taking a second look

Two days before the skunk incident (as reported in the entry just below this one), I was sitting outside. I was engaging in what is a newly-established habit for me of smoking at least one cigarette per day mindfully. Some other day I might get around to yakking more about the interesting experiences I've had via my participation in a University of Wisconsin Health Clinics research project on the effects of mindfulness and yoga/relaxation on smoking cessation, but for now, I was seated on the cement front porch at KD's place - mindfully inhaling, making note of which part of my tongue felt what, watching what my hands were doing, yadda.

There are at least three neighborhood indoor/outdoor cats in KD's neighborhood: A tuxedo, a tabby and another one that (coincidentally?) looks a lot like my FartieArtie. While I sat there on KD's porch I noticed the Artemis-looking cat curled up beneath a tree, sleeping soundly in that certain way that only a cat can circularly sleep.

Though I didn't realize this at the time, I must've been looking for some serious distraction - I hoped for something to take my mind away from my less-than-great habit, something new & different to turn my attention TO... hey, why not make pals with the sleeping cat?! YEAH! I called out to the little sleeping circular cat "Kiiiii-tttttyyyy! Wake uuuuuuuup little kittyyyyyyy. Want some petting? I'll pet you if you'll come ooooooo-oover hereeee".

Kitty stayed right where she was. 'She must be a good sleeper', I figured. I called to her again a couple of times, both with similar results. Kitty cared very little for me or for my desire to escape the mindfulness exercise. Kitty stayed very certainly put.

Not one particularly interested in ruining the good rest of another slumbering soul, I left her alone with high hopes of returning my mind to a calm open broad calm space of contemplation and relaxation. Then my mind hopped off its stool and meandered off again, taking me far and away down ghoulish pathways where mean people do terrible things to indoor/outdoor neighboorhood cats and the cats just die out on the curbside, right there where people don't even see them because they think the cat is sleeping. Like... how I think the cat is sleeping right now. And the more I tried to convince myself that I should leave her alone and just let the sleeping cat lie, the more image passed through my brain of the possible tragedies that may have befallen the sweet little critter.

I was way past mindful cigarette smoking at this point - this was life or death and I was out to save a vulnerable cat. I called to her a final time and when again she didn't move, I stepped up off the porch to come closer to her in hopes of learning more (but please god not too much. I don't need it graphic if something bad has happened, really I don't) about why the cat wasn't responding to my calls.

As I rounded the tree it became instantly clear why kitty wasn't waking up.
Kitty, as it were, was actually a big knob of tree root at the base of a curbside tree.

I was talking to the rootball on the back side of a tree.
Great. Super!

I suppose the good news tucked inside all my crazy cat seeingness is that a.) no cats HAVE died recently, including Artie, and b.) it is cheap and harmless fun. I didn't get skunked and other than the slight embarrassment of admitting the way my brain occasionally [read: frequently] misfires, it's all good.

Cats, cats, everywhere cats

I’m not sure what it is lately, but I’ve been seeing cats in strange places.  I’ve been seeing them everywhere.

Maybe the fact that we just celebrated the 16th birthday of our oldest cat along with my son’s 16th birthday (yesterday, in fact) is weighing in somewhere deep inside my subconscious, bringing Artie’s kittenhood to the forefront of my active thinking.  More than those early fuzzball years, when J. would toss Cheerios over the edge of the high chair tray to the tiny purring mouth far below, I watch Artemis make calculated decisions to or not to leap up onto the high places that used to be easy jumps for him and ultimately, I consider the approaching end of his life and what effect that will have in our household.

Two nights ago I sat outside on my front porch in the dark.  The sky was surprisingly bright for all the light pollution in my particular neighborhood, in my particular city.  The air was so cool, so crisp a reminder to me that despite the sweaty summer, autumn is fast approaching.  From the far left and behind a bush, a wayward pumpkin vine, numerous perennials and the three clumps of daylilies that have caught their orangey third wind this season, I peripherally noticed a cat poking its nose around some sunflower plants.  She had a coat similar to our middle cat Puppy, who is a dark coated, and somewhat dimwitted but always loveable Tortie.

“Heeeeereeeee kitty.  C’mere kitty”, I stage whispered across the garden.  I was interested in making a connection – to the cat, not to neighbors I might inadvertently wake by cat calls.  Kitty stopped sniffing around, but she didn’t make any movement indicating she wanted to be friends.  I made soft low clucking noises to her.  What appeared to be her head rose up to sniff the air, but she wouldn’t come closer.  

When my six or seven further attempts at “Here kitty kitty” and clucking to the frightened cat over the next ten minutes didn’t produce any signs of confidence, I decided to move me closer to her.  Bridge the gap, so to speak.   I quietly padded across the strip of sidewalk onto the wet grass and neared the daylilies where she was hiding, then immediately retreated.

Sweet little shy kitty who wasn’t responding to my love calls was, in fact, a skunk.  

I must admit to the whoosh of the adrenaline rush as well as the Homeresque ‘D’oh!’, but I was awfully gratefully for having met the one who was kind enough to give me ample time to get myself out of the way before she had to do what comes naturally when feeling threatened.

little fish in a small pond

"A recent checkup showed [President Bush] is arguably the healthiest Chief Executive ever. His secret? Daily exercise and near total disengagement with reality."
-Jon Stewart

Beautiful sister

Butterflies are free (and, if you give them a lil sugah, they're also easy)

Photo Op

In a strange Six Degrees of Separation kind of way, I was introduced to the art director of a popular local weekly paper at the wedding of yet more friends-of-friends several weeks ago. KD suggested to me that I send the photos I shot at the wedding along to her. My internal response was something along the lines of 'no fucking way. She is Someone; I am Not', though my thoughts rarely include curse words so I may have made that one word up while typing this.

At any rate, I thought more about it, said 'mmm, yeah I suppose I could. It'd be good practice for being polite in the face of ridicule and guffaws. Sure, why not?'. So I sat down with the digital images I'd shot, cropped and cleaned them up a bit, then sent them along, attached to an email that said "Thought you might like to see pictures from the wedding. Please feel free to pass them along to any other folks who might like to see them" She responded with a lovely note that said she thought they were great, she thanked me for sending them to her and added that she'd send them on to The Bride (a photographer by trade). I felt instantly shy, but I was proud of myself for having successfully overcome the negative What are you doing?? Are you nuts?
thoughts long enough to follow through on something that I knew on a gut level would be welcomed and, I reassured myself, the photos weren't THAT horrible.


I was visiting a close friend in Washington D.C. last week when I received an email with the subject line 'Isthmus Photo Assignment'. It was a note from the art director, who wrote that she liked how I had no qualms about getting the angle I was looking for at the wedding and that she liked the end results. There would be a group playing at a local joint [which used to be a cigar bar until the very recent city smoking ban ordinance was passed, but that's a whole 'nother bag of butts and is, perhaps, best left for another entry]. Would I be available to take pictures of them to accompany the upcoming music column?

Given that it was nearly 2:00 a.m. I decided against issuing out a whoop of overexcited delight, mostly to spare my hosts from being forced to sleepily celebrate this unexpected good fortune with me. I worked out a response that I hoped would sound confident, easy, relaxed. 'Don't be overeager about this, you'll look completely desperate', I chided myself.

One email exchange later, I had the details I needed and she had my agreement to shoot Machiavellian Machine, a techno-ambient electronic musical duo. I had a day and a half to go through the shots, weed out the best from the truly sucktastic, then get an acceptable product back to her. With slight concern about the short turnaround time and my general sense of organized chaos, I woke unconscionably early on Tuesday to ensure a rush-free zone because those are the times I tend to pull my cart (uphill) while leaving the horse standing in the stable. Later Tuesday morning, like when regular people are awake, I received a response to the double batch of photos I'd sent along: The photos were great - I'd captured real feeling in the shots. She also asked for my address so she could send me a check for my work and thanked me again for taking on the assignment.

I was tempted to do that whole 'they like me! They really like me!' routine. It didn't matter to me if anyone ever asked me to shoot photos for them ever again, I'd been given the opportunity to experience the process once, and that was swell.

Yesterday I received another email from the art director. It bore the subject line 'Isthmus photo assignment'. I thought for a moment that she'd accidentally resent her original email to me, so I quickly scanned the short email message while simultaneously considering how to respond with an OOPS message - something along the lines of either "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I think I may have received this in error", or "Grab yourself a cup of caffeine sistah, you're sending outdated emails".

But it was a new request - for an upcoming assignment later this week.
Holy wow. I was truly surprised!

Now I have a new dilemna ... I keep thinking I really can't keep using the fairly outdated Fuji Finepix S5000 I bought several years ago and have been using on a near-daily basis ever since. Not when the camera of my dreams is out there, just waiting for me. Or the big girl's little sister, also a camera I wouldn't kick out of bed for eating crackers. I'm craving a hi-res camera with more functions and lens adaptability. Me want. Me want. Me want. Me will have to wait a little while longer.

Crabby crab crab

Scheduling ourselves has become a very complicated thing as we launch into these days that grant us the earliest whiffs of autumn.

This evening while ripping through a late dinner, KD and I discussed my upcoming school schedule, a trip she's planning that we had hoped we'd both be able to take, the impending arrival of my manchild back to the state after his vacation to visit Dad's side of the family up nort, ya hey dere ... I wondered to myself 'how did we suddenly become so busy?'.

Though we disagree on very little, we don't always agree on what should be the most important thing, my gal and I. I've been through the burning fires of nighttime feedings, the earliest fledgling days of cries and gurgles and stitches to his mouth which came the one day I wasn't watching closely enough and he whacked his face on my bed frame: all these things that have gone into forging my maternal relationship to my kid. I absolutely do not fault her for not having a constant clinging cobweb of parental guilt hanging over her head like the stormcloud-for-one I seem to stand beneath. Rather, I love her all the more for trying so hard to understand my perspective, and moreso - for loving me despite it.


Now that he's nearly 16, maybe I should focus a little more intently on letting my kid go; maybe I should focus on being nearby. Maybe I should remove all the alcohol in the house in preparation for the day he suddenly develops a taste for something throat burningly room temperature. Maybe I should put him in one of those newfangled playpens (sure, call it a Pack n' Play if you want, but c'mon, we both know it's simply a glorified, wordified playpen), complete with the breathable mesh zippered lid to keep him from climbing out. It's for HIS safety, after all. Yeah yeah yeah, the idea that locking him down is primarily to serve his safety, but my contantly worrying mother mind finds the concept consoling.

Needless to say, my main concerns about the upcoming travel plans initially circled like vultures primarily over the kid. He will be starting his junior year in high school which by definition automatically marks him as no babe in the woods, but I worried: what kind of responsible-appearing mother leaves her kid home so she can have a fun birthday cake eating visit with the out-laws? Would I be able to sit with these people I'm still just in the beginning stages of getting to know as Family when the specter of my child's image floats around me, index finger pointed accusingly?

I was surprised at how long it took me to connect various other scheduling issues into the melee of chattering brain monkeys, but a few days ago it occurred to me that I will also be in school in a matter of weeks. When I thought of this it was 3:00 a.m. and I was lying in the dark, in the Baseball-slash-Guest Room at my friend's home in Arlington, Virginia. I didn't have the copy of my class schedule with me and couldn't do a thing about it so, instead, I turned the Discman volume up just a little higher, rolled over to my other side and hoped I'd remember this issue long enough to check the details when I returned home. A-yup, I've got classes on Thursdays and Fridays, both. Shit. I had forgotten that I'd scheduled that digital photo class for Fridays. Shit.

So tonight, between dinner and my house, my favorite gal (ooh, I think I'll call her MFG now, what a nice ring that has!) and I tried to figure out how all these flagrantly unmatched schedules (hers/mine/his/ours) are going to work out together. I don't go along with her to her family gathering... Check. Neither of us are particularly thrilled about my cancellation, but I do feel grateful and I have a sense of relief for having examined my initial guilty hesitations in some depth. What's more, I won't be double-booking my calendar accidentally - or worse, purposefully - in order to try to make everybody happy. Sometimes things just don't work out the way we hope. It happens and, generally speaking, we live to tell about it.

MFG had a long day today, with some unexpected twists and turns that had her feeling crabby, she said. Once we had waded through school calendars and came to realize that I wouldn't be able to travel with her as she/we'd hoped, she got just the tiniest bit crabbier, poor gal.

But she hung in like a trooper - well, not a military trooper because that image is way too formal and involves weapons - just a loving kind trooper who surprises her girlfriend with roses, just because girlfriend arrived home and was missed. That kind of trooper. We waited to claim the long legged baggage that is my child at the bus depot, and once his bus arrived we zipped home. Shortly thereafter Kid drove off with his friend, and MFG & I were left to do some late-night grocery shopping (while the boy was gone I hadn't powershopped like the provider of a male teenage mouth must do on a semi-regular basis; it had to be done).

One of the items on KD's grocery list was canned crab meat. We hemmed and hawed about which of the three varieties of two available brands would be best ...
'are the expensive cans better meat?'
'that one only has eight ounces in the pack, this one is twelve ounces.'

She picked the largest can (you can buy a pound of canned crab meat at the local grocery. who knew?) and we made our way through the aisles as hastily as possible.

When it came time to check out, the clerk swiped the can across the scanner. The can price rang up as $9.50 (give or take a few cents). I asked my gal, 'wasn't that price marked at $8.99 back on the shelf?'. She'd had a long day, she was crabby (and I'd perpetuated the feeling somewhat); this was late night for her -- as much as I wanted to fight in the name of accurate pricing, I also totally understood how ridiculous this could seem to someone who is not-me. Really, who the fuck cares about a 50 cent difference?

The freckle-faced clerk said he'd take over bagging if the bagger dude would go back to doublecheck the shelf price. KD and I chatted away as the clerk scanned and bagged the rest of her items. Bagger Dude returned, mumbling 'Eight ninety nine'.
DING! I did remember that correctly! I can't remember what I'm doing from day to day but hallelujah, I can remember the shelf price on a can of crab meat.

Clerk was about to go back into the register tape to review the scanned price when I noticed a sign next to the ATM swiper machine and quickly interrupted him. "Say, does that mispriced can count in this 'if you are charged incorrectly for an item and you bring it to our attention, the item is free' deal?" He thought for a few seconds and responded that yes, yes indeed it does. He'd forgotten about that program. After all, he said, it's not like the higher-ups at the store like to remind staff to actually catch errors or encourage customers to do the same.

So the $8.99 can of crab meat came to KD totally free, making my previously crabby girlfriend quite smiley indeed. In noticing and standing up for her mispriced can I certainly couldn't have erased her sense of disappointment at my trip cancellation but I hope I was able to adequately communicate that even during our crabbity crab crab times I'll have her back.

Tunes for wing-walking

As much as traveling completely excites my electrons and my sometimes napping restlessness, I'm not terribly fond of the thirteen million others traveling with me.

Strangers, to be more clear, are strange.

I have a thing about sharing my body space with people I've never laid eyes on until the awkward moment we meet while tossing our bags about, grasping for a book or a pillow while shoving the unnecessaries out of our way.

I'm not sure what the fabulous Universe is trying to teach me about men and fear, but I seem to have a peculiar knack for being seated next to (probably otherwise very sweet) nervous single male fliers. The foot-tapping, nail biting, fidgeting praying eyes shut men who would never admit to the fellas at the club to having kissed that golden crucifix dangling from a gold chain (and no longer hiding under their business shirt) while summarily kissing their own asses goodbye, just in case. But there it is, my dumb luck and the Universe's amusing little sense of wry humor.

I don't mind sharing the space that exists between the hair on his arms and the hair on mine, but there seems to be a slightly discourteous attitude that accompanies nervous fliers which causes them to completely forget courtesy in the midst of their unravelling. You see, if they're going to be sharing any part of my body at all, my unspoken rule is that they're going to have to make eye contact with me at least once before we buckle ourselves in for the adventure. And it would behoove them to make the eye contact right off the bat because I WILL have eye contact before we land, dammit. I will talk, I will ask questions, I will counter-wiggle against his shifting nervousness and silently mouthed praying ('oh god, I really wanted to date that woman from the next floor up. Please just let me live and I promise I'll talk to her. Please lord, do not ignore this plea, please let me live and land safely and I'll fuck her in the name of all the saints, if that will please you and get me from here to there and back safely').

Pray all you want, sweetieboy, but until you look me in the eyeballs and exchange one simple pleasantry with me -just one!- I will make your nervewracking trip something out of a Hitchcock film, I swear I will. Try me. Wanna know exactly how many times I can have to get up to use the airplane bathroom in two hours? Keep not looking at me and you'll certainly find out.

Pretend I'm not there, will you? Fine. I hope that wasn't an engine falling out just now, did you hear that noise? Naw, probably not the engine. Maybe just a thingie that is supposed to be underneath one of the wings. See how that works?

Where was I? Oh, yes. Sharing body space. We don't have to exchange personal details, nor will I expect a greeting card from you to let me know you've remembered my birthday. I won't follow you in your dreams, mocking your terror of the friendly skies ...

That's all. Yes, that's it, the whole shebang. I'll pop in the earbuds to my discman and go merrily on my photographic playtime way. Just please very simply admit I exist.

Pardon me, but I have a banana in my ear

EROTICA! - Wet, salty and delicious You are driven
to excite the reader into a literal froth with
your literary talents! You are a connoisseur of
the carnal side of humanity from Kink to
high-speed BJs in the front seat of a speeding
jag! Sex is GOOD. Penthouse and the Internet
after dark are your inspirations!


What Kind of Novel Should I Write?
brought to you by Quizilla

the act of the break

McBeth.

One of the hardest things in life is having words in your heart that you can't utter.

-James Earl Jones

... you know you want to.

Lost in the storm

McBeth.

once again, the neighbor children called upon me today to help them rescue the local fauna.

Though the stories all sound slightly different (insert slightly skeptical furrowed brow here), the basic story goes that the nest was found upended underneath a tree, with two other babies already dead. One of the girls said it looked like the mama bird was trying to kill one of these remaining live young, which could have been mama bird trying to *save* the baby by returning it to the nest. The kids apparently tucked these two new hatchlings into a shoe overnight for safekeeping but freaked today when they ran out of bird babysitting ideas. Yanno, like how does one feed something this small with no feathers and no eyes, this thing that cannot even hold its head up on its own. I'd freak too if I was seven years old.

At any rate, we've had some whopper storms - severe storm warnings, tornado warnings, the works - the past few days (followed by killer heat today) and the very nice intake lady at the Humane Society said that they'd been taking in lots of bird babies the past couple of days who had been experiencing the same unfortunate results as did these two wee ones.

Hope

McBeth.

Such a funny intangible thing it is, hope.

Most of us carry some of it around in tiny invisible pockets, buttoned securely to our hearts, always right there in case we need to slip it out to touch it caress it remember it reidentify it.

If you grow crops, it is likely that at least some of your pocketed hopes involve that which you have absolutely no power over - wind and weather. Weeks of unending dryness can rattle your hope like a racking cough. Will these dry days ever end? I hope some rain will fall soon. Dark skies come as a sparkling signal of potential goodness.

I find it a difficult task to remain true to my hope. It is much easier to morph into whatever seems most flexible, most content in the now than to check into my little pocket to remember what it is that I truly hope for.

But every time - EVERY time - I neglect my hopes, they find a mysterious way of creeping into my day to day life. In discontented feelings, in frustration, in my aggressiveness and defensiveness. Every time I deny them, my hopes find a way of demanding acknowledgement.

I'm learning not to say 'no, I don't really have hopes'. Because I really do. They're there. They exist.

Dial A Cliché to the rescue

In those rare occasions during which I am feeling verbally lackluster, unable to put the cartoonish thought bubbles together with real live fiery communicative words, it can become a slightly spirit-lifting (or, perhaps, spirit leveling -depending on how desperately one needs a lifesaving cliche to fit a bill and then how poorly it stands under the scrutiny) test to turn to Dial A Cliché for a tiny palate cleansing taste of inspiration.

Thinking that my cartoon thought bubble neuropathy had something to do with a sprain in my decision-making lobe, I headed directly to the category 'For When You Cannot Make A Decision', wherein lay the golden nugget I'd sought:

If it doesn't come naturally, leave it

OF COURSE! THAT is what I've been missing all this time, leaving things alone! The dirty dishes, the laundry, the vacuuming, the dusting, the dried-up grass cat pukeballs, the kitchen floor crumb-combo-cat hair layer, the stacks of unread mags, the still larger stacks of unopened mail, the clutter, AND my wordlessness -- I should be leaving them alone, untackled, because for heaven's sake none of them feels natural to address.

Only ... um, well that's exactly what I have(n't) been doing for months now. Oh I have with near religious university science department fervor observed them each, collectively, mounting, growing, morphing. But I've done little to nothing about any of them, with the possible exceptions of 'ignore', 'pretend to not see', and quite possibly the additional 'swallow my feelings of revulsion/alarm'.

Obviously, that cliché has gone the way of so many over-hunted, over-eaten delicacies that now line the extinction charts. New cliché; I need a new one.

I'm trying to figure out where my words went; I'm trying to understand why I can't get a solid grip on all the things I can't get a solid grip on. And I'm certain there must be a cliché that will explain the phenonema. Hmm, this category seems to fit: 'When you are trying very hard and not having any success'.
Aaaahh, here it is:

If at first you don't succeed, redefine success.

How to redefine these glaring omissions of daily personal care and activities?
Well, I might not have opened the mail for going on two months, but nearly ALL the mail previous to that time has seen the sharp side of the letter opener. (hey, this is interesting. Makes me feel tingly.)

Ooh Ooh Ooh - that was good, let's do another! mmm... I may have a contant sludging flow of dirty dishes stagnating near the kitchen sink however I have not resorted to using the antique platter that is stored in the bottom bin of the oven for serving macaroni and cheese, nor have I brought out the Easter egg style Jell-O Jigglers molds to be used in place of the grubby ice cube trays. (wheee! I think I'm liking this! It's so easy!)

Don't stop me now! Three cats' worth of tracked litter, hairballs and barfed-up grassballs is so much better non-managed than, say, six cats' worth. Just think how messy that would be; my floors are positively sparkling in comparison! (I think I need a private moment here - this is a reverential experience I'm having. Do I have a glow? Can you see my Holy Glow?)


I'm positively giddy.
I've turned over a whole new leaf.
I'm a blushing bride.
I'm happy as a schoolgirl.
etc.
etc.
etc.
blahblahblah, yadda yadda.

Nothing like a good cliché to purge the demons. In fact I feel so swell I think I'll just pull over a stack of years-old magazines and put my feet up for a few. Aaahhhhh...

North Carolina roadside wildflowers

I am part canine

McBeth.

I have been scanning old family photographs in hopes of one day being able to provide each of my sibs and other interested kin with a photographic collection of the few pictures we have remaining between us.

This photograph makes me grin each and every time I look at it. To the left, my maternal great-grandfather Clyde. To the right, his brother (whose name currently escapes me. But I do have it written down. Somewhere. Really. I do).

I'm fairly sure my great-grandfather was part bulldog. Cute bulldog, of course, but probably growly and drooly and occasionally (!) ill-tempered.

sweet sarah sighing

I think of her and prepare to weep.

She's right, you know.
A good hour and twelve precise minutes of pre-dawn clarity for whatever that's worth and then, too quickly, the world returns its lusty blustery frustrating gristing wrestling flexing and bending but so slowly ending ways.

4:48 Psychosis

Kane could have written 22:48:00 Psychosis since truly the one hour and twelve exacting minutes of sanity in a day requires the broadest tone-deaf tongueless accuracy one can muster. Details perceived - painfully clear interactions unavoidably read and real - words cannot bind them together faithfully.

The fragility of the ant thorax, no less amazing than ceaseless noiseless REM that fogs in the airport, shutting it and the town, hell, the entire tri-county region directly unavoidably down once Seroquel trickles into the fuel tank.

How do I go?
How do I go?
How do I go?

There was a film crew in Madison today working on the upcoming movie The Last Kiss (due out 2006). Apparently the film is supposed to be set here in town but they're cutting corners in their budget by filming spots and scenes here for building/product placement type stuff then they're leaving us with a flourish for some place in Canada where it's cheaper to continue the rest of the filming.

Ha. I say all this crap as though I'm somehow in the know. Honestly, I had no idea any of this was going on ahead of time, but got to chatting with blanketmates when KD and I arrived at our spread and I learned all these fascinating details. Before the Concert on the Square even began I was itching to leave our space and meander away where there were fewer people per square foot. So I broke away from the growing crowd up on the capital square to find the film crew folks in front of the City County building (on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd, for those familiar).

Who knows, this scene probably isn't supposed to be v. funny ... Rachel's character says "but..but...Michaelll. MICHAEL!" and she runs off camera.

I know nuffink about filming but after she did the "MICHAEL! MICHAEL!" screaming, and then did it like 8 times more, again and again and again, it sorta started to crack me up. Audibly. And I would have gone to look for Michael if she'd just asked me.

papayas and people

"The magic is inside you. There ain't no crystal ball."
-Dolly Parton

THe Ninja Turtles never had such specialized sofa pillow shells Jordan and Dominick, archival edition circa 1993