<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203</id><updated>2011-12-08T17:37:18.177-08:00</updated><category term='Collective Soul Twitter'/><category term='Breast Cancer'/><category term='By the river with a leaf - Photo by Diana McKay'/><category term='Quote winston churchhill Photograph of Child by Diana McKay'/><category term='At the Del Mar Fair - Photo by Diana McKay'/><category term='Horse Sense Photos by Mike McKay and Diana McKay'/><category term='Photo by Diana McKay Cildren Black and White'/><category term='Ring of Soldiers - Photographer unknown'/><category term='Baby Jane with Horse (Three Sox) - Photo by Diana McKay'/><title type='text'>Veritas Vincit (truth conquers)</title><subtitle type='html'>This is just a place for me to share some random stories, quotes and photographs with anyone who cares to have a look.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>18</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-4700796759245528471</id><published>2010-06-20T17:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-20T17:49:06.209-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Next to Me (Official Music Video)</title><content type='html'>&lt;object style="background-image: url(&amp;quot;http://i1.ytimg.com/vi/lFtcPb6zxng/hqdefault.jpg&amp;quot;);" width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/lFtcPb6zxng&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1"&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/lFtcPb6zxng&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="344"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-4700796759245528471?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/4700796759245528471/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=4700796759245528471' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/4700796759245528471'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/4700796759245528471'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2010/06/next-to-me-official-music-video.html' title='Next to Me (Official Music Video)'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-7124620984540712282</id><published>2010-06-20T17:47:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2010-06-20T17:47:14.488-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Super Laura by Slink- Music Video</title><content type='html'>&lt;object style="background-image: url(&amp;quot;http://i2.ytimg.com/vi/I1GDFxNqPdk/hqdefault.jpg&amp;quot;);" width="480" height="295"&gt;&lt;param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/I1GDFxNqPdk&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1"&gt;&lt;param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"&gt;&lt;param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"&gt;&lt;embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/I1GDFxNqPdk&amp;amp;hl=en_US&amp;amp;fs=1" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="480" height="295"&gt;&lt;/embed&gt;&lt;/object&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-7124620984540712282?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/7124620984540712282/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=7124620984540712282' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/7124620984540712282'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/7124620984540712282'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2010/06/super-laura-by-slink-music-video.html' title='Super Laura by Slink- Music Video'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-5048826258079405135</id><published>2009-10-29T09:32:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-10-29T11:05:58.826-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Breast Cancer'/><title type='text'>Breast Cancer Awareness - My Diagnosis</title><content type='html'>First I have a confession. I started this blog over a year ago in order to share my journey through the quagmire that is Breast Cancer treatment. I even named it "Boob Saga". But to tell you the truth, I was always so focused on getting to the next step, I couldn't get myself to write about the moment. I just wanted to get to the NEXT moment. Another confession: I started my journey with a bad attitude, and it kinda worked for me throughout treatment.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'll start at the beginning. My General Practitioner totally nagged me for a couple years to get a mammogram (I was 44 and had never had one). Finally I wanted a refill on my ADD medicine, and she made me come in to her office for a checkup. After the checkup I was handed a slip for the mammogram. She held my &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;Straterra&lt;/span&gt; hostage until I complied, (sneaky wench). This was right around St Patrick's Day 2008. So I had the &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;mamo&lt;/span&gt; during which the girl re-did the left side, so I had a hint there was something up. About a week later I get a call that I need a biopsy on what she called a 'concerning mass". I refused to get upset about cancer until somebody told me I actually had it. Why bother right? I didn't tell anyone but my husband, until I was driving to the biopsy and had a moment of "shit...I must have cancer". They know it when they see it on a mammogram right? So I called my friend Missy who works in an oncologists office. I'm driving along, trying not to get lost (I get lost A LOT). I'm telling my best friend where I'm going, and I'm starting to feel a panic attack come on. But Missy who has HUGE boobs has been through a surgical biopsy of a lump which was negative or benign or whatever. I was glad I called her. So I went back to "I will not waste effort worrying now, I don't have time for this shit". Had the biopsy maybe a week later. Not the most fun. By the time the Dr came in, the Nurse had me twisted like a pretzel on this table with a boob hole in it. The lump was apparently at the very edge of my left boob, almost to my under arm. So I had to put the boob AND my arm through the hole. Then they put the boob in a vice for the duration of the procedure. The doctors expression upon entering was pretty comical. He looks at the nurse and nicely asks "I assume this is necessary"&lt;br /&gt;she assured him it was. She had done a bunch of mammograms while adjusting me so the doctor would know exactly where to drill. The doctor didn't show me the drill until AFTER the biopsy. Probably a good thing I couldn't see through that boob hole in the table. He even showed me the samples he had drilled out. They looked like worms in a jar of fluid. Very strange. A little creepy.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;OKAY...so now the waiting game again. I was pretty distracted by just wanting to know what I was dealing with. The next week I get a message from a doctor who is covering for my G.P. but office hours are over, I have to call him the next day. Great...more waiting. I call the next day, and he gets right on the phone. That made me think it was bad news. Good news can wait, right? So he tells me they found cancer and he sounds so uncomfortable I actually feel bad for HIM. It must suck filling in for a colleagues vacation and having to tell some stranger crap news like that. Especially for such a nice guy. Oh, and I forgot to say what the date was. It was April 1st 2008. Yup...April fools day. I'm just warped enough to see the humour in that. My husband and I joked about it being THE MOST twisted April Fools joke ever. But it was real, so I had to start on the treatment road. My bad attitude in tact, I didn't have time for this shit so &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;I'm&lt;/span&gt; pushing to get it over with. Chop chop. What's next? I never once worried about dieing. They said it was small and that was a good thing, and I believed them. More importantly I believed in myself. Not that I'm terrifically self confidant, but I am stubborn and &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;tenacious&lt;/span&gt;!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;That's my diagnosis story. I don't know if you will get anything out of it or not. I'm just here to give you the facts. If nothing else, I would like to make the point that I was incredibly lucky that my cancer was caught at an early stage after putting off getting a mammogram. Get those &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;mammos&lt;/span&gt; ladies. The smaller it is, the better your odds of kicking Cancers ass. Catch it early. When I saw my G.P. and we discussed what happens next, she said "the next year is gonna suck, but you're not gonna die." I just love her.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Next time I will tell you about the treatment.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-5048826258079405135?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/5048826258079405135/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=5048826258079405135' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/5048826258079405135'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/5048826258079405135'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/10/breast-cancer-awareness-my-diagnosis.html' title='Breast Cancer Awareness - My Diagnosis'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-2879268854753773468</id><published>2009-06-16T10:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-06-16T12:28:06.242-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sjfwh5NO1BI/AAAAAAAAAEs/ZKSlVD5_dK0/s1600-h/declarationimage.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 331px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348007547608421394" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sjfwh5NO1BI/AAAAAAAAAEs/ZKSlVD5_dK0/s400/declarationimage.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;OK....so I'm a pretty patriotic person. But I like my &lt;em&gt;&lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;politicians&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/em&gt; to take care of the politics. I love my country and the fact that we are a melting pot of many cultures. I even like the fact that when there's trouble in another country, we stick our big nose in their business. I have always wanted to believe that our pushiness stems from the fact that our country was built on the premise that freedom is a right, given to us by our "creator". How can we stand by and watch others be oppressed while we enjoy this freedom, and have since 1776? We fought to have the specific rights that are outlined in the DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE. With the ridiculous election in Iran being discussed heatedly throughout the world, I think our good old declaration is pretty timely stuff. Check it out: &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.ushistory.org/declaration/document/index.htm"&gt;http://www.ushistory.org/declaration/document/index.htm&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Are ya done? OK so the very first part the forefathers say exactly why the document was written. "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume the Powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation." What a classy way to say we are sick of your crap, we're outta here, but we think you deserve to know why.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Next comes my favorite part: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights "Life, Liberty &amp;amp; The pursuit of Happiness" Did ya catch ALL MEN the part? That's part of why this document is so brilliant, and still makes sense today. (I don't even care that &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error"&gt;WO&lt;/span&gt;-men aren't mentioned!) We as a country made that statement, and stand behind it today. And we didn't declare the right to freedom selfishly, we said EVERYBODY should have them. Now some of the people we've elected (past and present) definitely forgot the "ALL MEN'' part. Apparently &lt;em&gt;they&lt;/em&gt; thought it just meant the US or their political party, or their income bracket or whatever. But I believe that the vast majority of Americans would say that our forefathers meant everybody. And if another Country is fighting for democracy, the least we can do is speak out like our forefathers, and say this is crap, and freedom is something we are born with and needs to be protected. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;I believe that in Iraq, we continue to fight to protect those rights. Whether there were "weapons of mass destruction" to find or not, there were horrific things happening to innocent people. What would our forefathers have thought of us if we hadn't stepped in? Lately with the scandals regarding treatment of prisoners, and even before that, questions about our motives for going to war, I have been watching our government a bit more closely. I don't think I'm alone. I really feel we need to get back to basics. Maybe every American should sit down and read the declaration of independence. It is not just an artifact, it is the foundation, and road map for our country. Then count your blessings that you don't have to fight to elect your president, even if like me, you feel you have to watch him other electorates more closely. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;LASTLY TO THE IRANIAN PROTESTERS: THIS IS CRAP, AND I AM BEHIND YOU 100%.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-2879268854753773468?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/2879268854753773468/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=2879268854753773468' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/2879268854753773468'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/2879268854753773468'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/06/ok.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sjfwh5NO1BI/AAAAAAAAAEs/ZKSlVD5_dK0/s72-c/declarationimage.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-9121773018772910512</id><published>2009-05-27T20:05:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-28T08:04:44.033-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Collective Soul Twitter'/><title type='text'>The Collective Soul Effect on Twitter</title><content type='html'>For anyone who got here via Twitter, bear with me. I have to give some background, just in case my sisters or some non Twitter friends actually check out my blog some day. So, I've been hanging out with a whole bunch of cool new buds on twitter lately. I spend a lot of time online, posting thoughts and links stuff like that. I also read lots of posts from a wide variety of people. Like Grand Canyon wide. It's really very addictive.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When I first began, I followed some celebs that Twitter suggested. I even followed Perez Hilton for about a minute. Then I started finding some people to interact with (note to my sisters: Some of them have even read my blog, so there). I still follow some celebs, Musicians, Actors, Directors, Writers etc. who share a lot of interesting info. Some do self promote a lot. I'm actually OK with that, because for once I'm in the loop about movies, books and music coming out , instead of decades behind. Anyway, I'd been hanging out on twitter a while, when one of the people I follow posted: "Collective soul is now on twitter" so I click on @Collective_Soul and read the bio. Hmmmmm, it's the whole group, AND "they follow back". "Wow", I think to myself&lt;br /&gt;"brave and unusual". You see, if you follow somebody back, they can not only read whatever your posting, but send you direct messages. I'm thinking those dudes are gonna get a lot of messages.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So I'm following Collective Soul, and they are posting about working on new music, and how they want fan input. They post "Twitpics" of all of themselves hanging out chatting with us on Twitter. How cool is that? Here's a link to check them out (but come right back) &lt;a href="http://www.twitter.com/collective_soul"&gt;http://www.twitter.com/collective_soul&lt;/a&gt; OK, so now we all agree these guys are cool. I think a lot of celebs could take a lesson from they way they handle themselves. There are many people on Twitter who feel that celebrities should "follow back" Collective Soul chose to do that, but more importantly they chose to interact. I was already a fan of the music. Now I'm a fan of the musicians.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here's a link to the Collective Soul Blog to check out what they're up to &lt;a href="http://www.collectivesoul.com/blog/"&gt;http://www.collectivesoul.com/blog/&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Here's a link to the Collective Soul 2009 Tour Schedule. I want to go to the Poolside Vegas show at The Hardrock BAD. &lt;a href="http://www.collectivesoul.com/live/"&gt;http://www.collectivesoul.com/live/&lt;/a&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-9121773018772910512?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/9121773018772910512/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=9121773018772910512' title='1 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/9121773018772910512'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/9121773018772910512'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/05/collective-soul-effect-on-twitter.html' title='The Collective Soul Effect on Twitter'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>1</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-3976921660697323437</id><published>2009-05-04T11:38:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-04T11:47:01.386-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Quote winston churchhill Photograph of Child by Diana McKay'/><title type='text'>Colors</title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sf83kkcdiOI/AAAAAAAAAEk/67Rb3I77Qok/s1600-h/trip+3+2004+177.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5332041585227827426" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sf83kkcdiOI/AAAAAAAAAEk/67Rb3I77Qok/s400/trip+3+2004+177.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;I cannot pretend to be impartial about colors. I rejoice with the brilliant ones &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;and am genuinely sorry for the poor browns.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Winston Churchill&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-3976921660697323437?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/3976921660697323437/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=3976921660697323437' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/3976921660697323437'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/3976921660697323437'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/05/colors.html' title='Colors'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sf83kkcdiOI/AAAAAAAAAEk/67Rb3I77Qok/s72-c/trip+3+2004+177.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-403653110964383115</id><published>2009-05-03T08:11:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-05-03T09:47:19.243-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Memorials&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;I lost my mom to cancer in the springtime, when the tulips were blooming and all the foliage was coming back to life. I think of Miss Fancy Pants when I see Tulips and Hydrangea and other signs of spring, and this makes me very happy. And a bittersweet kind of sad. My father passed away many years before Mom, and there are many things that remind me of him as well. When kids are eating loudly I think, "my dad would have HATED THAT". And when I see certain actresses that he made lusty comments about I laugh. In my mind I can hear "ADRIENNE BARBEAUUUUUU" in his deep voice and see his bright eyes and raised eyebrows. (My dad was a difficult man, but he could be pretty darn funny and had the greatest facial expressions). I have mementos of both parents scattered around my house and they truly are with me all of the time. I have things like the old oil lamps my mom restored and an antique side table she loved. I had saved many cards and letters she sent me through the years, and cherish every one. There is a collection of books from when my dad was at Princeton studying English with notes in his handwriting on the sides of the pages that I feel incredibly lucky to have.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I read an Emily Dickinson poem this morning, that really got me thinking on this subject, so bear with me and I will post it at the end. It is called MEMORIALS and she states beautifully, in way fewer words, what I am trying to express here. There are things that have emotion and memories attached to them that are priceless. Some of them are tangible like cards and books, others more sensory like sounds and aromas. It is hard to believe when a loss is fresh, that we will ever find relief in these things, but eventually it becomes natural. I smile when I remember my parents and even if I didn't have the many physical reminders to look at and touch, There are "Memorials" everywhere. I know that every time I hear certain sayings I will smile and think of my Mom, because she had a million of them. And every time someone uses improper English I will always think of my Dad and how it hurt his ears to hear it. Now that spring is here my Moms memorial can be seen everywhere, and I hope when you see the Tulips and Hydrangeas and all of the trees turning green, you are smiling with me.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;The Emily Dickinson poem I promised:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;MEMORIALS&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Death sets a thing significant&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;The eye had hurried by,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Except a perished creature&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Entreat us tenderly&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;To ponder little workmanships&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;In crayon or in wool,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;With "This was the last her fingers did"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Industrious until&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;The thimble weighed too heavy,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;The stitches stopped themselves,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;And then't was put among the dust&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Upon the closet shelves.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;A book I have a friend gave,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Whose pencil, here and there,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Had notched the place that pleased him,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;At rest his fingers are.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Now, when I read, I read not,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;For interupting tears&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Obliterate the etchings&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div align="justify"&gt;Too costly for repairs.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-403653110964383115?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/403653110964383115/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=403653110964383115' title='3 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/403653110964383115'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/403653110964383115'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/05/i-lost-my-mom-to-cancer-in-springtime.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>3</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-3201154659099705011</id><published>2009-04-16T15:34:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-16T15:37:47.846-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Photo by Diana McKay Cildren Black and White'/><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SeeysGORl4I/AAAAAAAAAEM/hUfG66-niPQ/s1600-h/Janey+and+friend.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 263px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5325421555043374978" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SeeysGORl4I/AAAAAAAAAEM/hUfG66-niPQ/s400/Janey+and+friend.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;A FRIEND'S EYE IS A GOOD MIRROR.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt; &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;GAELIC PROVERB&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-3201154659099705011?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/3201154659099705011/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=3201154659099705011' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/3201154659099705011'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/3201154659099705011'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/04/friends-eye-is-good-mirror.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SeeysGORl4I/AAAAAAAAAEM/hUfG66-niPQ/s72-c/Janey+and+friend.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-4678707003951580446</id><published>2009-04-13T17:54:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-13T17:55:50.014-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SePe0sBcHFI/AAAAAAAAAD8/n5jhoqAZEPI/s1600-h/scan0001.jpg"&gt;&lt;img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 198px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324344181233818706" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SePe0sBcHFI/AAAAAAAAAD8/n5jhoqAZEPI/s320/scan0001.jpg" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; A day is lost if &lt;span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected"&gt;no one&lt;/span&gt; has laughed. French proverb&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-4678707003951580446?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/4678707003951580446/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=4678707003951580446' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/4678707003951580446'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/4678707003951580446'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/04/day-is-lost-if-no-one-has-laughed.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SePe0sBcHFI/AAAAAAAAAD8/n5jhoqAZEPI/s72-c/scan0001.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-5650817144660580932</id><published>2009-03-20T09:03:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-20T15:45:19.773-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='By the river with a leaf - Photo by Diana McKay'/><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;div align="center"&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/ScPFHDTvpHI/AAAAAAAAAC8/-8oSJsJz6so/s1600-h/Jane+with+leaf.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5315308710165193842" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 214px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/ScPFHDTvpHI/AAAAAAAAAC8/-8oSJsJz6so/s320/Jane+with+leaf.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/ScPD6r1leMI/AAAAAAAAAC0/9KIBf1hIYGI/s1600-h/scan0002.jpg"&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Beauty as we feel it is something indescribable;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;what it is or what it means can never be said.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;- George Santayana &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-5650817144660580932?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/5650817144660580932/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=5650817144660580932' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/5650817144660580932'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/5650817144660580932'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/beauty-as-we-feel-it-is-something.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/ScPFHDTvpHI/AAAAAAAAAC8/-8oSJsJz6so/s72-c/Jane+with+leaf.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-8485655580078936889</id><published>2009-03-17T09:01:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-17T09:05:31.884-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sb_JuBhSDxI/AAAAAAAAACk/bqb5kPpZ3LM/s1600-h/Bella09.3.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314187877839671058" style="WIDTH: 228px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sb_JuBhSDxI/AAAAAAAAACk/bqb5kPpZ3LM/s320/Bella09.3.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sb_JfsE4I9I/AAAAAAAAACU/v-UY5x-ite4/s1600-h/Bella09.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314187631565218770" style="WIDTH: 230px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sb_JfsE4I9I/AAAAAAAAACU/v-UY5x-ite4/s320/Bella09.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;span style="font-family:courier new;font-size:130%;"&gt;Happy Saint Patrick's Day from Bella!&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-8485655580078936889?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/8485655580078936889/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=8485655580078936889' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/8485655580078936889'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/8485655580078936889'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/happy-saint-patricks-day-from-bella.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sb_JuBhSDxI/AAAAAAAAACk/bqb5kPpZ3LM/s72-c/Bella09.3.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-2141491368500222894</id><published>2009-03-14T22:41:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-20T15:46:57.137-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='At the Del Mar Fair - Photo by Diana McKay'/><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbyVL-DHm1I/AAAAAAAAACM/eS2YmaYCIkg/s1600-h/Courage.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313285693257522002" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbyVL-DHm1I/AAAAAAAAACM/eS2YmaYCIkg/s320/Courage.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;"If we did all the things we are capable of, we would literally astound ourselves." &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Thomas Edison&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-2141491368500222894?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/2141491368500222894/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=2141491368500222894' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/2141491368500222894'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/2141491368500222894'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/if-we-did-all-things-we-are-capable-of.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbyVL-DHm1I/AAAAAAAAACM/eS2YmaYCIkg/s72-c/Courage.JPG' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-3744235095217999004</id><published>2009-03-10T21:40:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-20T15:47:52.544-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Ring of Soldiers - Photographer unknown'/><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbdC1hzEg3I/AAAAAAAAACE/MTLPAHcD9lc/s1600-h/pic09961.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311787772879864690" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 252px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbdC1hzEg3I/AAAAAAAAACE/MTLPAHcD9lc/s320/pic09961.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Where there is faith, there is love;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Where there is love, there is peace;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Where there is peace, there is God;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And where there is God; there is no need.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Leo Tolstoy&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-3744235095217999004?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/3744235095217999004/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=3744235095217999004' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/3744235095217999004'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/3744235095217999004'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/where-there-is-faith-there-is-love.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbdC1hzEg3I/AAAAAAAAACE/MTLPAHcD9lc/s72-c/pic09961.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-8261061017940759689</id><published>2009-03-06T12:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-20T15:49:16.056-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Baby Jane with Horse (Three Sox) - Photo by Diana McKay'/><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbGE8yMdw3I/AAAAAAAAABs/78WoUsFx0bs/s1600-h/Janey+black+and+whites+003.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5310171615447597938" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 225px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbGE8yMdw3I/AAAAAAAAABs/78WoUsFx0bs/s320/Janey+black+and+whites+003.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;Love is more easily demonstrated than defined. Anonymous&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-8261061017940759689?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/8261061017940759689/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=8261061017940759689' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/8261061017940759689'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/8261061017940759689'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/love-is-more-easily-demonstrated-than.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/SbGE8yMdw3I/AAAAAAAAABs/78WoUsFx0bs/s72-c/Janey+black+and+whites+003.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-8370710287540211650</id><published>2009-03-03T22:14:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-20T15:51:22.948-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Horse Sense Photos by Mike McKay and Diana McKay'/><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>&lt;a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sa6fV54SHRI/AAAAAAAAABA/QMWDew91nHE/s1600-h/carly-toes+eye.jpg"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309356209379351826" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sa6fV54SHRI/AAAAAAAAABA/QMWDew91nHE/s320/carly-toes+eye.jpg" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sa4j83wFXnI/AAAAAAAAAA4/zyCy7iewq9Q/s1600-h/3+n++Pogo+edit+2.JPG"&gt;&lt;img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5309220539381145202" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sa4j83wFXnI/AAAAAAAAAA4/zyCy7iewq9Q/s320/3+n++Pogo+edit+2.JPG" border="0" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt; &lt;div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Horse sense is the thing a horse has &lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;which keeps it from betting on people.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;W.C. Fields&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-8370710287540211650?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/8370710287540211650/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=8370710287540211650' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/8370710287540211650'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/8370710287540211650'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/horse-sense-is-thing-horse-has-which.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_T5jkudZKKpk/Sa6fV54SHRI/AAAAAAAAABA/QMWDew91nHE/s72-c/carly-toes+eye.jpg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-7795871991022571789</id><published>2009-03-03T17:29:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-12T07:22:25.749-07:00</updated><title type='text'></title><content type='html'>I was just thinking about my mom. Our Nancy (fancy pants) who died of cancer almost 11 years ago. She had told my sisters exactly what she wanted as far as funeral arrangements, and it really turned out to be beautiful. She wanted to be cremated and scattered in the Atlantic. She wanted her three daughters to scatter her from a boat, with just a minister, and a bagpiper playing amazing grace. It was early April and a little difficult to find the appropriate boat for our purposes, but the funeral director gave us the number of this great guy who lived on Prudence Island, and he had a skiff that he kept immaculate. (It was what he used as his transportation to work on the mainland every day).&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;As far as the bagpiper goes, we were lucky that he took the job, considering there was a bagpiper competition the very same day which he had to miss. He was a redheaded Irish, and sweet as could be. Nancy would have adored him.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We met on a dock near Colt State Park, and the bagpiper played as we motored out. We anchored and opened the wooden box that contained my moms ashes. Mom's ashes were actually in a plastic bag inside the box, which might sound tacky, but I was grateful since I was scared to death I wouldn't get the ashes in the water. Pouring from a bag was less intimidating. The minister said a prayer, and the Bagpiper played amazing grace. We took turns pouring moms ashes into the bay. We were also taking turns placing pink flowers in the water. We had bought some tulips, and plucked a few pink flowers from each of the arrangements friends had sent. After my turn, I turned and looked at the water, and I could see the pink flowers being pulled out to sea by the current. I told my sisters to look. We were all in awe. Without realizing it we had made it possible to see where our moms ashes would flow. There was a stream of pink flowers that fanned out at the end. It was breathtaking. If we didn't have people arriving for a memorial service at the Colt State Park I think we would have watched every last flower drift out of sight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;We did eventually leave and meet up with friends and family at the outdoor chapel in Colt State Park. We had a lovely service. The bagpiper played, and the minister did a lovely sermon. He added the Hopi prayer at our request. I will post it below because it is so appropriate to the send off fancy pants had designed for herself. One of my sisters friends had sent a condolence card with the prayer on it, and we had to have it read. It was perfect. My brother &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;in law&lt;/span&gt; read the eulogy I had written, because I didn't think I could get through it. He did an amazing job, I couldn't stop crying. His voice was cracking, and I knew he was trying not to cry but he made it through so gracefully.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;p&gt;I hope our Fancy Pants was there to see how beautifully her plan went. &lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Heres the Hopi Prayer so you can see how appropriate it was:&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;A Hopi Prayer&lt;br /&gt;Do not stand at my grave and weep; I am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow. I am the diamond glints on snow.I am the sunlight on ripened grain.I am the gentle autumn rain.&lt;br /&gt;When you awaken in the morning's hush I am the swift uplifting rush of quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there, I did not die.&lt;br /&gt;by Mary E. Frye&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-7795871991022571789?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/7795871991022571789/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=7795871991022571789' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/7795871991022571789'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/7795871991022571789'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/i-was-just-thinking-about-my-mom.html' title=''/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-1941136050198798323</id><published>2009-03-03T16:57:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-03-03T17:00:12.996-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Irish Blessing</title><content type='html'>Work like you don't need the money. Love like you've never been hurt. Dance like nobody's watching. Sing like nobody's listening. Live like it's Heaven on Earth. May there always be work for your hands to do. May your purse always hold a coin or two. May the sun always shine on your windowpane. May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain. May the hand of a friend always be near you. May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you, and may you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows your'e dead.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-1941136050198798323?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/1941136050198798323/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=1941136050198798323' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/1941136050198798323'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/1941136050198798323'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2009/03/irish-blessing.html' title='Irish Blessing'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7598124185170225203.post-7771561711935099383</id><published>2008-04-04T22:09:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-04-18T22:18:48.062-07:00</updated><title type='text'>OK.... so my Doctor was right</title><content type='html'>I don't know for sure how long my doctor has been nagging me to get a mammogram but suffice it to say many years. I recently needed a refill on my ADD medicine and the wench held it captive until I went in for a consult. She gave me the obligatory 3 minutes of chat, promised to call in the prescription and also gave me a green slip to make the dreaded boob squishing appointment downstairs. She had won and she knew it so I obliged and made the appointment. It was for a little over a week later so I wouldn't have the same excuse as I had last time. You see last time I made an appointment it was months in advance and I stuck it on the fridge and promptly forgot all about it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;OK, so I finally get the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"&gt;mammo&lt;/span&gt; 3/14/08 and it's not the most fun ever, but not really that bad. I said ouch maybe three times. So the tech asks me to wait there in my lovely wrap around cotton gown while she checks the films. She was really cool and made sure I had some trashy magazines to kill the time. When she came back in and wanted to do a second on my left side she said something about dense tissue and my armpit and needing a different angle. I pretty much bought her story (remind me never to play poker with radiography tech OK?) I mean the second squishing on the left made me wonder, but I gave her the benefit of the doubt.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The next Monday a clerk from Radiology called me and made an appointment for a compression mammogram (yet another boob squish) and possibly an ultrasound on the left side. I asked her why I needed this stuff and she responded "I'm just a clerk" &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"&gt;Okey&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"&gt;dokey&lt;/span&gt; then!&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Thankfully they got me in pretty fast which is good because I am not the most patient person ever. So I go in for the second &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"&gt;mamo&lt;/span&gt;, the boob &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"&gt;squisher&lt;/span&gt; did her thing and shows me the film and asked me if I felt that lump. There is a good sized white blotch on the film, but I tell ya I felt no lump. I really tried to feel it it after they called me to set up the second &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"&gt;mamogram&lt;/span&gt;, but I felt nothing. So she goes out to show the radiologist my boob pics and comes back to tell me he wants me to have the ultrasound. She is acting pretty serious and asks "are you sure you didn't feel that" like it was enormous or something. Now I'm starting to get a bit nervous. I had been determined to put off worrying til when/if I had evidence I should do so. They take me right next door for the ultrasound and a real young friendly girl gets me comfy and does her thing. They warm the ultrasound gel and just slide the wand thing around in the goop so this is almost relaxing except I watch the girls expression and it's totally serious and now I'm starting to think I'm screwed. She gets done and goes to show her version of my boob to the radiologist. She comes back in and asks me if I have any questions for the doctor and I say "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6"&gt;yaaaaaahhhh&lt;/span&gt;"! Radiologist comes in, very nice but another serious face and says something like "you have questions?" I'm like "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"&gt;Yaaaaah&lt;/span&gt;.......whats GOING ON??!!" He tells me that the spot is suspicious and I will need to have a biopsy, he's not sure if I will have a "&lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"&gt;stereotactic&lt;/span&gt;" biopsy which is small pieces of tissue are removed and tested, or have the whole thing removed and have it tested. Neither choice sounds like a picnic but I just nod and try to stay positive. He seemed pretty sure it would be the latter towards the end of the conversation, but I end up having the &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"&gt;steriotactic&lt;/span&gt; biopsy (but &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"&gt;that's&lt;/span&gt; another story for another day!) I left the office pretty numb. I &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"&gt;hadn't&lt;/span&gt; really learned much except they were worried about what they saw on the first &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"&gt;mamo&lt;/span&gt; did two more tests and still felt that way. couple days later I got a call to make &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"&gt;the&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14"&gt;appointment&lt;/span&gt; for the biopsy it was set for 3/27/08. I promise next post the saga will continue with the details of that lovely experience.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7598124185170225203-7771561711935099383?l=boobsaga.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/feeds/7771561711935099383/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=7598124185170225203&amp;postID=7771561711935099383' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/7771561711935099383'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/7598124185170225203/posts/default/7771561711935099383'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://boobsaga.blogspot.com/2008/04/ok-so-my-doctor-was-right.html' title='OK.... so my Doctor was right'/><author><name>Diana</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/03987155089756900719</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='32' height='32' src='http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nUwskSde0Nc/TrTKo-s_hPI/AAAAAAAAAJ4/N4ZI9MpYgqs/s220/fashion%2Brecycling.jpg'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
