Shop At Home Blinds - Electric Retractable Awnings.

Shop At Home Blinds

shop at home blinds
    shop at
  • patronize: do one's shopping at; do business with; be a customer or client of
  • Accounting Celebrity ZAZZLE
  • Confuse or overawe someone with something difficult to understand
  • The blinds are forced bets posted by players to the left of the dealer button in flop-style poker games. The number of blinds is usually two, but can be one or three.
  • Deprive (someone) of understanding, judgment, or perception
  • Cause (someone) to be unable to see, permanently or temporarily
  • A window blind is a type of window covering which is made with slats of fabric, wood, plastic or metal that adjust by rotating from an open position to a closed position by allowing slats to overlap. A roller blind does not have slats but comprises a single piece of material.
  • window coverings, especially vertical blinds, wood blinds, roller blinds, pleated blinds
  • home(a): used of your own ground; "a home game"
  • at or to or in the direction of one's home or family; "He stays home on weekends"; "after the game the children brought friends home for supper"; "I'll be home tomorrow"; "came riding home in style"; "I hope you will come home for Christmas"; "I'll take her home"; "don't forget to write home"
  • Made, done, or intended for use in the place where one lives
  • Relating to one's own country and its domestic affairs
  • provide with, or send to, a home
  • Of or relating to the place where one lives

Aisle 9
Aisle 9
I found her in Aisle 9. She was hunched over a pack of toilet paper, closely inspecting the label as I tried to squeeze by. Just as I passed her, she turned and put the pack in my hands. “Excuse me sir, can you help me?” she asked. “Is this toilet paper? I can’t tell, I’m blind.” “Um, let’s see … Yes, yes it’s toilet paper.” “Ah. Okay. And how much is it?” I looked at the different price tags on the shelf. “Here it is. Twenty-four pack of Royale bathroom tissue. It’s $3.99” “So if I get two it’s eight dollars?” Her voice was high-pitched with the curiosity of a child. “Yup, eight dollars. There might be taxes, but it should be about eight dollars.” “Good, good. I’m not greedy you know. I don’t need so much toilet paper, but I have cats and they like to VROOM, VROOM, VROOM,” she said as she moved her arms up and down like a cat unrolling toilet paper. I put two packs in her shopping cart next to her wooden cane. Then she looked at me and squinted. “Oh my goodness, you look like a German soldier! They look just like you!” she said, pointing at my green jacket. “I was there with Hitler,” she said. “I’m German. I saw things you would never believe. Horrible things. Imagine, you, a human being, and you are ordered to put me, another human being, in the oven to DIE! It’s crazy!" Her hands moved to slide something into an imaginary oven. “To this day,” she continued. “To this day I cannot use an oven. I can’t even cook a chicken in an oven. It’s too much for me. To think about the skin and the burning. It’s too much.” She went on to tell me about her life during the war. The gunshots and the bombs. The confusion and the fear. She claimed to have been buried alive twice. She was also shot in the foot at 20 years old. To prove it, she raised her pant leg to show me the special cushion she has to wear in her boot. “But I was lucky,” she said. “I had a wonderful husband. A WAAAnderful husband and we were so deeply in love and we were able to get out of that mess and we had four wonderful children together. Three girls and one boy.” Her hands were clasped like she was giving a formal speech. She was humble and laughed often, but her posture was straight and she held her chest high with pride. Her shoulders rolled far apart when she spoke. I asked questions, but she didn’t answer them. She remained on her course, which was to tell me everything that entered her mind without regard for chronological order. It was hard to follow, but I learned her husband was Russian and they lived in Moscow at some point. She loved the subway stations and the architecture there. Then, for some reason, Bolshevik put her husband in prison. When he got out, they fled to Montreal and he opened a butcher shop with a Turkish sailor he met in jail. “You should contact a historical society,” I said. “Maybe get your story documented. I’m sure other people would like to know about in your life.” “I thought about it,” she said, pausing for a moment to reflect, and then she snapped back to her storytelling mode. “But I don’t think the Germans were bad people. Hitler was there and everybody did what they were told to do, not really what they thought they should do.” “If I had the choice,” she said. “If I had to pick between the Russians, Mussolini and the Germans at that time, I would still go with the Germans. Why? Because the Germans were the most faithful.” I shook my head and smiled, but I didn’t understand. “Faith is very important. Me, I got shot in the foot and was buried alive twice, but I’m still here. I always had faith. I’m ninety-six years old now,” she said. She stopped smiling for the first time in our conversation and became silent. Her eyes were red and watered a little. She turned towards a shelf of multi-colored detergents and dish soap. Her wrinkled face, with its liver spots, moles and stray gray hairs, contrasted deeply against the shiny plastic bottles and 21st century products. “If I live until one hundred years old I still won’t know what it means to be alive,” she said. “My youth was lost in the war. I feel like I never got to live. Now I’m ninety-six and I don’t want to die. No, I don’t want to die. I never want to die.” I stood still. I couldn’t respond. She moved closer to me and gave me a light punch in the stomach. “Hey, what’s your name? We never introduced ourselves,” she said with a smile. “Diego.” “Diego?! What kind of name is that? I never heard it.” “It can be Spanish or Italian.” “Spanish OR Italian? That’s too hard for me. Your name is Peter. You look like my grandson’s nephew. His name is Peter.” We laughed. Her name was Charlotte. Forty-five minutes had passed since we started talking. “Well, okay. Goodbye Peter! It was nice speaking with you, but I have to go,” she said. “Remember, always trust in God. First God, then careers, families and everything else. But you don’t have to worry. Worrying is a waste of time. You are young so live well. Do everything you want to do an
Half blind amongst burnt remains.
Half blind amongst burnt remains.
(3 more in comments). After taking this photograph and looking back at it i was reminded of something along the lines of Tim Burton. The surroundings especially influenced that thought. Plus this photo was taken near a place called Burley, which is a small village of shops that is themed towards witches and all things spooky :) So here's an odd little New Forest pony who was blind in one eye, i absolutely loved him. I followed him along with two others into burnt Gorse, which is controlled due to its rapid and dominant growth, this process however, still encourages further growth. I honestly favoured the appearance of the burnt environment to that of the living with the bright yellow flowering, the twisted black branches gave a new and unusual setting to be in. This guy seemed to like the place as much as i did, he was very friendly and let me pet him despite being wild. I love the New Forest, it is literally like my second home as i have practically gone there every single year since i was a very small child. Please view larger on black :) Happy Easter holidays! :D

shop at home blinds
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