T had cable TV and Internet hooked up at his house today. That is where
I am blogging from--T's house. It's amazing, thrilling, and very, very
comforting.
I didn't realize how much I depend on the Internet
and Discovery (Disco-Variety!) channel for my mindless entertainment--I
have the TV on while I read, knit, do dishes, blah...and the rest of
the time I am staring into the computer. (Errands? What? Never.)
Staying at T's house was something of a labor of love for a bit-- if he
was at work, there was nothing to 'entertain' me....So I was reduced to
things like laundry, vacuuming out the cars, mopping. Who wants to do
that crap? Bring on theInternet, baby.
I am such a consumer whore. Lord. I didn't realize it until I wrote that paragraph. Stupid American!
Friday, May 23, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Girlhood dashed to pieces, also, my father was condemned to a tanning booth
When I was nine years old, I watched MTV for the first time. A music video came on for a song which, with the fear of sounding cliche, changed parts of my life.
This was the music video.
Yeah, it's kinda lame now. But--The image of John Frusciante (I could write an entire post about that man. Seriously? Seriously.) surrounded by clouds and wearing that weird outfit has stuck with me my entire life from that point on. I was entranced--this song was the first non-pop/boyband song that I had liked. I loved it. It was the first piece of music that 'spoke' to me on any real level. (I was nine. Work with me here.)
My nine year old self had never heard of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. (A lot of people hadn't until this song/album came out in '91. Yes, I am that young.) I wanted the CD, I wanted to know everything about this band.
My parents were not pleased. See, this is a band that not only made beautiful music like 'Under the Bridge', but also made songs like 'Sir Psycho Sexy', the lyrics of which have such gems as "....Creamy Beaver/Hotter than a fever/I'm-a-giving/'Cause she's the receiver...." Not appropriate for a nine year old. I didn't care, didn't understand what the hell they were even talking about. They were also famous for wandering around on stage wearing only tube socks on their genitals. (Causing my father to later, and forevermore, refer to them as 'Those socks-on-cocks boys you like so much', which is hilarious in it's own right.)
I soldiered on. Listened to what I could on the radio, made bootlegged copies of the album on tape. When I was 13 I went to see them in concert for the first time. (John wasn't the guitarist then. I don't know why I need to share this with everyone.) (I have seen them several times, thankyouverymuch.)
I was, for well over 10 years, a die hard Chili Peppers fan. I know, still, to this day the words to EVERY SONG they have. I'm serious. (No one said I was cool.) My knowledge doesn't end there, but it matters not. What matters is that I loved, loved, loved this band, and their music shaped my adolescence and young adulthood in great ways. It was the soundtrack to my coming of age, in a sense.
As I wander further into my 20's, they have fallen out of favor. The new stuff? Not so great. Haven't really loved anything since '99, when Californication came out. Even that album had it's failings, in my opinion.
Anyway, the sun stopped rising and setting for the Chili Peppers. I still listen to the old stuff, still sing along and embrace the warm feelings I get from the music, but gone are the glory days.
So when T mentioned a magazine article today that said Anthony Keidis had a seven month old son, I paused.
"What?" Something his major couldn't happen without my notice! How could Anthony Keidis impregnate someone and become a father without my noticing?
It seems that it could and did happen when I stopped paying attention to current pop culture trends and news.
It seems it happened when I grew out of my Chili Peppers decade.
It just goes to show....gone is my childhood. Gone is the era of my listening to bootlegged songs about graphic sex (and not understanding it), sung by a strung out (sometimes, depends on the album) junkie and his 'band of brothers' on a Walkman while sitting in my bedroom. Gone are the days where I would stay up all night to listen to an album over and over again, amazed at what I was hearing.
I don't think this was as eloquent as I intended.
(But for real? Everyone needs to find, and listen to, at least 6 times, the song "Ramparts" by John Frusciante. It's on the album To Record Only Water For Ten Days, and is just over a minute long. Go. Listen. Amazing.)
*****************************************************
Before my dad went on dialysis, he was treating his kidney failure with diet and, to his chagrin, exercise. When that stopped being totally effective, and the uraemic acid began to build up in his system (causing serious itching), they treated him with "Light Therapy"--basically a 12 second tanning bed.
The first time this treatment was implemented, it worked great. Dad felt awesome, no more itching.
After about a month, the itching began again. In earnest.
Dad went back to the dermatologist for a second treatment.
Now, let me pause here. We're not talking about the conventional go-lie-down tanning bed, were talking the get-naked-and-stand-in-this-booth-while-shot-with-light-from-all-sides tanning booth. On steroids.
Anyway, appointment for second treatment in hand, my dad heads off to the doctor.
He strips naked, dons the weird glasses, and steps into the booth.
This is where everything goes wrong.
The tanning tech, rather than blasting my dad for 12 seconds with high UV light, blasts him for 30 seconds.
And literally fries my father.
His ENTIRE 80 year old body is sunburned. EVERY PART.
Just when he is starting to potentially heal, he went on a road trip. In a car with no air conditioning. And was promptly stuck in traffic, in unseasonably hot weather, for hours. And obtained a heinous case of 'drivers arm'.
I arrived for a visit the next day. My father was literally SNOWING dead skin. He itched, he hurt, he was swollen, he was peeling. And he was PISSED.
So pissed he refused my attempts to put lotion on his lobster body. I threatened to vacuum him to make the 'snow' stop. Finally I plunged my hands in cold water, lubed up with aloe vera, and attacked.
Oh, there was yelling. Swearing. The proverbial stomping of feet and gnashing of teeth. Then? Silence.
He heaved a huge sigh of relief, leaned back in his chair, and luxuriated in the moment.
Then he hit me on the top of the head and swore some more.
Damn, I miss that guy.
This was the music video.
Yeah, it's kinda lame now. But--The image of John Frusciante (I could write an entire post about that man. Seriously? Seriously.) surrounded by clouds and wearing that weird outfit has stuck with me my entire life from that point on. I was entranced--this song was the first non-pop/boyband song that I had liked. I loved it. It was the first piece of music that 'spoke' to me on any real level. (I was nine. Work with me here.)
My nine year old self had never heard of the Red Hot Chili Peppers. (A lot of people hadn't until this song/album came out in '91. Yes, I am that young.) I wanted the CD, I wanted to know everything about this band.
My parents were not pleased. See, this is a band that not only made beautiful music like 'Under the Bridge', but also made songs like 'Sir Psycho Sexy', the lyrics of which have such gems as "....Creamy Beaver/Hotter than a fever/I'm-a-giving/'Cause she's the receiver...." Not appropriate for a nine year old. I didn't care, didn't understand what the hell they were even talking about. They were also famous for wandering around on stage wearing only tube socks on their genitals. (Causing my father to later, and forevermore, refer to them as 'Those socks-on-cocks boys you like so much', which is hilarious in it's own right.)
I soldiered on. Listened to what I could on the radio, made bootlegged copies of the album on tape. When I was 13 I went to see them in concert for the first time. (John wasn't the guitarist then. I don't know why I need to share this with everyone.) (I have seen them several times, thankyouverymuch.)
I was, for well over 10 years, a die hard Chili Peppers fan. I know, still, to this day the words to EVERY SONG they have. I'm serious. (No one said I was cool.) My knowledge doesn't end there, but it matters not. What matters is that I loved, loved, loved this band, and their music shaped my adolescence and young adulthood in great ways. It was the soundtrack to my coming of age, in a sense.
As I wander further into my 20's, they have fallen out of favor. The new stuff? Not so great. Haven't really loved anything since '99, when Californication came out. Even that album had it's failings, in my opinion.
Anyway, the sun stopped rising and setting for the Chili Peppers. I still listen to the old stuff, still sing along and embrace the warm feelings I get from the music, but gone are the glory days.
So when T mentioned a magazine article today that said Anthony Keidis had a seven month old son, I paused.
"What?" Something his major couldn't happen without my notice! How could Anthony Keidis impregnate someone and become a father without my noticing?
It seems that it could and did happen when I stopped paying attention to current pop culture trends and news.
It seems it happened when I grew out of my Chili Peppers decade.
It just goes to show....gone is my childhood. Gone is the era of my listening to bootlegged songs about graphic sex (and not understanding it), sung by a strung out (sometimes, depends on the album) junkie and his 'band of brothers' on a Walkman while sitting in my bedroom. Gone are the days where I would stay up all night to listen to an album over and over again, amazed at what I was hearing.
I don't think this was as eloquent as I intended.
(But for real? Everyone needs to find, and listen to, at least 6 times, the song "Ramparts" by John Frusciante. It's on the album To Record Only Water For Ten Days, and is just over a minute long. Go. Listen. Amazing.)
*****************************************************
Before my dad went on dialysis, he was treating his kidney failure with diet and, to his chagrin, exercise. When that stopped being totally effective, and the uraemic acid began to build up in his system (causing serious itching), they treated him with "Light Therapy"--basically a 12 second tanning bed.
The first time this treatment was implemented, it worked great. Dad felt awesome, no more itching.
After about a month, the itching began again. In earnest.
Dad went back to the dermatologist for a second treatment.
Now, let me pause here. We're not talking about the conventional go-lie-down tanning bed, were talking the get-naked-and-stand-in-this-booth-while-shot-with-light-from-all-sides tanning booth. On steroids.
Anyway, appointment for second treatment in hand, my dad heads off to the doctor.
He strips naked, dons the weird glasses, and steps into the booth.
This is where everything goes wrong.
The tanning tech, rather than blasting my dad for 12 seconds with high UV light, blasts him for 30 seconds.
And literally fries my father.
His ENTIRE 80 year old body is sunburned. EVERY PART.
Just when he is starting to potentially heal, he went on a road trip. In a car with no air conditioning. And was promptly stuck in traffic, in unseasonably hot weather, for hours. And obtained a heinous case of 'drivers arm'.
I arrived for a visit the next day. My father was literally SNOWING dead skin. He itched, he hurt, he was swollen, he was peeling. And he was PISSED.
So pissed he refused my attempts to put lotion on his lobster body. I threatened to vacuum him to make the 'snow' stop. Finally I plunged my hands in cold water, lubed up with aloe vera, and attacked.
Oh, there was yelling. Swearing. The proverbial stomping of feet and gnashing of teeth. Then? Silence.
He heaved a huge sigh of relief, leaned back in his chair, and luxuriated in the moment.
Then he hit me on the top of the head and swore some more.
Damn, I miss that guy.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Diet Soda
I stole this from Brian. I'm not illegally linking to him again. If it's that important, well, look in the comments or something. :)
1. How many credit cards do you own? Are they paid off?
Zero! Zero credit cards! (Only to be read in the voice of the Count from Sesame Street.)
2. Can you be in love with someone you don't trust?
Yes. And it sucks.
3. Should prostitution be legal?
The oldest profession? If the people involved were given the same benefits as everyone else, health insurance and so on, sure. I'm not sure how you would assign stock options, however.
4. On a scale of 1-10, how good of a lover do you think you are? (1 is lowest, 10 is highest)
Ha. Hahahahahaha. Ha. Good enough for someone to not want to hump anyone else for the rest of their lives, and seem quite happy about it.
5. What are three mistakes someone could make on the first date with you that would automatically make you turn down a second date with them?
(Not that I’m in the market or anything)
1)Have no sense of common courtesy or manners. Talking with mouths full, being rude to waitstaff, getting drunk, being an all around ass.
2)Not have the ability to laugh at yourself.
3)Assume they are getting laid for their "time and money".
Bonus (as in optional): Tell us about your worst date ever.
I went on a date with this dude who WOULD NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER, even though I already had a boyfriend at the time. I told him this over, and over, and over, and he still begged me to go to dinner with him because, "I want to get to know you better!". I plead with the bf for help, and he laughed and told me to go on the date. After telling this man about 345982 times that THIS DATE IS NOT A DATE BUT A PLEA FOR HIM TO LEAVE ME ALONE, (I was like, 19 and not strong enough to tell this dude to go to hell.) he picks me up and takes me to four pawn shops. Then we went to eat dinner at a decent Chinese fusion place, where he ordered for me against my will, (I hate that.) and chewed with his mouth open and used his hand for a napkin. While I am trying to eat my meal (that wasn't what I wanted), he says to me, (I shit you not!) "Hey, so, before we have sex I thought I should tell you that I have genital warts."
My fork was half way to my mouth when he said this. My response? "Thank you for that." I then put down my fork, picked up my purse, and walked out.
And my bf wouldn't come get me. I had to take the bus.
That bf later cheated on me with my friend, had a child with her, and attempted to destroy my mental health. And TMI pawn shop dude? He called me. Often. I threatened to go to the police, and he moved away.
The End.
1. How many credit cards do you own? Are they paid off?
Zero! Zero credit cards! (Only to be read in the voice of the Count from Sesame Street.)
2. Can you be in love with someone you don't trust?
Yes. And it sucks.
3. Should prostitution be legal?
The oldest profession? If the people involved were given the same benefits as everyone else, health insurance and so on, sure. I'm not sure how you would assign stock options, however.
4. On a scale of 1-10, how good of a lover do you think you are? (1 is lowest, 10 is highest)
Ha. Hahahahahaha. Ha. Good enough for someone to not want to hump anyone else for the rest of their lives, and seem quite happy about it.
5. What are three mistakes someone could make on the first date with you that would automatically make you turn down a second date with them?
(Not that I’m in the market or anything)
1)Have no sense of common courtesy or manners. Talking with mouths full, being rude to waitstaff, getting drunk, being an all around ass.
2)Not have the ability to laugh at yourself.
3)Assume they are getting laid for their "time and money".
Bonus (as in optional): Tell us about your worst date ever.
I went on a date with this dude who WOULD NOT TAKE NO FOR AN ANSWER, even though I already had a boyfriend at the time. I told him this over, and over, and over, and he still begged me to go to dinner with him because, "I want to get to know you better!". I plead with the bf for help, and he laughed and told me to go on the date. After telling this man about 345982 times that THIS DATE IS NOT A DATE BUT A PLEA FOR HIM TO LEAVE ME ALONE, (I was like, 19 and not strong enough to tell this dude to go to hell.) he picks me up and takes me to four pawn shops. Then we went to eat dinner at a decent Chinese fusion place, where he ordered for me against my will, (I hate that.) and chewed with his mouth open and used his hand for a napkin. While I am trying to eat my meal (that wasn't what I wanted), he says to me, (I shit you not!) "Hey, so, before we have sex I thought I should tell you that I have genital warts."
My fork was half way to my mouth when he said this. My response? "Thank you for that." I then put down my fork, picked up my purse, and walked out.
And my bf wouldn't come get me. I had to take the bus.
That bf later cheated on me with my friend, had a child with her, and attempted to destroy my mental health. And TMI pawn shop dude? He called me. Often. I threatened to go to the police, and he moved away.
The End.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Pogo Sticks
My father used to say, sarcastically, (Did he speak any other way?) when you were feeling well that you were "Back on your pogo stick." If you were feeling shitty, you were "Off the pogo stick." If something was distracting, in a good way, it would "Keep you off your pogo stick." To my knowledge, my father never rode a pogo stick, nor had a real affinity for them. But the mental image is hilarious--and it may be somewhat obvious that my family appreciates a hilarious mental image.
I think I started this post in that manner for a reason, and now I can't remember why.
Oh, there it is.
My cousin is doing famously. He is up and about, going to movies and being social. But he is not back on the pogo stick, and seriously pissed about it. He cannot go for daily three mile runs. He cannot drink alcohol. He cannot lift anything. (Like a martini glass.) Not pleased.
I have the mental image of my 6'5" cousin sitting next to an egg timer set to go off when his 8 weeks of recovery are up. When it dings, he leaps on to a pogo stick, straps twenty pound weights to himself and dons a beer helmet, filled with Makers Mark Bourbon. He then pogos for a minimum of 17 miles, laughing the entire way.
Or, you know, goes back to every day life, with a stronger heart and a bitchin' scar.
Yeah.
So, I have been engaged for a little over a week, and already my mother is dictating what she feels should happen at the wedding, my sisters are interfering in the way of money (this could be good or really, really bad), and the reactions have largely been "About Damn Time!", followed either by an enthusiastic "I/we will do everything and anything you need to help!", or, "Enjoy that."
I don't know what I was expecting, really. But it's nice to know there are people in your corner, even if some of the people you thought would be there for sure aren't in it.
It was over eighty degrees this whole weekend. Now it is raining buckets. My garden may not like this.
Oh, hilarity.
T asked my hand in marriage, gave me a ring. In response, I appear to have placed myself in the higher echelons of "Catch-dom" by buying him a new lawn mower and shower head, which I installed MYSELF. (Thank you very much! I know it isn't that big of a deal, but work with me here.) I picked T up at work and when I opened the garage door, there was his new lawn mower, all shiny and poised in the doorway....You would have thought I gave the man the Hope Diamond, he was so excited. So excited, in fact, that after working a 12 hour day he mowed the lawn. (I too love the lawn mower. Self propelled, baby.) And then took a shower under a shower head that doesn't shoot a cone of badly pressured water at random places on your body, depending on its mood.
I think I started this post in that manner for a reason, and now I can't remember why.
Oh, there it is.
My cousin is doing famously. He is up and about, going to movies and being social. But he is not back on the pogo stick, and seriously pissed about it. He cannot go for daily three mile runs. He cannot drink alcohol. He cannot lift anything. (Like a martini glass.) Not pleased.
I have the mental image of my 6'5" cousin sitting next to an egg timer set to go off when his 8 weeks of recovery are up. When it dings, he leaps on to a pogo stick, straps twenty pound weights to himself and dons a beer helmet, filled with Makers Mark Bourbon. He then pogos for a minimum of 17 miles, laughing the entire way.
Or, you know, goes back to every day life, with a stronger heart and a bitchin' scar.
Yeah.
So, I have been engaged for a little over a week, and already my mother is dictating what she feels should happen at the wedding, my sisters are interfering in the way of money (this could be good or really, really bad), and the reactions have largely been "About Damn Time!", followed either by an enthusiastic "I/we will do everything and anything you need to help!", or, "Enjoy that."
I don't know what I was expecting, really. But it's nice to know there are people in your corner, even if some of the people you thought would be there for sure aren't in it.
It was over eighty degrees this whole weekend. Now it is raining buckets. My garden may not like this.
Oh, hilarity.
T asked my hand in marriage, gave me a ring. In response, I appear to have placed myself in the higher echelons of "Catch-dom" by buying him a new lawn mower and shower head, which I installed MYSELF. (Thank you very much! I know it isn't that big of a deal, but work with me here.) I picked T up at work and when I opened the garage door, there was his new lawn mower, all shiny and poised in the doorway....You would have thought I gave the man the Hope Diamond, he was so excited. So excited, in fact, that after working a 12 hour day he mowed the lawn. (I too love the lawn mower. Self propelled, baby.) And then took a shower under a shower head that doesn't shoot a cone of badly pressured water at random places on your body, depending on its mood.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
And then he drags her around in a net.....Didn't see that one coming.
Monday night, I was sitting home alone (T was working), watching television and looking like what my cousin described as "Tanya Harding's Cousin." I was an unwashed human--I had on ill-fitting pajamas, a stained tshirt, and socks I used to wear while hunting.
There was a knock at the door.
I got up to see who it was--
(I don't lock my doors, usually. I live in the middle of nowhere in a retirement community. Seriously. All the people who come to my house on a regular basis just walk in, and I'm ok with that.)
And whoever it was had covered the peep-hole so I couldn't see.
I asked, "Who is it?", and received no answer.
I started to panic. I watch crime shows all day long, and I'm thinking, 'Some insane person has figured out that I live alone and surrounded by elderly deaf people. T is at work....I'm going to be murdered."
So I sprung into action. I turned the deadbolt in the door, and was preparing to race across the house to get the gun and the phone--I was going to hurl my kitchen windows open and brandish weapons while yelling something along the lines of:
"Motherfucker, I have a gun and a phone. Get the fuck of my property before I shoot your ass and call the cops!"
However, I didn't make it that far.
As I turned the deadbolt, the person on the other side of the door took their finger off the peephole. I saw the light shine through, so I looked again.
It was T.
I freaked--Why wasn't he at work? Something horrible must have happened! (I managed to forget that he has a key to my house, and it's not like he couldn't have just walked in anyway....)
I flung the door open.
"Why aren't you at work!!!???" I said.
Then I realized that T was wearing a suit. Carrying a dozen red roses and a bottle of wine.
"What the hell are you doing?", I asked.
He stepped inside my house, handed me the flowers and put the wine down.
"These are for you!", he said.
And then, with me in all my unwashed, scuzzy toothed, pajama-ed glory, T got down on one knee (And crashed into my pantry door) in his suit and asked me to marry him.
I said, "Of course I will marry you! Why aren't you at work?"
(I rock. So romantic and eloquent in my confusion.)
T had managed to surprise me--which is a feat in and of itself. He had taken two vacation days and pretended to go to work, only to go home, change, get roses and wine and the ring and come back to my house to propose marriage.
I guess he didn't plan on me plotting his death because of it.
There was a knock at the door.
I got up to see who it was--
(I don't lock my doors, usually. I live in the middle of nowhere in a retirement community. Seriously. All the people who come to my house on a regular basis just walk in, and I'm ok with that.)
And whoever it was had covered the peep-hole so I couldn't see.
I asked, "Who is it?", and received no answer.
I started to panic. I watch crime shows all day long, and I'm thinking, 'Some insane person has figured out that I live alone and surrounded by elderly deaf people. T is at work....I'm going to be murdered."
So I sprung into action. I turned the deadbolt in the door, and was preparing to race across the house to get the gun and the phone--I was going to hurl my kitchen windows open and brandish weapons while yelling something along the lines of:
"Motherfucker, I have a gun and a phone. Get the fuck of my property before I shoot your ass and call the cops!"
However, I didn't make it that far.
As I turned the deadbolt, the person on the other side of the door took their finger off the peephole. I saw the light shine through, so I looked again.
It was T.
I freaked--Why wasn't he at work? Something horrible must have happened! (I managed to forget that he has a key to my house, and it's not like he couldn't have just walked in anyway....)
I flung the door open.
"Why aren't you at work!!!???" I said.
Then I realized that T was wearing a suit. Carrying a dozen red roses and a bottle of wine.
"What the hell are you doing?", I asked.
He stepped inside my house, handed me the flowers and put the wine down.
"These are for you!", he said.
And then, with me in all my unwashed, scuzzy toothed, pajama-ed glory, T got down on one knee (And crashed into my pantry door) in his suit and asked me to marry him.
I said, "Of course I will marry you! Why aren't you at work?"
(I rock. So romantic and eloquent in my confusion.)
T had managed to surprise me--which is a feat in and of itself. He had taken two vacation days and pretended to go to work, only to go home, change, get roses and wine and the ring and come back to my house to propose marriage.
I guess he didn't plan on me plotting his death because of it.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Black Chickens Lay Blue Eggs
Welcome, googlers.
Anyway!
My cousin came through surgery famously--restarted his heart lickity split and he was out of the ICU three days early. Still in the hospital, but should be heading home soon.
May I extend a gigantic sigh of relief? Whew.
Thank you for your assistance, kids. Really appreciate it. :)
**************************************
I learned the fact in the title yesterday. T's parents have chickens and chickens lay eggs, so they give me eggs when I need them (which totally rocks). Brown chickens lay brown eggs, white chickens white, and black, well, they lay blue green eggs. Kinda neat, actually.
This fact brought to you by the letter Q.
**************************************
Happy Mothers day (early) to all you moms and soon to be moms out there!
Anyway!
My cousin came through surgery famously--restarted his heart lickity split and he was out of the ICU three days early. Still in the hospital, but should be heading home soon.
May I extend a gigantic sigh of relief? Whew.
Thank you for your assistance, kids. Really appreciate it. :)
**************************************
I learned the fact in the title yesterday. T's parents have chickens and chickens lay eggs, so they give me eggs when I need them (which totally rocks). Brown chickens lay brown eggs, white chickens white, and black, well, they lay blue green eggs. Kinda neat, actually.
This fact brought to you by the letter Q.
**************************************
Happy Mothers day (early) to all you moms and soon to be moms out there!
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Assistance in any way
Hey, if I could ask a favor of all of you.....
My beloved cousin is having open heart surgery today, and, as much as I am sure he will make a full recovery, it is still very scary because, well, they stop his heart and all that.
So if any or all of you could say a little prayer, send out positive vibes or request an audience with your idea of our 'maker' on my cousins behalf, well, that would be great.
I will explain in greater detail when I know more and have more time.....
Thank you. I mean it.
My beloved cousin is having open heart surgery today, and, as much as I am sure he will make a full recovery, it is still very scary because, well, they stop his heart and all that.
So if any or all of you could say a little prayer, send out positive vibes or request an audience with your idea of our 'maker' on my cousins behalf, well, that would be great.
I will explain in greater detail when I know more and have more time.....
Thank you. I mean it.
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