Lust: A Christmas Tutorial

December 22, 2012 by 7 Comments

The youth group has a question box.  You can put a question in and the leaders will take a little time on Wednesday evening to answer it.  Several weeks ago, someone asked if the word lust had only to do with sex.  Pretty good question.

Did I forget to mention that only men are allowed to teach mixed groups of people at our church?

Yeah.

So the person, who answered this, answered in the negative; that there is also a lust for power.  His example, people who run for public office.  Regardless of political party.

That was all.

It has troubled me for the entire time, that he didn’t talk about all the other drives of the flesh that we indulge.

I tried to bring the example of the desire to drive the “then-new-to-me” car on the road between Target and an adjoining suburb.  It features tight curves and ever-so-slight banking in a spot or two.  This vehicle is made to handle well and this little spot of perhaps a half mile is a delightful opportunity to sample that.  Really delightful.

Apparently, that was interpreted as me wanting to brag about the car.

I was interrupted and ignored.

There are a number of kinds of lust.  I avoided blogging it because, they’ll all find out soon enough and it was just me taking it personally.

So, in the spirit of taking it personally, I’m blogging it now.  Because I have a bad case.

You see, I have a cookbook collection.  Not like I am trying to build a library that will be donated for public use when I die.  But to use. Each one has a story and a reason.  I have hard and fast rules for selection, that even I don’t know.  I know when I see them.  I experience a kind of feeling of awe sometimes when I find a certain one.

I digress.

For Christmas, I started a little project.  I bought cookbooks for some kids (5) I love.  They are like nieces and nephews. Sort of.  Thing.

There’s the great used book store here, and I got in the cookbook section and found six (6) treasures.  I can’t decide which book to give which kid.  Because I want two (2) of them for myself.

Two.

Two.

 

Want them.

Both.

Want.

A lot.

So I’m sitting here trying to wrap gifts and looking through the books, especially the ones I want, but then I glanced through the one that was most expensive.  Now, I want it, too.

That’s what made me remember.

Lust.

Desire.

Well-engineered cars,

Cookbooks that take my breath away,

Fine leather goods, like handbags, wallets, belts and…

Yesterday, I was doing a little shopping.

I wanted to buy something for someone who reads this blog.  Who I’m responsible for dressing.  The cost was a little ambitious.  I got a little angry.

Because I wanted what I wanted.  And felt it was out of reach.

Non-essential.

There may have been some pouting.  I’m not scared, though.  Santa and I are on shaky terms right now (it’s another post).

Desire.

I’m not as tired as I was and I think I’m going back.

To be excessive in the essentials.

Lavish.

Soliciting for real connection through some other means.

Please.

Any self-respecting first-world woman, knows I’m talking about boots.

Two pair of size ten black leather riding boots.

Mm.

Mm.

Mm.

And I might buy a hot drink (with some kind of froth or something) while I’m out.

What do you say?  Is lust just a sexual term?  What do you hope Santa will slather all over you this Christmas?

 

 

 

Filed Under: blogging, cars, Christmas, Cooking, Extended Family, Holidays, humor, Talking about Sex, Uncategorized Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,

Community Amenities: Use at Your Own Risk

September 18, 2012 by 2 Comments

Then one day(in 1995)…by the pool.

The usual suspects were on hand.  It was warm, but the shadow of the building was moving our way.  About 30 people chattered away.  The gate opened.  A well-chiseled man in rainbow leopard print workout pants came in.  He moved the lounge chair near the pool and dropped the pants.  He wore…

a thong.

Nobody moved.  Nobody breathed.  Nobody looked at anyone else.

30 minutes sunning on one side.

A dip in the pool.

30 minutes on the other side.

He got up and left.

The gate clanged shut;

Thirty people exhaled for the first time in an hour.

The party resumed.

But none of us would ever forget.

Because you can’t wash your brain.

Filed Under: humor, my age, Story, Uncategorized

Gritty By Grace

September 10, 2012 by 6 Comments

When I was little, we moved off the farm and into the city and mom made me wear dresses all the time.  Short ones.  Remember Cindy Brady?  That short.

I wanted jeans.  The cousin, who supplied all my clothes, passed down a pair of embroidered jeans.  I wore them until they disappeared.  When I was in 6th grade, my mom bought me a pair of ‘straight leg’ jeans. In seventh, Hazel took me shopping to dress me like I belonged to someone. I came home with Calvin Klein Jeans.  Shortly, I’m not exactly sure when, Levi’s Shrink-to-Fit 501s came in style.

And stayed awhile.

Through the years, my mom did a lot of things to give me a better education than she’d had.  We lived in better neighborhoods with better schools.  She kept me in church; finally finding the Episcopalians, with alcohol in church and being cool with divorce and incredible networking.  I sang in their whizbang choir and my fellow singers were from the best neighborhoods and attended the best private schools.  We attended the arts festival for the egg rolls.  We went to the ballet.  We ate at the Magic Pan and shopped (without buying) at high fashion shops.

It was bread and meat to a girl who couldn’t have extra-curriculars because working moms couldn’t pick kids up from practices and needed to spend their money on nachos and vodka (that’s her story and she’s sticking to it).

When I was about 11, this guy decided he was going to get to her by spoiling me (WRONG TREE!!! WRONG TREE!!!).  He profiled me– reader, straight As, wearing rags but knows where Balliet’s is.  And sent me subscriptions to Smithsonian and W.

When I began to dress myself I was strictly tailored.

My soul wears navy blue and pearls. It believes the rules are there to help us live like civilized human beings. Manners are to help others feel comfortable; not to manipulate them into pretending you aren’t being ungracious (Target Line Cutter Lady, I am talking to you). Education doesn’t stop at the 3 Rs, but extends to the arts and culture.

When I was in high school, I heard stories of wild parties.  I never was invited to one.

I dated a college guy at the end of my senior year.  On the outside, he was all conservative Republican, Son of a Fundamentalist Preacher.  On the inside, he was a monster.

Navy blue and pearls girl may have gotten a little damaged.

Lesson learned: The outside is for your mama, the preacher, and the person who watches rated R movies but condemns people who curse. The inside is what you are.  It’s what monsters want to destroy.

One day when I was wearing my navy blue and pearls, my jeans got a little rip.  I liked the little rip. Eventually, I’d find a best friend whose jeans had a little rip, too.

When I was in college, I wore my Rockies or my Wranglers when I was feeling like flying my freak flag. Which good girls aren’t supposed to have. But I do.

Jesus knows about the freak flag.

He made it, so I would not have to carry my own books.

I lavishly adore buttoned down; it goes so well with barefoot, ripped jeans, and hair loose.

Because grace is sometimes gritty and perfect love sometimes sees you in your lucky pants.

 

 

I am linking this post with PYHO @ Things I Can’t Say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: before and after, humor, life lessons, my childhood, where I'm from

Seige Day:72 It Feels So Good to Be Right

August 10, 2012 by 4 Comments

I’m not right often, but when I am,

I AM TOTALLY OBNOXIOUS.

I was right, weeks ago, when I predicted that the One Direction obsession would cease about the time Choir Camp took place.

There was a glimmer of hope the week before when the, then already-grounded, young, “liar-pants-on-fire” ones, glimpsed this on the TV in a fast food joint:

 flickr: creative commons*

I thought that would be the end of it, but they are grounded, and I can’t use the TV to keep the distraction going.

My moment was coming. Tuesday evening, after a second exhausting day of choir camp.

SHE WENT IN HER ROOM AND TOOK ALL THE ONE DIRECTION PICS OFF THE WALL AND SAID,

“The boys at Friday school are much cuter!”

That’s my baby!

Now, tell Mama who’s RIGHT!!!

Me.

That would be: Me.

Yes, Me.

Me.

Look.  I told you in the second line I was obnoxious.  Once again, delivering as promised.  NO ACCIDENT.

 

 

 

 

*British diver, Tom Daley.  Photo:An Honest German

Filed Under: before and after, Being Right, humor, Olympics, One Direction, Parenting Teens, Tom Daley

Grounded. Together.

August 6, 2012 by 2 Comments

If you’re new here, and I hope at least 50 or more of you are, my blog is to record things I want my children to know.  Now that my face is actually blue, I need a transcript, so when they say, “WHY DIDN”T YOU TELL ME!!!”  I can say, “See, Honey, I tried.

Another function of the blog is to give a gentle heads-up to the parent of young children.  A significantly filtered look into the future.  An opportunity to prepare, but not enough information to scare.

Or whatever.

This is the first time the girls are completely grounded.  There have been times we’ve removed certain privileges, but never an across the board “cultural lockdown.”

Here is why.

There’s this wise-sounding piece of parenting advice that reminds parents not to punish themselves.

That is wrong and deceptive.

First, that ship sailed when the pee hit the stick.

Second, If you aren’t willing to be inconvenienced to make an impression on your child’s heart and mind, you will visit judgement upon your future self in the form of the kind of sludge I am shoveling now.  It shows what is most important…the child’s character or getting to girls’ night.

–leave Target and take her “I’ll-by-gosh-have-this-Barbie-or-know-the-reason-why” tantrum throwing butt to the car.  Text your husband to bring you a magazine and a hot black coffee and whatever was on your list.

–cancel the play date, skip the birthday party: tell the mom, “Sorry.”  If she asks why, she’s rude.  You can’t make it.

–call the coach and tell him you are missing practice.  Yeah, I said it.  Another day, I’ll climb on my soapbox about young athletes thinking they’re above the law.  Not today.

I count on the above activities as a break from being the organ grinder’s monkey who has to perform if they drop a penny in my cup.  Maybe because it’s summer, I hear an endless, “CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?CanI?” (Recently, I told them to stop asking coming to me for permission to do things(that call for a ruling) and look around for things they already know they have permission to do.)  They’re hip-deep in pre-qualified, socio-cognitively rich, entertainment options.

I digress.

I was on inconveniencing yourself.

Do it, now.  Just a few startled looks from now, that child will believe you when you talk.

Don’t be like me.

They are just wrapping up week one of a 35 day “cultural lockdown” (it’s the new grounding [Not really, I made it up and hope it catches on]).  I COULD NOT BE MORE GRATEFUL THAT THE ISSUE IS WHAT IT IS. While I am not glad to have “Flaming-Trousered Prevaricators”, I could be dealing with worse.

Currently, I haven’t been alone except to bathe (and then only 77% of the time) in a week.  We started school this week. I did it because if we had more to do we would not have had so much time to come up with stupid ideas (or join our sister on the crew of the SS ‘Ignorificance’).

They are ‘killing me softly’.

Being grounded when you’re a kid, you’re not observing yourself.  I’m watching them, and can tell they don’t get that they took the risk and, by extension, chose whatever happened when they got caught.  They don’t see “this hurts me more than it hurts them” and may cause my death if I don’t get some time away from them.  They don’t see the whole point is that they’re missing things they’d like to do.  And I don’t care.

But I do.

No, I don’t.

It all depends on when you want to put in the time.  You can do it early.  Or later on.

Most things in life are like that.

So we’re all just…grounded.  Together.

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: blogging, Gratittude, humor, life lessons, Parenting Teens

Back Then Book Review Day

August 3, 2012 by Leave a Comment

It took the girls longer than I thought it would to get a solid grasp of chronological terms.  Now, however, they have a very specific list of terms that refer to their perception of time past.  When I was a child?  Back Then.

Today, I am employing the sociopathological lawlessness I’m known for and abusing the term.

Today, ‘back then’ means when they were little(10) and we did a lot more read aloud than is strictly called for for educating big kids.

We checked out a Newbery Award winning book from the church library.

A Year Down Yonder, by Richard Peck was a fun read-aloud for 10 year-olds.

However.

I laughed until tears streamed down my face and I had to blow my nose.

In the middle of the Great Depression, a young girl is sent from Chicago to live with her grandmother in a rural community.

Having come from small town people and having personally benefited from the influence of grandparents who lived through the Great Depression, I was reduced to uncontrollable laughter more than once.

Peck turns an elegant country phrase.  Sees through the eyes of a man his father’s age.  Or his mother’s.

One taste and we were hooked.  We ran through all the titles except one in the church library and moved on to the Public Library.  In the research for this post, I found a number of titles the public library had never heard of.  I’m excited to research those online and at the used bookstore.

Our favorites include:

A Long Way From Chicago

The Teacher’s Funeral: a Comedy In Three Parts

Fair Weather

and

A Season of Gifts

We tried an audio book, but agreed that I’m funnier.

It turns out that Peck is not limited to this gentle hilarity, but writes ghost stories and novels dealing with modern life issues young people face. Which we’ll be checking out this afternoon at the library and the used book store.

I urge you to include the titles we’ve enjoyed in your family read-aloud time, or even just your personal recreational reading.  It’s a refreshing break from the heaviness and the self-consciousness of a lot of contemporary adult fiction.

In researching this post, I ran across a Goodreads account I had pretty much ignored for…awhile.  If you aren’t familiar with Good Reads it’s like a giant online baseball card collection only with books.  I have updated a couple of things and would love to connect with you there if anyone’s interested.

While I was thinking of that, I remembered this blog has a Facebook fan page and I nearly gave myself a cardiac event trying to create the widget.  I will try again when I am not administering cultural lockdown on 15 year-olds (YES, IT STILL HURTS ME MORE THAN IT HURTS THEM.)  I beg invite you to “like” the page, if you aren’t going to let facebo*ks widget keep you from liking old ladies’ lame-a** blogs if you want to.

While we’re at it….  you can dig “the accident” on Twit*er. For free, mind you.

I digress.

There are still a couple of weeks of summer left.  That calls for some lazy afternoons.  That calls for a great book.  These are that.

I you’re embarrassed to check them out, say it’s for your niece.

 

 

Filed Under: books, homeschool, humor, where I'm from

Yesterday’s Music, Tomorrow’s Dance

July 20, 2012 by 10 Comments

If you’ve been following along, SOMEBODY hates a cliche.  That same somebody, is one.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen.

Maggie is having a mid-life crisis.

As we left our heroine, she was apologizing to the mother of a grown man for the accuracy of her remaining vision-the simple ability to discern an attractive adult male from a troll in the visual field.  Having forgotten almost entirely that the man in question is 10 months older than someone she’s been shooing away from her daughter for a year. She joined her 15 year-olds watching interviews on You Tube.*

Finally registering the distant sound of tires screeching and horns blaring.

HEY MAGGIE.  IT’S GONE.  THERE IS NO GOING BACK.  Step back and look, Darling.  No one will ever sing to you again about your flipping hair.  You worry about being that mom who is acting like her teen.  This is her.  She thought she’d take a break in the fun to raise some kids and then go back to charging around being spontaneous and irresistible.  Now her kids are approaching that time in their lives, she’s thinking she’ll just dust off her dance moves and join the fun.

Then she takes a new picture.

And. Sees. Her….  Jowls.

No, that wasn’t her, that was me.

Let’s tally up the score.

1) Face it.  You aren’t getting around like you used to.

2) You are old enough to be the ‘cool aunt’ for people who own their own homes.

3) You are appalled by little kids singing, “we-broke-up-but-Imma-stalk-you-or-you-stalk-me-K?” songs.

4) You keep thinking you’ll get back down to the weight you were in college.  No, Girl. You need that last ten pounds to fill in the loose skin.

5) Barring accident or injury, you are halfway to death.

6) Go quietly.

Back in my time, we had a saying,…

“Like hell.”

ACCIDENTAL MANIFESTO FOR THE SECOND ACT

Grow up. Stop thinking magic works like that.  Magic happens when the callouses on your work-hardened hands click together and make sparks.

You can’t be the cool grandma, when the time comes, if the baby gets scratched on your navel ring**.

Nothing is as sexy as dignity.

 

By the time you were your daughters’ age, you were managing your life.

Stop complaining about them expecting to be waited on, if you won’t let them do the job.

All your “reasons” are legit.  If you don’t move on, they become “excuses”.

Do NOT pass that on to your kids.

Quit being vain.  Take care of your appearance.

If you won’t exercise because you’re embarrassed, the arthritis will come for you.

If you won’t take care of your skin and hair because of money or time or “those products don’t really work”,

the mirror will not pull any punches. Don’t complain about the lighting.

Get over your boobs.  No one cares.

There’s no promise you’ll get to keep them.  Appreciate them.

Keep them under control, but don’t apologize.

Dance.

Work.

Feel Beautiful.

Love.

This second act, unlike the first, which was largely written by others, must be entered on purpose.

Head up, eyes open.  Because you learned in the first act what you can trip over.

Enter strong.

This is when the reviews are written.

 

* If you are dancing in the 100th row, with a phone you just fished out of Chelsea’s Sprite, the video sucks; be ashamed to upload it.

**This is not to say I’ve ruled out the navel ring, but there will be no ink and a granny must categorically never sport a bare midriff.

***photos have been removed because I can’t

 

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: Accidental Guide, body image, current events, humor, life lessons, my age, Niall Horan's Mom, Parenting Teens

Is It Just Me? Or Is It Hot In Here?

July 7, 2012 by 4 Comments

Pretty often, when I was talking with friends someone said I needed to write.  Allegedly, I’m funny.  I don’t think I’m funny on the blog.

Sometimes, without voice and facial expression, it’s nothing.

Sometimes, facetious doesn’t work in print.  I envy bloggers who can deliver snark.  When I try, I second guess.

Sometimes, it’s double entendre and that’s a problem because it’s my true medium. So much so, that I’d been entertaining the girls making comments on pins and posting them to facebook.  They had the meaning that the divas understood.  But they were so ripe with double entendre, I nearly passed out.*  I had to delete them.

The other day I was feeling wild and free (always a red flag). I added a pic and made a few comments that I thought were funny and got to the point. Which was important to me.

I don’t write a post and forget about it.  I edit and re-edit in my head for awhile.

I teased about a member of the boy band being attractive.  Then I got to thinking about the possibility that I could be older than his mom. What would she think about what I wrote?

Thursday, Pinterest started serving up the hardcore porn.  I sort of think the anger and the ICK made me feel wrong and I transferred it onto the post.  Which wasn’t.

I had the girls read the post, I asked my husband about it and he didn’t remember it.  I asked Jennifer.  She didn’t remember it either. Comments so racy that no one even remembers them. So much for being edgy and funny.

I edited it, anyway, and I like it better now, because it gets to the point.

This One Direction thing has been a gold mine for opening up conversations we need to have. (For starters,  I laid out ground rules in a post and violated all of them.  Lesson one: Cop to your @#$%. Good Times.)

In particular, The girls and I had a long talk this week about marketing and the term: “If you hang around the barber shop long enough, sooner or later you’re gonna get a shave.”  Sex and culture.  Young people aren’t being taught to “possess their bodies in sanctification and honor”. They have been taught to follow their impulse in the moment.

The decision we think we’d make, while having a conversation with our mom about sex,  won’t be what’s going through our minds when we’re alone with someone who smells good and has had just enough beer to make his breath sweet and says we’re beautiful and funny and…

what was I talking about?

Oh yeah.  A conversation everyone needs to have.  Not as difficult as it sounds, and I have no idea how I would have initiated it or realized it needed to be had any other way.

-I’m old; not dead. It’s healthy for me to notice a man.  How I comment to that is a matter of my dignity and home-training.

-Naill Horan’s Mom will be fortunate, if my confession (that I realize “While cute, he’s a child and can’t go on the freebie list I don’t have that Liam isn’t on either“), is the worst thing she hears ‘women of a certain age’ say about her baby.  Fortunate, indeed.

-I want to be respectful.  I want to be accountable. I want to be loving more than I want to be funny.

-When I smart off IRL, I hardly ever get ‘checked’.**

-I want to show my kids what is right is right, across the board.  Whether I will stand in front of Niall’s mom or not, eventually I will stand in front of God.  I will have to look at myself in the mirror everyday of my life.  So will they.

 

 

*behind the wheel.  Hours later. Nearly drove off the road when it hit me what I’d said.

**There was that one time. Jennifer made a bumper sticker about a comment I made.  An IRL person never spoke to me again. IT WAS THE TRUTH.  It IS a poor man indeed who must purchase testicles!!!

 

 

 

 

 

Filed Under: blogging, humor, Imagination, Liam Payne, life lessons, Niall Horan, Niall Horan's Mom, One Direction, Parenting Teens, Uncategorized

Up in the Clouds. Or on Equal Ground.

July 4, 2012 by 6 Comments

The boy band thing created another teachable moment.

Be in a roomful of equals.  Not a great cloud of people who all have the same things in common.  Gender, style, age, taste in music.  How then, do you plan to stand out or be remembered?

You make fun of the girls who cry and scream and throw their drawers at them.  But think.  They paid their money and they waited and the guy came out and they realized…

“I’m out $60 bucks for the ticket, my mom is never going to shut up about the time and money to drive me to the next state.  There are 40,000 other girls here and my panties hit his face simultaneously with two other pair.  There is not one chance he’ll remember me and I am not going to have the romance with him that I imagined on Pinterest. Someone just threatened to cut me if I don’t get out of her way. And absolutely no sparks flew. They are ordinary human beings.”

Time for an ugly cry?

You betcha.

When you meet the person you look up to because of their ability to sing or blog or design buildings, be standing on equal ground.  Sure it’s dreamy to stand in the room with a boy so cute.  Or a designer so great.  Or a top athlete or… whatever*. But, God didn’t make people of all sorts of different values.  Going to stand in a line for two days to buy tickets to sit so far away you could see them better on television at home, confirms their value over yours.

The Hotness… photo credit: One Direction Pinterest.

Maybe that’s why there are rumors that visually impaired young ladies in autograph lines tell the young man in the photo above he is ugly and shouldn’t be in the group.  Or tweet that they hate, another for forgetting a lyric during a performance. Hate?  Really?

Hurt people; hurt people.

You can write them a letter.  Get your official fan guide.  Follow them on facebo*k and the Twitter. But yesterday, on one of those sites, they had over 800,000 followers.  What is the chance they’ll end up here on Thanksgiving?

Sorry, Baby.  I looked it up. The chances are somewhere in the neighborhood of 1,4oo,ooo,ooo to one.  That’s billion with a ‘B’.

Don’t live like that.

Uncommon beauty?  Check**.  Ability to do anything you try including Algebra, Omifreak? Check.  There is no need for you to blend in.

Too precious to stand on lower ground.

15 minutes isn’t much time, but hard work and focus ON YOUR PART can get you the opportunity to stand on equal ground with the people whose lives and work speak to you. No matter how that changes over the years.

Never place another person’s value over your own.  Until you’re a Momma.

I am linking up with Wordful Wednesday with Parenting by Dummies.

parenting BY dummies
 

 

*Disclaimer: As I write this, I realize I am married to a handsome, highly respected designer, who was 4th in his state in golf in high school. So what do I know?  Maybe I am an authority and you should listen to me.  Hmmm.

**not Small Fry…he’s got his own brand of handsome.  Look the freak out.  I am not kidding you.  Women fall at his feet.  Oh and hell yes I am saying it myself.  I owe these people my life.  I am going to state the facts as I see them.

 

 

Filed Under: Halle Berry, humor, life lessons, One Direction

Hey, Boss.

July 2, 2012 by 4 Comments

Hey.

So, I’m sitting on the ‘commode’ eating an ice cream bar.  And I’m thinking.

I’ve had a headache pretty much constantly for two weeks.

My daughters are obsessed with a boy band.

It’s a hunnert and fry in the shade.

I am living one of my top ten nightmares in the form of having to use my algebra in my adult life.

With this headache.

I went to “The Doctor”.  Again.  They couldn’t find anything wrong.  Again.  They gave me a prescription. It took the pain away.  And I had a severe reaction.  In the form of a bizarre anxiety.  It’s funny.  Now.

Now, the headache is just here.

So.  I read this silly book about One Direction that the girls got for their birthday.  Not great literature, this.  Clearly a product intended to make a lot of people, who aren’t me, some money.

But neither does it take up all the concentration of my twisted & bent mind.

“What if this headache is something real?” Have I mentioned the hypochondria that runs on the maternal side of my family?  I thought not.

“You’re just constipated.”  Have I mentioned that my paternal extended family don’t go to the doctor? I didn’t think so.

“Seriously, I could be at the end of the line.”  Did I mention Aunt Myrtle, who read a tabloid and thought she’d grow a penis when she got old?  I kid you not.

“You’re not.”

“I know. But what if this was the end of the line?”

“What if?”

“What if they don’t meet One Direction?”

“Wha… Huh?”

“You heard me.”

“What you mean is, ‘What if One Direction,  or whoever replaces them in their affections, never *squee* when they meet my girls?”

“No, what if I died and didn’t get them ready to make their dreams come true?  No matter how their dreams changed?”  This always happens when I’ve been sick awhile.  I start killing myself off.

“Wait a minute…  I know 10 people who are in continual pain.  Any one of them gets more done in a week than you’ve done in 6 months.”

“But…”

“No talk.  Know “what if”.”

More later.  I’m headed to the kitchen for a little Miralax and some cookies.

Filed Under: humor, life lessons, One Direction, Uncategorized
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