...and so are the pictures.

http://tan-fauve.com/fotos.html

It's up (finally)! http://www.wedding.tan-fauve.com

http://www.princessproject.org
Help a high school girl in-need feel beautiful at her prom!

It doesn't have to be a bridesmaid's dress, but they're usually nice enough and it seems that most of us who have played that role share the issue of what to do with the dresses post-wedding

.....
The Princess Project doesn't start accepting donations again until February, so just leave the dresses in the back of the closet where they've lived for months (at least) until that time.

Also think about donating:
• the matching shoes
• jewelry
• unused make up samples
• wraps/shawls
• slips
• garment bags that come with the dresses
• hangers

"Wall Street is not a fan of Costco. Stock in Costco would be a more attractive investment if Costco were not so eager to please customers and employees...."

"... They (Investors) want to see not only fabulous sales numbers and costs in sales numbers under control....their health care costs have been phenomenally high because they take such good care of their employees. while it was great for their employees, it was not great for share holders because it was a large drain on the company..."

Q: What is wrong with Costco being Costco?
A: Absolutely nothing unless you're the shareholder.

Publicly held businesses should be for the investor....???

Listen:http://www.npr.org/features/feature.php?wfId=1956435

"Heeey! You forgot your h-u-g!" She bounced off the chair from her snack-post at the large dining room table and stumbled over. Her skinny arms wrapped around my waist and her suddenly now-smiling, overjoyed, missing-toothed porcelain face rubbed against my belly.

"Oh I'm so glad you decided to give me that h-u-g," I said with mock excitement as I put my lips to the top of her head for a kiss.

"That's an h-u-g with an exclamation mark!" she yelled, head tilted up at me, arms tight like a vice.

"Well, the h-u-g that I gave you had two exclamation marks!"

She giggled with joy.

Her feelings were hurt earlier in the evening by her best friend in their ongoing love-hate relationship. When her friend snapped at her, she retreated, always the victim; feelings always hurt. As we talked about her feelings earlier, I asked whether she needed a hug. She refused with a shake of her head as she focused her attention toward the unlit fireplace, though she moved slightly closer to me on the couch. I imagined that her need to express her pain by not expressing anything at all was at battle with her need to find a safe place next to me, or in my arms.

They share the same pains that life unfairly and casually lobbed in their direction. The girls express themselves differently, though. One precocious and self-centered, asks for help for the sake of companionship and attention. She is bubbly and carefree, screaming through the house at the top of her lungs and stomping her feet up the stairs. This one, my little pal, is serious and thoughtful. She held the kid's gate open for me, allowing me to pass first. On the library computer, she prefers to figure out the game herself, but never hesitates to ask for my help, "I need you to help me." Beautiful words that we forget often refuse to use as we get older. She checked out 3 books: Can You Count Ten Toes; Writing to Yoon; and a thick young adult book called Girl's Guide to Growing Up. She's only 7 years old and the first two books were illustrated primary colors and B I G - F O N T. I wondered what was going on through her young 'felt-more-pain-than-most-7-year-old-should' mind.

On the steps of the library, she said, "June 20 is Father's Day."
She responded "no" when I asked whether she would see her father.
"Will you make him a card?"
"I doubt it," she said. "Will you see your father?"
"No." I replied.

Later in the evening, some of us sat around talking about the children. I mentioned the conflict between the girls; the dynamics of their being best friends and hurting each others feelings but rarely wanting to resolve it by confronting it. I laughed, thinking to myself that I am currently in a very similar situation with a very good friend. The 7 year olds and I have something in common. We laughed together, this group of strong, giving, compassionate women, about how we all still have these same issues.

Everytime I send an e-mail to The Mack in Iraq, I get a response right away. Today I asked him, "Do they have you on Internet Duty? Is that why I always get a response from you regardless of the time of day? Is this where-my-tax-dollars-are-going?"

In spite of the War on American troops in Iraq...in spite of the recent trend of beheadings....I've got a pen-pal over there who answers right away.

* * * * *

When I was in the jungle last year, some young soldiers told me of their encounters with the military. They weren't angry. They were remorseful. They showed no animousity toward their enemies. They even laughed as they related their stories. "We intercepted a message once from a soldier stationed in the jungle to their headquarters. He told them that he and his troops had taken particular village. We knew for a fact that the village hadn't been taken. They know that when they attack, their lives are at stake as well. They don't want to risk dying if they don't have to."

* * * * *

The same soldier told another story. "They were talking about getting a raise that was so small, they could barely buy a bottle of whisky."


* * * * *

"They were attacking. When they came barreling down over the hill, they were drunk. We picked them off one at a time. They came unarmed."


* * * * *


But it wasn't all fun and games for this boy. Embedded in his dark skin was a story of many battles and casualties. He casually wore scars on his left arm, carved of shrapnell blazing a trail through young skin. Another boy's face was covered with bandage...a landmine planting gone awry.

* * * * *

They'll laugh. They'll bleed. They'll cry. They'll be maimed. They'll joke about their enemies follies. They'll be people.

Approximately 65% of youth who age out of the court system end up homeless, or dead.

On Monday and Thursday evenings, I attend training to be a court appointedChild Advocate to mentor and be the constant in the life of a child. I will select this child from a stack of over 500 files, identified only by numbers. These are children who are currently under the guardianship of the state courts. Some are with foster families, others live in shelters. All of them were taken from their families for one reason or another; drugs, prostitution or domestic violence in the home, perhaps, where the child/children are endangered.

i stole this foto.

girlcalledphil

The object came flying over the rubble, landing with a thud. It rolled toward the cowering mother and young child. She reached for it tentatively with slim, tapered fingers, worn rough from foraging for food and necessities for her children. As she brought it closer for examination, the little boy lifted it with his own tiny, dirty hands. It was beautifully painted in light pinks, varying shades of white, blues and yellows; abstract trees, birds, and skies. Visions of peace on a sunny day. The gold gilding in the sunlight captured his attention. Someone had thrown a Fabergé egg to them.

The woman plowed toward them from her hiding place behind the building, bellowing incoherent warnings of danger. She ran easily with an assault rifle slung over her right shoulder, hanging close to her body. The child and his mother didn't hear her cries or see her coming. They were mesmerized by the beauty and elegance of this egg during a time of war. Shenever slowed down; never stopped. In one swift move, she snatched the egg from the boy's hand, knocking him over. She threw the egg back toward the direction from which it came, watching it explode in mid-air. The boy began to cry as his mother grabbed him into her arms. It all happened within seconds.

It was urban warfare and the enemy was throwing bombs disguised as Fabergé eggs at women and children.

The problem with being in the rat race
is that even if you win, you're still a rat.

-Lily Tomlin.