A Quick Question . . .

I have worked with some pretty crazy kids . . . does anyone think I can work with a former rapist, and / or former axe murderer? I mean the latter is in his 60s. And there was seriously co-morbidity going on (lots of drugs with serious mental illness). But, really, can I? I am trying to decide this. Opinions are not only welcomed, but requested. This would be some interesting experience and, well, I could probably study on my shifts there . . . hmmm. And, well, I need a job, I want to work with adults, but I am also very focused on working with survivors. Can I work on the otherside??? Oh, the youngest client is 49 and I am sure they are all heavily medicated . . . so safety, not so bad. I hope.

House Warming

In short - because I am outside and it is raining and I am waiting to be picked up from this cold coffee shop patio - seemed to be a success. Maybe I was wrong about the whole friends in Portland thing. Maybe it is coming together. So there aren't deep roots like old trees - but there are awesome people. And one knew what weebles were - that's right they wobble but they do not fall down. I could go all metaphorical with that . . . but I won't. More on this later but in short, I am just happy that it went so well and for the wonderful people who came. I gotta say, the people who were playing catchphrase in my living room were people I would NEVER have imagined playing catch phrase together. It was highly entertaining - hilarity definitely ensued.

Cars & Computers = Crying = Curse is Proven

Just a side note really . . . all cars I encounter are cursed. Sort of like computers. To protect all such things keep them away from me.

Here is my evidence:
Age 17, 1997, I get Seymore the Toyota (EVIL money pit 1981 Tercel)
Age 19, 1998 I get Geeves the classic Mercedes
In 1999 whie driving him I have to take him to the doctors so I borrow my dad's car (aka the Blazer aka The Death Trap - death by sand and random problems with the car turning off whilst driving), that car breaks down. I borrow my sister's car (aka "mycar" - its name) it breaks down. This is all within 2 weeks.
Age 21, 1999 I get mycar the Nissan, spring of 2000 mycar gets totalled on Hwy 101
Age 21, 2000, Frank the Truck is purchased, a reliable Toyota that is randomly rear ended by a Mercedes SUV who takes off
Age 23, 2002, Toby the Amigo, I fall in love with Toby, best car. Love him. Random acts of internal death rendor him useless and he is purchased in a relatively shady cash exchange and moved to Costa Rica, never to be seen again.
Age 25, 2004, Cricket the Beetle is purchased on eBay, a trek to Chicago and travels on Route 56 to home
Age 27, 2006, Bring Beetle to Portland and it is fine . . . until Spring of 2007 really.
Age 28, 2007 Belief in the imminent death of the Beetle is rising
Age 29, 2007 Tommy the Tank, a 93 Mercedes is borrowed from parents in LA
Age 29, 2008 Tommy & Cricket exhibit different but equally disturbing behaviors, they are driven back and forth for a few months
Age 30, 2008, Tommy's secret transmission problems are revealed and a $1500 min. bill is made clear while Cricket remains dead in my driveway
Age 30, 2008 - passionate hate of cars grows

Computers:
2001 or 2 or 3 Holly Preston the HP is purchased
2006 Holly has a random and irreparable death
2006 a mistaken purchase of Gertrude the Gateway is made, shortly after her keys jump off the board on a fairly regular basis and eventually (by Christmas) she spits broken plastic out of the disc drive
2007, Tina the Toshiba is sent from my BF4E in Denver (pity? perhaps)
2008, Tina is struggling to breathe having gone through 2 power chords in 6 motnhs, she has chugged along for some 7 years faithful to humans, but she needs rest
2008, Dolly the Dell moves in. Let's hope this story does not continue for sometime . . .

The curse is not lifted. Feel free to pray for my cars, doomed finances and computers. Ack!

The Gift of Therapy (stolen from Kristie's blog, "Growing Up Loved")

My friend Kris posted a beautiful blog and in it was the paragraph below, something she was told by "Grandpa Mel" who is in his 80s at this point. I am posting it here for 2 reasons: 1. We rarely get this gift in human form, we get unconditional acceptance and someone who intimately knows our story, weaves it with us actually, from Jesus. 2. For those of us becoming therapists it is important to hear this. Dr. Manock (one of my favorite professors) speaks a lot about how privileged we are to be in the room with the client - it is a gift to hear this person's story and we need to be humble before it. That being said here is Mel's take:


"You know after Bernice died I was real sad. She was the center of my universe, and well it's been really hard so I went and started going to see a counselor. Do you know that this counselor is really a lovely woman and the only thing she wants to know about is me. She hasn't got an agenda. She just wants to know about me. So, we talk for the hour or so and she gives me the gift of unconditional acceptance. When I start to get real self-critical, she won't accept it, but helps me see that I can accept myself too. She's given me a real beautiful gift. I hope you will give that to people. You know, all they need is someone to want to know them and then you know...people just bam! blossom! They just become. It's the best medicine ever you could give someone," Mel finished.

He is telling this to my friend Kris who is a Director of Children's Ministries and who has, for as long as I can remember, loved to help, serve and work with kids - I bet she does give this to them.

I hope we give this gift to people in our own lives too.

Homesick

I’m homesick. Ever since I went home it’s like I’ve come down with the California-fever . . . and not the one on TV or in movies where you long to surf or lounge under shade-less palm trees – but the one where I just wish I could call up my friends and meet for coffee, play board games or chat. I know I can “chat” from here but it isn’t really the same. It isn’t the act of making new memories.

I love Portland. But I miss home. I was looking through a list of friends, planning to have some over for a BBQ and I realized that my list of local friends was very, very short. That is not including my mutual friends that Kyle brings to the relationship, which is great – but it isn’t totally the same (except for one successful shared friend). I have my new friends at school and, from my old work? I realized I don’t really have any. There are some that I miss, one that I really miss, but it just looks like those 2+ years were what jobs often are, jobs with co-workers. That would be okay except on nights like tonight, or days like today, I really miss my friends from home and it would be nice to believe there was hope, probably the wrong word, but something here, in some way that things felt different. It takes time . . . I know, I know. But, anyway, this sounds all pathetic, but it is just me being homesick.

Kyle says we cannot both be sick – but he has the flu, that should be gone in 24 hours. When will this go away? In many ways I hope never, but maybe it could feel a little less like it does today. Well, there are dishes to be washed and clothes to hang up . . . so the domestic goddess will return to her work. Or watch The OC, you know, one or the other.

Things I have been meaning to say . . . about an unexpected happy ending

I have been struck lately with the reality that there is such a thing as a second chance. See, I had some magnificent things in my life and for a number of reasons that will not be recounted here, I do not have those particular things anymore – and I never thought I could, would or deserved to have magnificence in my life again. And yet, life is full of surprises.

Apparently the romantic comedies, both film and books, and the poetry of the ages, hold true – there is a beautiful painting to be revealed when the restoration is complete, there is a way to remove the sword from the stone, and we don’t all end up like Maud Muller searching our memories for stately halls that never were. (Incidentally, Maud Muller, possible Maude Muller, is an excellent poem and you should look it up) Sometimes friendships, broken hearts, tears, tea, miso soup and questionable Chinese food can all add up to a love with actual roots.

I have had the hardest time rooting myself here in Portland – which is, of course, because my roots are back home in California. I don’t attach easily, in a deep way that is, to friends. I crave history and depth, old stories, a whole constellation of memories. And that doesn’t just happen in a new city. I have friends but it will take a while and so far I don’t really have many that I hold a lot of memories with, maybe like a Little Dipper’s worth, but not Orion’s whole Belt.

Anyhow, I have deep roots with one person. When Kyle and I met it was much too soon for me to be in a romantic relationship. We tried but I just pushed him away and rejected his love and bids for a true deep connection. I rejected it because while I felt so many of the same things I could not really feel them – there was too much in my heart, head and life. And so we became friends. Off and on we would blur the lines of friendship and dating but at the root of it, he became my closest friend in Portland. (Now I have some amazing people in my life, and Lord knows they have been there in the darkest hours and I doubt my survival were it not for them, and since I know you are reading this let me assure you, this does not discount that, this is a different story)

When my divorce paper’s arrived – he brought me flowers and a card. When I was really punched for the first time (New Years Eve ’06, great night, really), he left a party an hour before midnight to be with me. When I was so lost in myself, my job, my head, he was there. Even when I was hurt in my efforts to date someone else (poor effort that THAT was) and after my assault when I couldn’t even go to work anymore or talk to my close work friends because it was too frightening – he held my hand and sat quietly with me. When my divorce finalized. When I would have panic attacks and cry and even freeze up – be literally immobilized with fear, pain and bewilderedness – he was with me, completely present (and working full time and in grad school!!).

And there are definitely a lot of good times! The Grand Lodge, walks in all seasons of the year, watching stars, writing letters and poetry, bad attempts at Sushi restaurants, bowling, beer, terribly mismatched senses of humor and yet a lot, a lot of laughter, and so many more.

All of this brings me to this: I used to tell my therapist that Kyle and I couldn’t be together because I wasn’t ready for a relationship. She had been asking me for a long time what kept me from being in a relationship with him, was it the unconditional Rogerian-esque love? The complete and utter acceptance? The kindness? And this wasn’t all in sarcasm, but sincerely, could I not have these things? We knew there were things that Kyle and I clashed on, but there were a lot of things that had more to do with my being unwilling to be open to them; like love.

So when the conversation came up again this past January or February, she asked me why I still believed I was not ready for a relationship. Was it maturity? Time? Too soon still? No. It was not the maturity. I didn’t think it was the time because the timing was finally pretty good. But . . . I paused and I remember just stopping and looking out the window of her office and I finally said, “I don’t know. Maybe I am. Maybe it is that I am so comfortable saying I am not ready that it is an excuse.” And there it was.

That night Kyle and I went to dinner and while we didn’t start dating right then, I was honest about why I had held back. I told him all of the good things I had felt and thought but that if I had dared bring them up in the past that I knew I would have run away from. He pointed out that every time he so much as indicated that we had a future that I would disappear in some manner. And then we became better friends. He has been my closest friend in Portland basically since we met and even though there was a point where we did not talk for months and I suspected we would never talk again, I still secretly put him down as my emergency contact because I knew he would be there.

And now he is my real and honest emergency contact number. As some of you know that has been my sadness of singleness, no one to call in the event of an emergency that was closer than 1,000 miles away. That is a lonely feeling (albeit dramatic).

I became open to love and thankfully Kyle was still open to sharing it with me. I could finally love him and invest my heart into being in a healthy, non-obsessive, less crazy-jealous (I’m improving!), kind, good, mutually respectful and accepting, kick-ass grown-up relationship.

And I don’t want or need a third chance. The books closed and I am not scared to say it. Well, not like I used to be.

p.s. I think it stopped raining, guess I’ll go to bed. It’s 3am and while this was my favorite hour when I was younger . . . I think I’ll say goodnight to the clouded moon and stars and hello to my new cuddly pillow.

The Rain in Spain Falls Mainly on the Plain . . . but the Rain in Portland? It Falls EVERYWHERE

It’s 2:04 in the morning and there is an unseasonal rain pouring outside my window. I love rain. It is one of the reasons I love Portland. People say all the time that I would probably love a break from the rain or wonder that I don’t miss the sun of sunny Southern California. Oh no, quite the contrary, I love the rainy days. Not to be mistaken with the stormy days, occasional icy days, wind or thunder storm days or the such. But a good rain, the kind that makes me wish I had a metal carport or tin roof to hear it bounce off of – that kind of rain. Right now I can hear it crash onto the lawn by my quad-plex apartment building– but I cannot see it. The downside to this apartment – I am “protected” from the rain. But I feel like I am missing out. In all my rooms before this there has been rain crashing on the window where I could watch it fall and dance. Listen to it and see the splattering patterns on the glass. But now I can just hear it and when I look outside and try to see over the bush, nothing.

I don’t actually know how seasonal or not this rain is. I don’t recall it raining like this the past two Augusts. And it is odd that a couple of days ago it was blazing hot – my fans are still in the windows. And then Monday? I had to break out my winter coat. Very odd indeed.

I told Kyle the other day that it is the wet and cloudy days that are most appealing to me and that I am much more likely to go for a walk on a day that drizzles than a gorgeous sunny one. He accused me of hating Vitamin D, but as I informed him, I take pills for that and thus, it is irrelevant if I spend the time out of doors. I know of course that it isn’t and when I do go for walks on beautiful non-sweltering hot days I am always happy but there is something amazing, calm and unique about days like yesterday or today.

When did this start? The other night I awoke to this horrific crashing noise. It lasted for what felt like at least a minute but was probably half that and it was terrifying, like a car wreck. Then silence. Eventually it roared again but not so terribly and then the rain came, falling sporadically but in a down pour each time.

I realize I have gone on in some length about rain – but I love it so much. I was lying in bed with my fancy new pillow that will supposedly improve my sleep (which is in great need of improvement) but the rain was too loud to ignore. It needed my attention and it deserved to be written about.

p.s. I still do not have the internet so it being posted much later than 2:16am, August 21, 2008 is explained by the fact that this is sadly a Word doc. But Sierra would be proud – I do not require the quick speed of the internet behind my screen to write.

London Baby - or maybe not . . .

As many of you know I have been trying to work it out so I can work in the UK next Spring. Yes this would extend graduate school but, uhm, I would live in London for 6 months so that makes it all okay in my mind. I have been doing all of this research and it is complicated because I want work in the social work field but of course my degree has issues and my experience blah blah - but I might be able to spin it (I did work in public relations) to make it work. But there is no guarantee and that application is expensive. In fact the price of everything seems to be going up - there are all of these new fees . . .

But that aside I realized that BUNAC (the agency that sets everything up) requires that you had 8 Units LAST spring and I only had 7. I took 9 over the summer and have 14 this fall . . . but that might not count because they don't really count summer. I have requested veriftication and hope that it clears and then I can decide more from there but - grrrrrr!!!!

Kyle still might go . . . he says I can visit, but I can't really because if I am staying then I am going to kick ass in school and make sure I can graduate Spring 2010 - even though in my program I still may not make it because it is really choose death by classes *17 units or something a term* or 3 years at a lower fulltime load. Meaning London or not I should be 2011.

Sigh. Sigh. Sigh.

Who knows.

Who needs a stupid airplane . . . (8/2008)

8/13/2008
Here I am at Burbank airport – super tired because I went to bed after 1:30 and woke up at 5:10 to make it to the airport for my 7am flight. Through a slight series of frustrating and unfortunate events, I missed my flight. Missing my flight is not the end of the world but I was upset because I thought there was better communication about the importance of leaving by a certain time – But I also thought that people were generally nice and not vicious, ignorant and mean at the airport. Strike two for this silly girl.

The Alaskan Airlines staff and even the Tully’s coffee shop lady were SO nice. It was the insanely mean and unhappy man who snapped at me in line. There is a chance he was part bulldog. I merely said, quite politely, “Hey you could sign in, those are open,” gesturing towards the two OPEN monitors that you sign into for your boarding pass. The ones that beckon you with words like: Sign In Here and Open. He leaned in towards me and said, ever so impolitely, “What’s your problem?” To which I replied. “I was just telling you that you could sign in.” “We’ve been here a lot longer than you.” “I see that, I was just pointing it out to be nice because a lot of people don’t know to do that.” What I should have said was. “To properly expedite the process you need to step forward and sign in or I will because my flight is leaving and you are a mean, mean man who is unnecessarily rude.” I then imaged he would try to attack me or start to yell at me and I would have to yell for security saying: THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME! THIS MAN IS HARASSING ME SOMEONE CALL SECURITY!” or, as he swings at me because he is not only part bulldog but mostly Neanderthal, I duck and yell that he is trying to assault me and he is tackled by other waiting passengers and arrested and then misses his flight (which is apparently international). But I figured that would take too long and, not yet knowing I had, that I would definitely miss my flight. I had considered saying, “You know, you don’t have to be such a rude person. It is really unnecessary.” But I did none of the above and he made sure to stand between me and both of the machines in front of me because his pea sized prehistoric brain could not comprehend that being a complete and utter jerk is not necessary, especially at 6:30 a.m. – and that is my morning thus far.

If Sloane Crosley & I Were Friends We Would TOTALLY Be BFFs

Whilst a brief trip to Powells Book Kingdom, the smaller Hawthorne sister store, I happened upon this book: I Was Told There'd Be Cake essays by Sloane Crosley. Now I have TRIED to switch to using the library, but my library has roughly 10 books and thus involves the act of ordering books from other libraries, or (God Forbid!!), heading down town to what is probably the biggest and most overwhelming library I have ever seen. The problem with THAT library is that it is both down town AND, again, the biggest and most overwhelming library I have ever seen. That being said I occassionally wander into the beauty that is Powells and try to stick to the books with little orange sale stickers on them. But there, nearly jumping out at me on the regular, not even center or end cap, but regular shelf was this book. I picked it up, looked at it and put it back. I wandered. It beckoned. So I picked it up, looked at it and somehow it slipped into my grasp and I HAD to purchase it and start reading it the moment I got on the bus.

Now, here is why we would be BFFs: Sloane Crosley has written my stories already. There certainly are some differences, and a certain degree of talent that exceeds my own, but she, like Douglas Coupland, has snuck inside my head and stolen my thoughts and put them on, now published, paper. She made me realize that most of what I actually write, versus most of what I think or simply journal, is really sort of sad. It is depressing and reflective. It is not ironic or quirky. Irony and quirk - they stay in my head and my moleskin journal.

I imagine she and I would have coffee, but irregularly as she seems to have the same friend problems as me - poor contact, out of the loop, a great re-connecter but not so great with the staying power there. She has her friends, but these are the ones that secretly became fringe-friends. Who she can love but never speak to. While it is a little different for me, it's out there. I get it. So there at coffee we would laugh about this. We would laugh about weird relationship things - like ponies (please read essay #1: The Pony Problem) and other such oddities. I would get her opinion on the books of essays that by then I will totally be writing. Did I mention we'd be laughing? And we would probably have mimosas (if it were early in the day).

So if Sloane Crosley and I were friends I would obviously be an author. Simple. True. Mildly nuerotic and unfeasible and really not a good reason to not currently be seeking authorship by the writing of illeged stories of hilarity that live in my head - but an excuse nonetheless.

Be well Sloane - BFF - maybe we could get those necklaces too.

BEST BIRTHDAY EVER

Yesterday was fantastic. I had the chance to see old friends - some that I literally had not seen since high school! I got to see family and laugh and play a new game introduced by the amazing and wonderful Jenny Smith (true name protected due to the WPP), called Bananagram. I may have had too much beer in the early evening so my lameness factor was increased, and I was probably a TAD bit annoying - but it settled down. There was a bounce house - which is always a bit of plasticy goodness. There was a lot of laughter, a lot of stories and really, all around, a lot of love. I could not have imagined such a great birthday. I am SOOOOOOOOOOOO thankful for the graciousness of my friends. You are incredible people!!! All I could think was - I want to have dinner parties with each of you . . . damn 1000 mile distances! There is just something about old friends that makes it different. Anbd meeting the people that my old friends love and brought into their life - and sharing the person I love with them. I am sounding redundant but I am just so keenly aware of how lucky I am.

Thanks everyone!!

Oh! And I realized that I am totally a grown up because multiple people brought me wine - I find this SO awesome.

Day 1 - post 30th Birthday

If you haven't noticed birthday's are kind of a big deal to me. See, I love them. For some people New Years represents this BIG chance for change and promises but for me, it's my birthday. Something about a clean slate coming with a new year. Technically you could decide on any old day to make big changes, or even little ones, that are note worthy and special. But for me . . . it has always been my birthday.

My traditions used to be to clean the house on the 7th so that when I woke up everything would feel nice. Now I have added to have a manicure, so I can feel girly. Most importantly I am adding - to spend time with friends and family which will lead to my next blog: BEST BIRTHDAY EVER.

I hope everyone had a happy birthday this year - or will for those who it will hit in the next 4+ some days month. It's a great thing to have a chance at change and to really recognize it. And coming from a girl who REALLY cannot handle small changes in the day to day sometimes, that's a big statement.

Wow! Instead of counting down - I’m counting up!

Here I am on the end of not only my 29th year, but my last day of being 29 and I feel like there should be something monumental in my head. I looked for some Turning 30 sort of birthday songs and there was one by TimMcGraw that I liked - although it did have to do with our lives slowing down etc., it seemed like 30 means it is time to stop and smell the flowers - but he did have some busy years in his 20s. But all I could find generally had to do with settling down or having your wife and kids and house. And again, don't have those. And I am . . . almost . . . okay with that. :)

So the last wise thoughts of my 29th year. Here goes:

I have learned that you can't undo the things you've done, so you should be thoughtful with your choices. Sometimes you (I) get second chances - and you should (I should) relally know what a blessing that is. Love IS real and possible. There is hope in almost any situation - even when there isn't. People are so strong and you are too. Kids make me so happy AND drive me crazy.

I am glad my 20s are over. I mean there is this part of me that says: NO! Not yet! But generally it is not only a new year, but a whole new decade. Time for the first number in my age to change over. I made a lot of mistake in my 20s and though I am sure I will make plenty in my 30s, I have learned from what I have done - who I have hurt - how I have been hurt - when I was insanely stupid, vulneralbe, gullible, lucky, blessed, happy, lonely and loved.

It's like I get to make a bouquet of flowers. All the flowers from my past lay before me and I can choose which ones to put into the vase. I will take the daisies and the sunflowers, those orange ones there, that blue one, oh no! take THAT one out and . . . You get it.

I still have not forgiven myself for all of my 20s but I HAVE to look at this as a new beginning. A new chance to love, live, share and show my friends and family how important they are. My words mean it, but my actions often don't show it (hello far-away friends - i REALLY think of you a lot but am . . . going to work on it).

So - here's to new beginnings! To my 30s!

You turn 30! Then tell me about it!

I was so excited. I thought - yay! A new decade! A new time of my life! I'm a grown up! This is great!

Hmmm. A week a way I am having some cold feet about turning 30. I know it is fine. I also know it is self and societal pressures that make me feel like I do. But it is little things. Elasticity in skin. Anti-wrinkle creams. Increased calcium. Things I really should have focused on since I turned like 27. Not married. No house. No kids. No MA degree - I will be like 32!! or 33!

And it IS okay, but it probably won't feel it for a little bit. And no, if you are not turning 30 or in your early 30s your opinion is not really counting. If you are like 23 you don't really get it. If you are like 35 you TOTALLY get that 30 is not bad and that good things happen and we come more into ourselves etc. That's why your positive opinions are not being invited into my mild freak out. :) Let me be irrational, but as of like August 15 you can totally chime in!

1 week and 3 hours and 22 minutes and it officially happens.

The party awaits. So does the future.

$153.00 (a rought draft vignette)

$153.00

She pours the pills into her right hand – rattling the bottle with her left. The sound of the medication dancing against the plastic orange bottle is better than she could have thought. The slow motion feeling had come back – she can always tell when it’s been past her drugging hour – the room doesn’t feel or even taste the same. She can inhale but it is like cotton on her tongue and her thoughts cling to the sides of her brain. Nothing seems right. Realizing that is what is holding up the day - holing her up in her apartment with eyes focused on the television set, remote control in one and coffee in the other hand – she moved to the desk to tear open those white pharmacy bags. Setting each bottle atop the desk she felt a strange comfort in these manufactured feelings and hopes with an RX address.

Bottle 1: RX 1045640-03890

Bottle 2: RX 1045639-03890

Bottle 3: RX 1055935-03890

Bottle 4: RX 1032583-03890

The remaining, over the counter, drugs don’t contain the same sort of feeling as the ones dressed in orange. As if the color of the bottle makes the medicine – the way that a woman is more attractive in pink satin than green taffeta. The drugs haven’t calmed her hands or helped the synapses meet like they should – they are still crashing into some damaged interior wall in her mind.

Texture has always been a strange sort of trigger – flashes of taffeta connect where the chemistry should be catching. Taffeta is crinkly and even feels shiny, but an ugly 6th grade graduation dress shiny. Hers was blue but if the light switched the color changed to black. Bought downtown in the Los Angeles garment district she owned her first and last article of taffeta clothing. And now 18 years later she can feel it in her hand, the netted slip scratch against her thighs, the puffed 1990 sleeves hugged people’s chests long before her arms actually reached them. Bette Midler and her first pink roses adorned with baby’s breath crack in and out of focus as she waits for the drugs to take effect.

2008. She has put $153.00 onto her credit card to settle the demons – medication to bring her to some form of comfort and reality. How can it be reality if it has to exist in the confines of manufactured calm and chemically controlled depression and anxiety? If something is forced into her brain to prevent her crazy from coming out – like her own weapons of minor destruction defending her against herself – how is that reality?

She returns to the couch. The joyful sound of dancing pills and plastic washed away by the feeling of helplessness, of being owned by something she pays for every month, overwhelms her. The drugs don’t win against the depression today, so even though she survives another day not dead, she thinks she is barely living. Because what is living if she is most excited about orange bottles and not humans or the smell of orange flowers and trees?

She picks up her coffee with one and the remote with the other hand.

Welcome Back!!

I am reintroducing this blog! It is a step away from the land of myspace and where I will post significantly better things . . . or things at all. So look for the new - the improved!!