Showing posts with label Pink flamingo. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pink flamingo. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 7, 2023

I'm Clearing Off My Desk

Quick before I throw them away, the quotes on paper, not the flowers. The flowers are the reason I'm clearing my space. They were a Birthday gift from Daughter Darling.


 From Bill Murphy Jr.

”Want to know what my favorite kind of problem is? The kind that solves itself if you leave it alone.”

From Kelsey McKinney:

“In case you haven’t heard, we’re in a recession. Actually we’re not, but we’ve spent the last year talking about how we will be, which has the effect of altering behavior as if we were. Even if you’ve come to terms with the fundamental irrationality of the stock market, it’s still difficult to fight the feeling that CEOs are willing this recession into existence to create a justifying narrative for layoffs. Not because they necessarily want to save money, or even redirect the company, but to press reset on what they view as out-of-control compensation packages and worker demands.”



From Arwa Mahdawi, columnist for The Guardian US:

“Obviously I have no idea what the world is going to look like in a decade. But here’s one prediction I feel very confident making: without a free and fearless press the future will be bleak. Without independent journalism, democracy is doomed. Without journalists who hold power to account, the future will be entirely shaped by the whims and wants of the 1%.

A lot of the 1% are not big fans of the Guardian, by the way. Donald Trump once praised a Montana congressman who body-slammed a Guardian reporter. Musk, meanwhile, has described the Guardian as “the most insufferable newspaper on planet Earth.” I’m not sure there is any greater compliment.

“I am proud to write for the Guardian. …Only with your help can we continue to get on Elon Musk’s nerves.


 From Anne Helen Petersen:

 This round of layoffs in particular feels clear that this isn't about a recession or profit or even worker quality. It's about fear induction. Lay off a bunch of people, and you grab a bit of power back out of the fear among the remaining. It is easier to exploit them.


 From Betty White—aka Rose from The Golden Girls.

“You know what they say: You can lead a herring to water, but you have to walk really fast or he’ll die.”
— Rose (Betty White)



From our website

A Gathering of Flamingos is Called A Flamboyance

“If you called us the Pink Flamingos, could we also be called a Flamboyance? I suppose not, as we are only two.

“However, we liked the outrageous aspect of a Pink Flamingo in the yard, so in honor of a Flamboyance, and lawn ornaments we named the Brokerage Vibrance.

“We have a long history and love of houses which dropped us into being Real Estate agents. (Called Brokers in Oregon.) I know, it's confusing.

“We're here to attempt to help you unravel some complexities that come with buying and selling houses. And with Pink, add a little fun into the mix.”


Tuesday, December 28, 2021


On this past Christmas Eve, Daughter Dear said to me: "I have something for you, but you need to go outside for a while,"

"Great, I'll take your dog for a walk. It will be like my first and best Christmas ever."

That First Christmas that I remember happened long ago when I was perhaps three years old-- before my dad went away to the war. My mother, father, and I lived with my grandmother, and they told their only child (me) that since we didn't have a fireplace, Santa would come in through the door. However, he wouldn't come in when a child was present. So, Daddy would take me for a walk while mother and grandmother hid.

I remember walking down the street, listening with eagle ears. "I heard him," I'd say, "Listen, Daddy."

Oh my, when we returned to the house, the tree was lighted, with toys encircling it like Santa's workshop. The trees' lights were all a glitter against silver tinsel icicles, and there was a tricycle.


Magic exploded abundantly that year.

And this one!


On this Christmas Eve, as Lafayette, daughter's coon hound, and I walked to the end of the street, I listened carefully, but I didn't hear bells jingling or Ho ho hos ringing through the night air.


However, when I entered the house, oh my, a life-size lighted pink flamingo was standing on the coffee table. 


                                     Pink outside in the snow.

 I was astounded and overjoyed. Daughter Dear had made it out of chicken wire, sprayed it white, and lighted it with pink bulbs she had ordered.

This was a lesson on asking and receiving.

 It's a long story that I'll shorten.

 I had said I wanted a lighted pink flamingo to put in the yard. I thought of making one but didn't have the energy or inclination. I wondered, too, if pink bulbs were available for Christmas lights. Other people had deer, horses, carriages, and sleighs, but I never saw a lighted pink flamingo. I shelved the idea and didn't put any more effort into wishing for one.

With three jobs, I don't know where Daughter Dear found the time to build a Flamingo, but she said it was easy. "I'll give it a try," she said and gathered up a table leg and some chicken wire we had on the property, plus a flower pot frame for the body, ordered the white light string and pink bulbs, and viola’ a pink flamingo.

We both slapped ourselves on the side of the head, "Sometimes it doesn't have to be hard."

A few years ago, my daughter and I called ourselves The Pink Flamingos. We will again when Daughter Dear has her own Real Estate Agency, and I will be an agent. I never understood the phenomenon of plastic pink flamingos in a yard. Still, I thought they were funny and pertinent to houses. Four years ago, when we signed, as fledgling Real Estate Agents to an agency, we couldn't use the name The Pink Flamingos—when Daughter Dear starts her own agency, we can.

After taking a break from my Real Estate Studies, (my license lapsed, and I'm back to square one, with 69 study hours out of 150 completed), I began a new project.


Here it is:


(I got my first subscriber, so, I'm committed to 12 issues at least.) 

Much Love,