tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4677242894108358632024-02-18T23:58:23.527-08:00Super Sonicmy trip & moreAdvertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comBlogger818125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-57222486513199862752022-06-20T09:53:00.000-07:002022-06-20T09:53:22.560-07:00Learning To Say 'No'<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpeNLeorSymjCI0YxF608U4cQvf-tDOhhuAa1-eldbiT7L0wRO2CRwj05eNUtKnb_cse5oQzSGftgh9Xaxl34gmMtR1yM3qWgNWlnn11bxpa8iAn55cQY896MuqoxbSBvwQtAxj18vhhA/s6000/a+traveller%2527s+story+louis+vuitton+special+ton+heukels+alasdair+mclellan+alister+mackie+another+man%252C+fall%253Awinter+2011+8.jpg" alt="tiger"><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/11/learning-to-say.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-84238102315617228752022-06-20T09:51:00.000-07:002022-06-20T09:51:40.664-07:00When Fan Heaters Attack<img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxTTN21VYkVdSVMYHAtI4wOAlDn34FnM3WdIdNQM8G7FoEH0QPihRMOyvlMOa6fwQkUVIZH11FONsmc8k94SVkcwSU9z_phIdLP3G3j9nQoCF7Vi9CiwkpjjZZNOQf7RW4pke3sY_bbyk/s6000/shore+leave+freja+beha+erichsen+cass+bird+francesca+burns+vogue+uk,+january+2014+05.jpg"><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/07/when-fan-heaters-attack.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-84222172610910704462022-01-27T05:36:00.000-08:002022-01-27T05:36:41.201-08:00The Little Lady of The House<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-little-lady-of-house.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-75711664989375271722020-04-14T02:33:00.000-07:002020-04-14T02:33:16.665-07:00Blah Blah Blah<figure><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggEAAsgV_qmy_SQiz6spHLU6kRWJBErB8DiI9s_F0xHfAsc0WDz_jFnEJ5N5NzvoybJnjvJqDlSLUggx_L_9PfYFUFw9IHOkws3tPpUi_TvFm8e-yvj7GUEaiIsMS8YlsSVA1X_3_lajQ/s1600/plastic.jpg" data-original-width="1200" data-original-height="900"></figure><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/10/blah-blah-blah.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-72698882269752841152020-04-14T02:32:00.000-07:002020-04-14T02:32:23.267-07:00Thy Geek Shall Inherit Thy Earth<figure><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQSAWVHiAmo-0ow1dzawQEMJ6F-SkAXot0GoO7bQO99vyy3SvZFQgPYNQnDn7S_7bKsF3z9UD04ftFsZ89sb_z6w7ujtnNA-Wdp3pPybDIr5jB-WD6nT2DPaueee0TLSPg5XG3EIm78jY/s1600/hair.jpg" data-original-width="675" data-original-height="1000"></figure><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/10/thy-geek-shall-inherit-thy-earth.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-11581787430387477442020-04-14T02:31:00.000-07:002020-04-14T02:31:03.353-07:00Reasons Not To Confuse 'Canyoning' with 'Caving'. And Other Adventures. <a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/10/reasons-not-to-confuse-with-and-other.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-2104684849153364282020-04-14T02:30:00.000-07:002020-04-14T02:30:28.049-07:00EveryBody's Body Is (Still) Beautiful<figure><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV61jqzOnQzr1IKgziKyJHzzV2yPUj6r2TI1RBuPwX1I8mbSDclrdsZviHM73wvTBCOdAcewXGAetqdKpTa1ASTeRpDaNgPxH9PO_oQ6kab6kPK6ptSTHheZ6MqdTI1LZ4uUTb5JyA-a8/s1600/rin.png" data-original-width="1186" data-original-height="1031"></figure><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/10/everybody-body-is-still-beautiful.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-75200234837354241102019-09-27T06:39:00.000-07:002019-09-27T06:39:33.192-07:00Saying Stupid Things<figure><img alt="Top 10" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBCa9jSJoQ-YV1JUGHdlSmEkx42nG0QOtU8VkOQ3sLyOVukPLvnUKic-NkxxKuatLPF9BE3WNQtUL30zEMrJF62KhsJ-NjSjaqOP_4SjxmNyIpa8sKDuJyzS1l7sP6i4ytwQNlLngYMFY/s1600/top-10.jpg"></figure><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2011/10/saying-stupid-things.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-43441179352468057592018-08-30T16:46:00.003-07:002018-08-30T16:46:46.983-07:00We Heart Life's<p>Hey jellybeans,</p><p>A year ago now, back in the Before, I blogged into We Heart Life's <b>I Heart My Body</b> campaign, which officially goes live tomorrow. I thought I'd give you a heads up so you can join in if you're brave.</p><figure><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKQfoEIbechR1Df8JklKDh-6ViNpICO63SDxzv6Sp5FuH3EYif6lDFbUTzeLeiZ4Awn41HvUN-vYpEh8sM_3ulbDmMLSfNT_Le7f0m5iEjWRV-cumxJ2iPKrVr8ugiwCih5iWjP4jLDeyV/s1600/heart2.jpg" /></figure><p>It's a simple, awesome concept. A celebration of all the bodies in the blogosphere- male and female; big and small; pink, tan, dark and pale; with all their beautiful marks, scars, lumps and bumps.</p><p>You can show as much or as little as you like. I'm OK with undies. Hell, at least this year they're pretty matching ones, which is more than I can say for last time round. But it was that usual restless sadness as I took my own photos in the mirror, rather than having my husband to do it for me.</p><figure><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8_LRRbCn0aphQo_dv2eqC4D1prxkco1Rh9VPeYJ8GNVM7cPOgWgD9Iq5cd88GfTBPRwacfJUtu-YKIJk9LPpIhMyV_syFKaUx6RX8k5xtbETvNwAvvUD-8KYWGuIIIwQRY2QSQvyoVAWl/s1600/heart4.jpg" /></figure><p>I'm not particularly body concious... even less so now than a year ago. I have more all round confidence, I think, more of a bite-me-I-don't-care vibe happening, which extends to bikinis and short shorts. Because I'm proud of my body, and I no longer give a damn what anyone thinks. I'm pretty good nick for someone with two little kids, who does minimal exercise and eats crap. My body serves me well.</p><p>It's nourished two children from conception to fourteen months old, giving and giving and still managing not to deplete itself too far. It's given birth twice, once all by itself, pumping out oxytocin in a manner that still amazes me, forcing a high that I doubt any substance will ever match.</p><p>My body has takes piercings and tattoos without complaint. It rarely falls ill, and recovers quickly. My own stamina amazes me sometimes.</p><figure><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQF1Gn-X55q5NAiX-ppayok7zZWNfzMQYjTO4kDXxg7XklAFxQb57DEQHURjRMm-sGdvHVaM1KyPpl4HrrJRp43x2Qzxx3OCLzfS5wkUeKMsiYIq0gcX2sB2m4ua9Yff44l1VLGPHr-Uuz/s1600/heart3.jpg" /></figure><p>I know my own self, body included, at a much deeper level than I did a year ago. I pay more attention to what my body needs... water, sleep, nourishment, pleasure.</p><p>It's a constant evolution I think, for women, the way we feel about our bodies. My body and I are reaching some kind of peaceful halfway point... It treats me well. I respect it, much as I can. And when I need to, it indulges me; allowing me to go without sleep, allowing me to drink too much or stuff myself with sugar, and it recovers with minimal complaint.</p><p>Having children, getting older, having to rely more on my own physical strength... all these things are adding up. According to Million Dollar Woman, if you're a stay at home mum with small children, you lift a tonne a day. A <i>tonne</i>. No wonder we're all so bloody exhausted all the time. Women's bodies, they are amazing things, in so many different ways.</p><figure><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimhUgothU4peXIZb2Y0OvHBeyFrUsjFerGIQBWH8llTQAxG7zuP84aHQr2_OcudxM7ILjmwHMCNzshIwC9CopYtLE3kvOykRKo51tqmZHQlxeC7y59VyWPK1BDZ1e4wFwa9KS1dEboq5tp/s1600/heart1.jpg" /></figure><p>So... this is me. Lumpy bits, bumpy bits, pretty bits and all. My body's not perfect, but I love it just the same... it treats me extraordinarily well.<br /><hr /><hr /><i>"So we don't have flat bellies anymore, but our strong arms can do the seamless transfer- from car seat to cot- without waking the baby. The breasts we once once covered in itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini tops are no longer male eye-magnets, but they've stopped a babies crying. Handsome men don't scare us anymore. We are </i>mothers, <i>for God's sake. We can wipe a bottom squeaky clean with the very last wipe, remove all traces of vomit from cashmere, and tell whether a child has a temperature just by feeling it's forehead with the back of our hands. Don't f*ck with us."</i> '<hr />Secret Mother's Business' by Joanne Fedler.</p>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-68962853075105384902018-07-10T02:22:00.000-07:002018-07-10T02:22:32.299-07:00I Love Sport and more...<figure><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBzqzE-PSXouTrkjmEwTwIrF-iC3pkJD-YJ-nCcpsH0F-G7zm6Y7efR5dxXzhV1FBMu_UeqR5naupp-Iab21xV2v1eY1-IO0mfKR9Sd0l0JFMKz0NPD3QSuEedKtr1YvrNSI5NaJXn1bY/s1600/Penguins.jpg" /></figure><p><b>Warning-</b> This post contains the actual, horrible, shocking truth about me, and I how I am feeling right now. Please, if you know me In Real Life and this is going to piss you off, don't read it. Seriously. <i>I will not be held responsible for any emotions this post generates in you.</i></p><p>Easter Egg, my geeky Net friends...?</p><p>OK. Given that I am a crumpled ball of hate and rage at the moment, it's really not surprising that a few things piss me off.</p><p>My own blogging is one of them.</p><p>Why? Because there is something I'm not saying. This place has gone from my haven, where I write what I like and show off a bit and disconnect from the Real World; to somewhere where I'm a bit apprehensive about being me. Where I feel, just that tiny bit, that I have to play the grieving widow. For the people In Real Life, the anonymous commenters, that are reading.</p><p>Fuck <i>that</i>. I am grieving, all day, every day. And I loved Tony pieces.</p><p>We'll start with those basics.</p><p>And then we'll throw in a 'but' (I hate that word, at the moment, it's everywhere I turn.)</p><p>Marriage vows explicitly state, "Till death do us part". Ours did, anyway.</p><p>So, if Tony chose death, then he <i>chose</i> to end our marriage. I had nothing to freaking do with it, I was loving him all the while...</p><p>I'm no angel, we've already covered that.</p><p>But he chose to leave, and what do I owe him now?</p><p>Not a damn thing. Not a thing, except, perhaps, to raise his children in the way he would have wanted, to be good people.</p><p>But he's not here. So even some of those ideals will bend, and break, and go by the wayside... that's life. I have a lifetime left, of raising these children, on my own, without Tony.</p><p>And, sometimes, I'll do and say what I need to, to survive.</p><p>Because that's the crux of it. Survival. I'll do what I need to do to get up every day, to not think, every second, how delicious dieing would be.</p><p>I don't owe anyone, anything. All these people, all Tony's mates, who seem to think I owe them something- I owe you nothing. And to top that off, as we all already know, I'm not from around here. There are very few ties, only a handful of people I'll actually miss, to keep me here.</p><p>And, given the 'support' I've been given from all of you, why the hell would I stay? So you can ignore me and my kids for the next few years?</p><p>Think not.</p><p>I owe none of you, anything. Nothing at all. Tony chose this, not me.</p><p>And before the gangland chorus of "You drove him to it" starts up, I'm not taking responsibility for Tony's death, either. As I keep saying- I am no fucking angel, we know that. But I didn't tie the noose that apparentley had been sitting in the shed for months. I didn't put it around his neck.</p><p>I was there the whole time, remember? Screaming at him <i>not to</i>.</p><p>Sad as it is, as much as it fucks me over to admit it- Tony had been thinking about this for a while, abstractly at least. I don't think he actually planned to die...</p><p>But he tied a noose, put it around his neck, and jumped off a chair.</p><p>That makes him suicidal, no matter which way you slice it. That makes him mentally unstable. That makes him a temporarily- but also, unfortunately, permanently- selfish prick.</p><p>Not matter what I did, no matter what I said... divorce is always an option. The back gate was ten feet away. I was telling him to leave.</p><p>He could've walked at any time.</p><p>I've been saying for weeks now, I'm not afraid of anything anymore. What a blatant lie. Everything is terrifying, from the tiniest tasks to the most monumental. Selling my house, to stopping for petrol. Moving away from my Purple Life, to putting the kid's shoes on.</p><p>The thought of packing up and moving from this house... I wish it had happened yesterday. But at the same time, walking out this front door will be almost the equivalent to walking away from Tony's still-ventilated body, his still-warm tattoos.</p><p>My daughter was born here.</p><p>Every time I walk outside, I see my husband hanging from a beam.</p><p>There are things here I will miss. But, (that word again), I won't really be missing the place. I never even knew this tiny suburban pocket of the world existed much, before I met Tony.</p><p>I'll just be missing my sunshine-y, Purple life, that I was so innocently happy with.</p><p>Walking out of this house, means it really the end of it. It's not coming back, never in that shade of purple, with that sparkly tint of sunlight and the kids and Tony outside in the spa... that's never coming back, and staying here, it just reminds me of that, every day.</p><p>So.. I'm out of here. I have my mates, who I love... but from Tony's side of my life, with the obvious exception of his family... there are very few people who I want anything to do with.</p><p>Put it this way- if you're local, and you haven't called me, or come round here, since the weekend after Tony's funeral- don't bother. Doors closed.</p><p>OK. With all that out of the way- wake up, those in the back, it gets interesting again here- here's the Sordid Truth. (Remembering, one more time, if this is going to piss you off, use the little x in top right hand corner now. Thankyouverymuch.)</p><p>I just want somebody, somebody else, to love me.</p><p>I know, no biggie, right, we've discussed that before? As an abstract concept, with the disclaimer that I don't think I'd actually be able to do that.</p><p>What if I've had a taste of the reality of that, and it was such a comfort, it bores at my brain with the insistence to find it again?</p><p>What then?</p><p>I don't want a 'relationship'. I don't someone to pay my bills, squash spiders for me or mow my lawn. I don't want a father figure for my children, they'll be just fine with what they've got, thanks.</p><p>I just want someone for <i>me</i>. To love me.</p><p>To sit beside me, while I heal.</p><p>Not to heal me- if I was being philosophical, I'd say the only person who can heal me is myself. If I'm being honest, then I don't know how healed I'll ever really be. Time is all it will take, I know....</p><p>But why is it fair, that I have to wait? I didn't do this, I did nothing wrong here...</p><p>I know, I know. Because it's what we're meant to do. Give ourselves time to heal. Avoid making huge decisions.</p><p>That is so fucking unfair.</p><p>As I said, all I want right now is someone to love me. Someone to stroke my hair. Someone to kiss me. Someone to call me, and tell me they love me.</p><p>And I know, I shouldn't be ready for that. And I should say I'm not. But I don't care. Why is this such a difficult thing... I know this is fucked up. But is it really that painful, to be in my presence?</p><p>Would someone, someone for me, someone to love me... would that really be such a bad thing, for me, right now?</p><p>No. It's what I want. As I said, someone to sit near me while I heal. Someone to be patient, and understanding, and tolerant.</p><p>Don't I deserve that?</p><p>A flashback, of Tony saying the same thing, comparing me to his ex-girlfriends, calling me "clean" and "pure", and <i>didn't he deserve that</i>? He did, and he got it. And he chose to leave me, and I just want to throw myself on the ground and cry and kick and scream and sob until someone, someone <i>male</i>, comes and scoops me up and tells me I'm worth something.</p><p>Let's not even get started on how my self worth is connected to people loving me. <i>Everyone's is</i>. Especially in this situation, and don't you dare judge that unless you've been here.</p><p>The ultimate rejection, from my husband... and every tiny one that follows rubs salt into my wound.</p><p>All this longing, all this wanting... what does this bring us back to?</p><p>The flip side of my truth.</p><p>How it looks from the outside, from the perspective of others looking in.</p><p>Let's start with two children under four years old. No matter how much I say, no pressure, no expectations.. we are a package deal, we three, and that's the end of the story, really. And when my children are so very young, and so very needy, and I'm still so very needy myself...?</p><p>And that's more the point, more than anything, right now.</p><p>I seem to feel like I'm draining everyone, of everything they've got. Depleting their resources, when the one thing I really want, the one thing that has bought me any peace since this happened... I can't have that.</p><p>It feels like I plug into people, and suck their patience, their strength, their happiness. I've been told, by someone I love and trust to tell me the truth, that keeping company with me at the moment is exhausting, that I am a difficult, painful person to be around.</p><p>I know that.</p><p>I can't help it.</p><p>I can only imagine how <i>difficult</i> it would be to love me right now, to be with me.</p><p>I'm irritable and short tempered. I'm fragile, and I get offended easily. The tiniest things are massive problems, the slightest unkind word can bring tears to my eyes.</p><p>I'm timid, in social situations where I'm not simply grinding on with day to day business. New people are now terrifying to me in a way they never have been, and I hate that about myself.</p><p>Give me a room full of people at the moment... and I'd be the one in the corner, curled up in the fetal position, quite possibly weeping.</p><p>Just wanting someone to hold me and kiss it better and tell me they love me.</p><p>It's too difficult, for everyone, I know that. Even the people closest to me have difficulty being with me, how could I ever expect someone else to take me, broken and bruised and traumatised as I am?</p><p>Some days, I feel like I am unlovable, that no one will ever want me again.</p><p>Any daydreams I was entertaining, about a fresh start... next lifetime, it's just not ready for me, as much as I am ready for it.</p><p>And that sucks.</p><p>Because, as I said... I really just want someone to wrap me up, love me, tell me I'm beautiful, and kiss it better.... why is that so much to ask for...?</p><p>Don't I deserve that...?</p><p>The best answer my head can give me is- I had, for myself, someone special enough that he did deserve that, most of the time. And he hated me enough that the hung himself in front of me.</p><p>It just feels so very cruel.. The person who I loved so much, the only person who ever loved me enough to want to be with me all the time, he left.</p><p>And he did it in such a way that I don't think I'll ever be lovable again. Too damaged, too broken.</p><p>Too raw. And too impatient, to wait for the wound to close on it's own.</p>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-51196154569925765872018-03-29T07:25:00.000-07:002018-03-29T07:25:04.402-07:00How To Pretend To Be A Craft Blogger<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/08/how-to-pretend-to-be-craft-blogger.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-74523799676442182018-03-29T07:24:00.000-07:002018-03-29T07:24:16.300-07:00On Writing<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/08/on-writing.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-86014507478389670382018-03-29T07:23:00.001-07:002018-03-29T07:23:58.312-07:00Internet dating v2.2- The Very Disturbing Trend<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/08/internet-dating-v22-very-disturbing.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-2810383821499445072018-03-29T07:23:00.000-07:002018-03-29T07:23:39.974-07:00Impact Statements- Government WorkPlace Bullying Review<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2012/08/impact-statements-government-workplace.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-27206005959921470382018-01-01T19:21:00.000-08:002018-01-01T19:21:30.255-08:00A Challenge To Australian Journalists: How Brave Are You?<figure><img alt="A Challenge To Australian Journalists" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3UQ6pC0AEyv6OUqeD54nAF6QjJLKAEVX6EqNQyvaaEeZ8ru2j91lxsNkghM8j-meV1XPtOKZV3dNjoqlkl0gGncKV-KAk8BhiIWDWJqFz0hpvIvPwpZLle5Ql2jclxXdQph2MEFTo8Kk/s1600/337488_original.jpg"></figure><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/a-challenge-to-australian-journalists.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-24607379268862150062018-01-01T19:18:00.000-08:002018-01-01T19:18:42.166-08:00Make Up (Part Two, Faces)<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/make-up-part-two-faces.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-86983856510414283052017-07-12T09:13:00.000-07:002017-07-13T08:41:28.316-07:00Uniforms of World War One<figure><img alt="The Ship Model" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS2OffuTqqUwglhdFSxBE8s5wpu1xn0A_aX7PWYmHGs1dcloKjSExvzf7S8QMEdKRMFOikwNNhuAerJTyz7VwqXt5HWeXxgX3Yf0no9X8Y_RVeT1WDEmowlJtzkmJteGeDfB4tDyC3dgk/s1600/001.jpg"></figure>
<p>In a recent L.W. publication George Arnold talked about a World War One board game entitled Paths of Glory. His article entailed a phrase “It’s taken awhile” as he was trying to find the perfect W.W.1 board game to play. My experience is you’ll never find the perfect game however you can get pretty close with Paths of Glory if that’s what you are into.</p><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2017/07/uniforms-of-world-war-one.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-39764154444539145412013-01-26T09:06:00.000-08:002017-07-13T07:58:22.877-07:00The Age of Sail<figure><img alt="The Ship" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEit_28NJ-jBupAKFag73oqdxsLpUEcZwohiTgwApCl3PqApyKv0RNoZDVLmsyVhkPAHu_P5yY_u_5xOP-xqQzbf74DIPPlUxnZCh7FrxlQjVjJdZa4NXgy1R0U2AjoIal-ntT13aYtsOBk/s1600/images.jpg"></figure>
<p>I have always had a soft spot for the Age of Sail. In fact it's a period that I have come to know, love and respect. Anyone who could of endured the hardships at seas in these vessels were literally men of iron. The last five weeks has been tough as our family cares for my mother as she battles shingles. Shingles are evil. I have got into the man cave only once for the aforementioned elapsed period. In the mean time I have had a chance to read up on a few rule sets.</p><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-age-of-sail.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-11644515501058169342013-01-25T09:01:00.000-08:002017-07-13T08:41:28.051-07:00The Ship Model Builder's Assistant<figure><img alt="The Ship Model" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6C9Mxc5iJyAXZDdnECLQD5YDimkEcQegzypbSSv9JMKLGVPht43YJFj1CFjbSYOxgj4Fil4lzEtUd_2gbbwXpnmjmiVhK09LFczCo-CaOCEEXeMAGkZKtnVbslSGBeHdIGTtXAbGh9OM/s1600/009.JPG"></figure>
<p>This book needs no introduction. Charles G. Davis was the leading light in the Marine Research Society of Salem, Massachusetts, between the wars. A naval architect by profession, he used his practical experience of shipbuilding to advance the techniques of model making from the rather crude 'sailor-made' objects of the time to the 'museum-standard' ideal of today.</p><a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-ship-model-builders-assistant.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-46556892655117679822013-01-13T13:00:00.000-08:002017-07-13T08:20:48.881-07:00I Can't Think Of A Name For This Post<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/i-can-think-of-name-for-this-post.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-85959830284945762112013-01-09T12:10:00.000-08:002017-07-13T07:50:55.586-07:00Internet Dating v3.1- All Fun And Games<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/internet-dating-v31-all-fun-and-games.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-65258138812261866442013-01-06T03:23:00.000-08:002017-07-13T08:41:28.255-07:00Clown Paint (Part One, Faces)<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/clown-paint-part-one-faces.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-54624561035758612822013-01-04T17:59:00.000-08:002017-07-13T08:39:35.769-07:00Bubbles<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/bubbles.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-41768439664518687812013-01-02T21:35:00.000-08:002017-07-13T08:41:28.170-07:00The Hotel- Blue Mountains, Part Three<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-hotel-blue-mountains-part-three.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-467724289410835863.post-38833790670946290102013-01-02T04:05:00.000-08:002017-07-13T08:37:42.600-07:00The Hotel- Blue Mountains, Part Two<a href="https://supersonicemorys.blogspot.com/2013/01/the-hotel-blue-mountains-part-two.html#more">Read more »</a>Advertiserhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16238208225176850384noreply@blogger.com