around and relaxing. Today, as bruises and pain have settled in and I can barely walk (again!), I'm relaxing some more! </div>
<div style="font: 16.0px Trebuchet MS; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;">
<br />
I'm just wondering: Did I really have to fall and re-injure my leg to justify laying around and relaxing? <br />
<br />
Bad luck? Maybe.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNXBheRXVqm2JPyJSq1gATCJLMtrNgwBnol8o4u1XT0D3XqWRil53oLYhZPWXqW_ec-bEmJL1b3yigzyiddtEgHDMehl5BQ-FGnr78DipsQXC6zQaGPufPVidgfyVZ6PriuvQBQVuyyw/s1600/217634_205170082848163_100000655182396_630257_5300336_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhNXBheRXVqm2JPyJSq1gATCJLMtrNgwBnol8o4u1XT0D3XqWRil53oLYhZPWXqW_ec-bEmJL1b3yigzyiddtEgHDMehl5BQ-FGnr78DipsQXC6zQaGPufPVidgfyVZ6PriuvQBQVuyyw/s320/217634_205170082848163_100000655182396_630257_5300336_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-72289408397340232202011-11-16T21:48:00.007-06:002012-01-16T08:44:29.664-06:00Lost AND Found<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Last week, I got the opportunity to work as a "Screener"; screening talent here in Nashville at an open call for the reality t.v. show, "The Glee Project." I was hired by my long-time friend, and one-time boyfriend (from 35 years ago), </span><a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0880697/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Robert Ulrich</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, who is a very successful casting director in Los Angeles, as well as one of the judges on "The Glee Project." Robert recently won his first </span><a href="http://www.modbee.com/2011/09/10/1854636/ulrich-takes-emmy-award-for-casting.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">emmy </span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">for outstanding casting director of the hit show, "Glee!"</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When Robert called me about the gig, he also asked me to recommend some other candidates in Nashville who might be experienced enough to be a "Screener" or "Camera Operator", so I made some calls, and rounded up several of my talented friends who also got to be involved. So, in effect, I was a location Casting Director!</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim31fBslZFz5PDKN1ybJIhhXzcQTYUmq8c0oFFmWhKBbiyV4GrNsCKQxrE6elidtDNdl_uAGWNw76coklHxPsaaqfdgHdfdtFcptx4Ob-8GAV62qj8rNZWFvx4fU-xS1WbEvAlm34iLQ8/s1600/388169_285216754843495_100000655182396_972534_1129290689_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim31fBslZFz5PDKN1ybJIhhXzcQTYUmq8c0oFFmWhKBbiyV4GrNsCKQxrE6elidtDNdl_uAGWNw76coklHxPsaaqfdgHdfdtFcptx4Ob-8GAV62qj8rNZWFvx4fU-xS1WbEvAlm34iLQ8/s1600/388169_285216754843495_100000655182396_972534_1129290689_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The Nashville Casting Crew, with Robert</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Robert Ulrich and I both grew up in the Central Valley, California--He in Modesto, me in Ceres. I was 17 years old when I got involved with the Modesto Youth Theatre after seeing Robert, my sister Beverly, and my friend Brian in an amazing production of the musical, "On The Town." The Modesto Youth Theatre was an excellent training ground for many talented kids, and for so many of us, it was a huge life-shaping experience. It was the Modesto Youth Theatre that solidified my desire to become a professional dancer and actress.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, it was Old Home Week in Nashville. Brian, (who came out to Nashville to help me with my broken femur in April and is still here) and Margaret Rose, (also from Youth Theatre days) who drove up from Orlando, and I, all met with Robert over dinner last Tuesday night and spent hours talking shop about "The Glee Project."</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">On Wednesday, November 9th, we gathered bright and early at the convention center, where young people were lined up around the block, ready to try out for their big break in show business. It was such a thrill to be auditioning talented, up- and-coming singer/dancer/actors and to be surrounded by video cameras, because they were shooting a documentary of the entire process. I felt right at home in the environment. I was invigorated and joyous. The gig only lasted two days, for 12 hours each day. Long hours that flew by. We closed out our reunion with Robert at a final dinner where we again talked for hours about the auditions.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The day after the job was over, I noticed I waffled between elation and depression. I was elated to be a part of the entertainment world again, and depressed that I was no longer living that life. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Watching those young singers pour their hearts out made me realize how much I loved performing, and how I'd lost sight of that fact. Somehow 13 years have gone by since I moved to Nashville, and 5 years have passed since I last performed here in local theatre. I've been buried in my "real job." I realize this was a choice. I had given L.A. 17 years of my soul, and left there with the decision that if I couldn't be a "player" then I didn't want to be there anymore. As far as the last five years, I don't know where they went! Now, I long to be back in the limelight. I'm sure I could play a parent on "Glee," or a teacher, or a janitor?! Or perhaps a cameo as one of the former stars of the 20-Minute Work-Out, complete with my post-broken-femur limp. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.lyricsfreak.com/g/glee/im+the+greatest+star_20984856.html">"Hey, Mr. Ulrich, Here I Am! I'm the Greatest Star, I am by Far, But No One Knows It!" </a></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-3221306159684832422011-10-11T23:54:00.003-05:002011-10-12T00:41:34.015-05:00All in a Day's Walk<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Although my right femur is no longer broken and I'm walking as well as one can expect at seven months, I'm still "expressly forbidden" </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">by my spousal equivalent Steve, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">to walk our three dogs without any help. He doesn't want me to fall again! Maneuvering the three dogs on their leashes is no easy task since two of them weigh 90 pounds, and the third one becomes a ferocious little bitch when she sees other female dogs walk by. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">But I have no choice when Steve and our live-in friend, Brian, are both unavailable, and the dogs are begging to go to the park! </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, this morning as soon as Steve left for work and </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">while Brian slept</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">, I braved it (as I've done many times). I risked being pulled, tripping, falling, and getting tangled up in the leashes because I love my dogs and they love going for walks. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">When we got to the park, I saw my neighbor, Mr. Johnson, an elderly man, walking by himself. I'd never seen him beyond his front yard, so I asked, "what are you doing out here?" He surprised me when he said he was stiff and needed some exercise. (I couldn't help thinking that he ought to give his dog some exercise!) </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">My history with Mr. Johnson goes back several years. I've watched him acquire puppies since 2003, plant them in his yard on a short chain where he leaves them to rot while they live out their short lives. I plotted a few years ago to steal a sweet pitbull puppy he had named Bouncer, but Bouncer was one of the lucky ones. He broke free from his chain. Most of the dogs I've seen in Mr. Johnson's yard simply die young. I've called Metro Animal Control over the years but it never helped.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">As he usually does whenever he sees my dogs, Mr. Johnson said, "oh, those dogs, they is honeys" "Oh yeah, they's honeys." I said, "Yes, they are!" Then he said, "We lost our big dog." (This didn't really surprise me, since I had recently noticed a new little dog chained up in his front yard.) "Oh?" I asked. "Yeah,...she died," he said. "the heat got her." I felt my rage rise up through my cheeks as I got sick to my stomach. I had seen that beautiful, sweet and friendly rottweiler chained up outside in the hot sun all summer.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I asked Mr. Johnson how old the dog was. He said, "I don't know, she was my daughter's dog." "Maybe, 10?" Incredulous, I said, "I think she was only about one, wasn't she?" Then he said, "Well, we all gonna go sometime." And I said with a disgusted smirk, "Well, I'd rather it be later than sooner.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Trying to impart a little wisdom upon his ignorant, deaf ears, I said, "It was a hot summer. That's why I keep my dogs in the house all summer. It's too hot to leave dogs outside. Is your daughter going to keep the little dog in the house?" He shrugged, then said with his shit-eating grin, "I don't know." I wanted to scream: "YOU AND YOUR FAMILY NEED TO STOP GETTING DOGS!" Instead, I held my breath, smiled politely, and somberly walked my dogs home. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was still upset as I ran the water for my shower. When I started to get in, I noticed a huge grasshopper struggling to hop up the side of my tub, trying to escape the water, fighting for survival. For an instant, I thought of killing the grasshopper. Instead, I ran and got a couple of paper cups and helped him out of the tub. I covered one cup with the other until I got him outside and released him on the front porch. I wondered if the grasshopper felt afraid while he was inside the cup. I thought of how I had his life in my hands. Then I thought of Mr. Johnson and his innocent rottweiler, and how that poor helpless dog didn't stand a chance in this world.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I went and lay on the couch with my dog Spike, buried my face in her fur, and cried.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-7885159457903674712011-09-30T08:49:00.001-05:002012-01-12T11:35:22.787-06:00Old News<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">"I broke my femur," is old news. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I had my six month check-up on September 9th. When the orthopedic surgeon came into the exam room, I was missing. I had gone to the bathroom, and was returning down the hall, when he came out of the room looking for his patient. When he saw me, it was apparent that he didn't recognize me. He stared, and then said, "If I didn't have this chart to refer to, I wouldn't know which leg I operated on! You are walking really well!" (And I paid $400 for this appointment??)</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I told the doctor that </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I was still having persistent pain when bending my knee and walking down stairs. I mentioned that </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">he had told me previously that I'd be back to normal at six months-walking normally, doing all of my normal activities, even dancing. "Did I say that?" He chuckled. Then he said with a grin, "You'll never be back to normal." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">What????</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I sat there, aghast. I think he was making a light hearted joke, but I didn't appreciate it. He went on to say that I was always going to be aware of my injury. I told him my hip hurt when I walked. He said, "well maybe you have some arthritis, I haven't checked your hip." WHAT??? I said, "don't tell me that! I haven't had any hip problems prior to this accident, I think it's related to my injury." He said, "maybe." MAYBE??</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The irony is that I had almost cancelled this appointment. I knew it was going to be expensive (they take $300 worth of </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">x-rays every time I go in), I already owe over $30,000, and I figured I wouldn't learn anything new. The doctor would just say I was healing well.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">What a surprise to learn that I would "never be back to normal." </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Note to self: a) Doctors don't know everything. b) Who wants to be normal, anyway?</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYiquJpCYCP5tnntsLoYovmYhouZKPcbyjVTmWPaDERhEhJ5TEWC48P15QW8T6MJUZ5W9MCP2Rp5h8nyj1SkOOdMEgELq4AVx0IWMWcemTNGHArfuQKBNGCDzCZTHUM1lN5_3lF_cNks/s1600/317804_258269627549075_152560524786653_739737_1713150041_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitYiquJpCYCP5tnntsLoYovmYhouZKPcbyjVTmWPaDERhEhJ5TEWC48P15QW8T6MJUZ5W9MCP2Rp5h8nyj1SkOOdMEgELq4AVx0IWMWcemTNGHArfuQKBNGCDzCZTHUM1lN5_3lF_cNks/s1600/317804_258269627549075_152560524786653_739737_1713150041_n.jpg" /></a></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-22233456520619892452011-08-27T11:22:00.001-05:002011-08-28T18:05:22.966-05:00A Poolside Lesson in Humility<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">This past Tuesday, my friend Carolyn's husband asked me, "So, <i>why</i> did you break your leg?" </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I was taken aback for a moment by the audacity of the question. Usually, when one suffers a tragedy, or has an accident of some kind, one will wrack their brain trying to figure out why it happened. "Why me?," has always been a popular question. But what he wanted to know was, "why did you </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">create</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> the accident?"</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I believe in the spiritual philosophy </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">that I create my own reality</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">, but I told him that I'd not been able to come up with a reason that made any sense. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Still, he got me looking at some questions that I hadn't bothered to think about lately. In addition to "<i>Why did I break my leg</i>?" Questions like: What have I learned over the past six months? What benefit did I get out of the accident? Why am I still using the broken leg as an excuse to be a victim, to get sympathy, to be liked, to be lazy, to take it easy. Whaaaa? What was that last part? To take it easy? What's wrong with taking it easy, I wonder? And why am I still using the broken leg to beat myself up? Why am I not letting go and moving on with a new story about the broken leg, and what new story can I tell?.... </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After living with these questions all day Tuesday, I went to Senior Water Aerobics class on Wednesday with a renewed sense of acceptance. (Although I hadn't come up with an answer to "why" I broke my leg, I know I wouldn't have joined a "Seniors" class had I not needed gentle water therapy).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">After the class, I stayed in the pool to do extra leg exercises. An elder woman from the class whom I'd often smiled at, but never talked with before, made a casual comment: "You haven't had enough, huh?" I answered with, "well, I just need to strengthen my leg." She asked me if I was recovering from a surgery. And I said, "yeah, I broke my femur in March." I saw the sadness in her eyes as she said, "my son did that." She paused. Then she said, "he got a blood clot." I paused. "Did he make it?" I asked. "No."</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">She went on to tell me that her 37 year old son fell in a hole, much the same way that I did, and landed wrong, just like I did. He had surgery, just like I did, was recovering well, went home, and two weeks later developed a blood clot that traveled to his lung and killed him. She said she didn't understand <i>why</i> the doctor hadn't prescribed a blood thinner, <i>why</i> her son had only been prescribed aspirin. (Blood thinners are usually prescribed after femur surgery, because the risk of developing a blood clot is so high). She said she didn't understand <i>why</i> her son, who was a good Christian, happily married with two children, was taken so soon. But, she said, she had to accept that "the Lord must've needed him for some reason." </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">As I quietly listened, I thought about the fact that I chose not to take the blood thinners that were prescribed to me after surgery. And I wondered <i>why</i> I escaped a blood clot. <i>Why</i> was I so blessed? <i>Why</i> was I given the opportunity to survive, live, grow, change?</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Today, I'm still pondering all of the questions and I am filled with humbleness and gratitude.</span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-88016353864576959612011-08-17T14:35:00.000-05:002011-08-17T14:35:25.745-05:00My Great Big Party!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Monday, I had a great big party. It lasted for hours! Clear into Tuesday evening. I didn't invite anyone. Who'd wanna come anyway? I'm talking about a Ginormous pity party. The kind where you wake up angry, and before you've even had your first cup of day old re-heated coffee, you feel that life couldn't get any worse. You cry and rage and cuss and nobody wants to be around you. Steve tried to soothe me with his classic matter of fact self-help line, "a mood has you." "Duh, no fooling you!" I said, with my most charming witch face. Brian offered (with the kind of authority that most men seem to have on this subject), "it must be your menopause!" </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At first, I couldn't figure out what was going on. Was it all the sugar I'd eaten over the weekend that caused me to plummet? Nothing else out of the ordinary could've caused this journey into the deep, dark abyss. Just a casual conversation on Sunday evening with a fellow real estate agent who appears to be doing sooo much better than me financially. That, combined with my ever-present hospital bills, and the ever-present pain in my right leg--the leg that's supposed to be completely back to normal in six months according to the doctor. (My six month check up is only three weeks away!!) </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">So, I woke up mad, and feeling sorry for myself, and completely oblivious to the underlying cause: I was comparing my failings to another's success. It's no fair that I broke my leg and couldn't work for several months. It's no fair that I'm still not operating at peak productivity, doing as well as Ms. X. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I recognized this old trait of mine while in the middle of my wallowing. I remembered my Hollywood acting years when jealousy ate away at me most of the time. Sometimes I would be so upset after seeing a great film, because I wasn't in it, that I'd be depressed for hours. At one point, I determined that it was my jealousy and competitiveness that were keeping me from attaining my dreams. Now I wonder, are these same ugly attributes keeping me from succeeding again? And as I have this thought, I realize it's just one more negative thought to beat myself up with.....</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; font-size: small;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #353535; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Comparing what you have to what others have is a good </span></span></span></span></i></span></span></span><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #353535; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">way to make yourself miserable. </span></span></span></span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #353535; line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span></span></span></i><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Amen.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">There will always be someone smarter, stronger, prettier, thinner, wiser, healthier, happier, and more successful than me. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; line-height: 20px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #003399;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i></i></span></span></span>There is one good thing about comparing myself to others though. It usually pisses me off enough so that when I've worked through my "mood," my competitive nature kicks in and causes me to come up with creative ways to be better at whatever it is I want to be better at, and I focus on that.</span></span></i></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></span></i></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times; line-height: normal;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; line-height: 20px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #003399; font-family: Times; font-size: small; line-height: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>“</i></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #003399;"><a class="sqq" href="http://thinkexist.com/quotation/when_you_are_content_to_be_simply_yourself_and/148377.html" style="color: #003399; text-decoration: none;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>When you are content to be simply yourself and don't </i></span></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>compare</i></span></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i> or compete, everybody will respect you.</i></span></span></a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #003399;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>” Lao Tzu</i></span></span></span></span></span></i></span></span></span></i></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://hellogiggles.com/9-tricks-to-kick-envy">http://hellogiggles.com/9-tricks-to-kick-envy</a><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #003399; font-family: Arial, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-86143260120954683042011-07-31T11:46:00.004-05:002011-08-26T07:29:22.931-05:00The New Normal<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I just got home from my first traveling vacation since my fateful fall. I flew to San Francisco, California with my friend Brian, and we met up with a friend from L.A. acting days (hadn't seen her in 15 years), then we attended a reunion with old theatre friends on the Russian River. After Brian flew back to Nashville, I stayed five extra days and went on a road trip with my two sisters to the Monterey area, where we hooked up with two of our cousins for an extended girl's va-cay!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I love traveling, and it feels normal to me. I've been blessed with many traveling adventures in my life so far. Checking in and going through security are as natural as drinking a cup of coffee. This time, however, I had to tell the security officials that I have a metal plate and screws in my leg. At the Nashville airport, they simply told me to go through the big </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">x-ray machine and I didn't set off any bells or whistles--what a disappointment--no fanfare of any kind! Since I usually travel on Southwest Airlines, I knew about their open seating policy, and I was prepared to ask for a "pre-board" pass, so I could be seated before everyone else and get an aisle seat where I could stretch out my right leg. All I had to do was show the ticket agent my 12-inch gnarly scar over my knee, and I got to pre-board!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Months ago, my surgeon told me </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">that at six months I would be completely back to normal. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">I'm still counting the weeks and it's been 21 weeks today </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">since my accident</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">. Almost everything is "back to normal" except it's a new normal. I walk with a different gait, (a slight limp) and I walk very carefully, especially up and down stairs. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">I feel so fortunate to be traveling again, and many times over the past two weeks I forgot I ever broke my femur! </span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-65640025979277244692011-07-09T09:52:00.000-05:002011-07-09T09:52:53.661-05:00Independence is Bliss!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This past week, I spent hours and hours at </span><a href="http://www.bongojava.com/fido.php"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Fido</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, my favorite coffee shop, working on the computer. Fido was my office on the road. Why is this so exciting? Because I drove there myself.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At 18 weeks (and still counting) into my broken femur recovery, I'm no longer at the mercy of being driven around by my friend Brian, or my spousal equivalent, Steve. I can go where I want, when I want, in my own car and I'm in the driver's seat. That's not to say it wasn't fun being chaffeured around and having Brian at my beck and call to take me places. We went to so many fun places, but just being able to get in the car and take off feels so liberating.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Over these past couple of weeks, Brian has torn down the wheelchair ramp at our front doorway, and thrown it in a pile for the dump. My shower chair was delegated to the basement. The wheelchair, walker, and crutches, are waiting to be returned to their lenders or donated to Goodwill. And I am driving!</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Life is getting back to normal. But it's a new normal. One where I have to stretch before I can even get out of bed in the morning if I want to walk. And one where I have to exercise every single day in order to keep my knee joint lubricated and my leg functional. Water has become my best friend. The wonders of water aerobics and the healing powers of the pool are amazing, and more than ever before in my life, exercise MUST take priority over everything else. So, over an extended 4th of July weekend, while Steve was out of town, I drove myself to Senior Water Aerobics, and another water exercise class almost everyday, and Brian and I went to Percy Priest Lake, where I exercised my leg as well. I drove myself to Radnor lake, where I took two hikes (2.5 miles each), and I actually danced on two occasions.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But I digress... </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I drove myself and a friend to the Nashville Sounds baseball game for the 4th of July fireworks, drove myself to the </span><a href="http://www.bluebirdcafe.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bluebird</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> to see songwriting friends perform, and I drove Brian back from </span><a href="http://www.arringtonvineyards.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Arrington Winery</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, (because I had less to drink).</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On the road to recovery, driving equals independence, and independence is bliss!</span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7106984122099638480.post-48154084075364750992011-06-27T13:05:00.000-05:002011-06-27T13:05:25.111-05:00I Could Have Danced All Night<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Yesterday marked 16 weeks since I fell and broke my femur. For the past 6 weeks I've had to walk with a cane, but yesterday was my own self-determined cut off date--I decided to leave the cane at home.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">My friend Brian and I went to <a href="http://www.tribenashville.com/"><i>Tribe</i></a> again, our favorite gay bar, for Show Tunes Sunday. At Show Tunes Sunday, all of the video screens run musical numbers, and most everyone in the bar sings and dances along to their favorites. The bar was a little slow last night, and I was a little tired. I just went to keep Brian company. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">That is until Maurice showed up. (Maurice is a tall, sleek, handsome African-American, who we noticed last week when he high kicked and twirled along with the musical "A Chorus Line"). Maurice spotted me from across the room and recognized me! We'd not been introduced before, but he remembered I was an admirer. So he came over and said, "let's dance!" and pulled me quickly up out of my seat before I could say anything. I jerked away and said, "wait, I'm recovering from a broken leg, I don't think I can dance!!" Maurice just smiled and said, "I'll be very careful." He held my hands and we danced around and around, and my eyes welled up with tears as I thought about how grateful I was to be dancing again! (I was a little wobbly, and limping some, and it hurt, but damn it, I was doing it!) We finished off our number with some step-kicks just as a gang of regulars called Brian and me over to join in the sing-and-dance-along to "Springtime for Hitler" from the musical, "The Producers."</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">When I got out of bed this morning, my right leg was stiff and sore and I could barely walk. But I don't care. <i>"I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more!" </i>(From the musical, "My Fair Lady").</span></span>Holly Butlerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16648570752653512046noreply@blogger.com2