About twenty years ago, I found myself in an apartment that was being rented by a guy named Spyder. Spyder had tattooed a few of my friends, and it was my turn. I chose to have Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands put on my ankle, because my art appreciation instructor once mentioned that Alfred Stieglitz had taken stacks of photos of Georgia but didn’t feel that he captured her artistry until he focused on her hands. (I was a piano performance major for a while in college, and was very much into hands. (I’m still very much into hands.))
I’ve had a love/hate relationship with my ankle tattoo, but if I boil my thoughts for a bit, what remains is my love of art and hands and there you go. On my ankle.
Last month I mentioned that I was considering having a word tattooed onto my arm. My friend Shana stepped up and volunteered to write it for me, I absolutely loved what she created, a few days back I took her work to a tattoo place, and are you ready? Because here we go.
I had originally envisioned the tattoo as brown and tiny and going from side to side where the veins in my wrist poke back into my arm. However, the artist explained that brown will require touch-ups and maintenance, and there is a chance that the letters will close up if you go too small. I’m the first to admit that I’m not an expert at anything, so I went with her suggestion—black and vertical. She took a few minutes to redraw the word a bit bigger with more open letters and I loved it. She stenciled it onto my arm and I loved it even more.
The tattoo artist’s name is Anna and she is spritely and talented and owns a really enviable beaded yellow cardigan.
Anna: Are you nervous?
Me: Yes. But I’m also BRAVE.
Anna: Brave is good.
It’s still bumpy and healing and I may need a bit of a touch up at the top of the C, but so far? So good. (I chose the word for many different reasons, but mainly as a directive.)
It’s NaBloPoMo. Let’s get it on. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Before embarking on NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to embark on NaBloPoMo), I need to try and release some guilt.
For the past year or so, I’ve been absolutely terrible at responding to comments. You guys have sent me recipes and words of encouragement and brainy things to think about and prescription recommendations and book reviews and I’m absolutely terrible at thanking you. If I’m going to do NaBloPoMo (because I’m going to do NaBloPoMo), I either need to turn off comments or let the guilt fly out the window like a happy flying thing that flies out the window. Happily.
I don’t really care to elaborate on the following, nor do I wish to reveal if any statements are connected:
Lately I feel that I smell like a poorly-maintained convalescent center.
When I’m sitting at my computer and I look out the window, this is what I see.
Pretty soon it will all be orange and brown and crunchy, and I’ll be burning some sort of autumn-inspired candle and suddenly it won’t matter that I feel like I smell like I’ve been swimming in stuff that doesn’t smell very good.
Tomorrow I’m going on a solo adventure that involves bravery and being touched by a stranger. (I may remove my cardigan, but everything else stays on.) If all goes well, I’ll celebrate with a chai at the place my nose ring friend and I tend to visit after a switch-out.
Last night I spent nine dollars on a bottle of cranberry juice that contains nothing but the juice of cranberries. No water. No sugar. (I just accidentally typed wugar and then I laughed and laughed. Wugar.) No apple juice. No grape juice. (A lot of cranberry juices are cut with apple and grape juice. (Oddly enough, LSD is NEVER cut with strychnine, despite all of the whackadoodle LSD tales you might have heard. I’m here to provide mind-easing fun facts for my LSD buddies, none of whom actually exist in the real world.)) Anyway, the cranberry juice? It is terrible. BUT, I can manage the recommended three ounce dose if I put it in a shot glass (or tiny tiny coffee cup because I don’t actually own a shot glass) and pretend that it will help me see into the future. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Warning: This particular post will end with a photograph of my bloody ankle. I have not applied any filters to the photo, so the bright red blood you will see is the same bright red blood I saw in my car in the mall parking lot this afternoon. You have been warned and I know you’re smart, so please don’t act like you’re surprised that I’m shocking and awing you with a bloody body part. I told you it was coming. Proceed with caution.
Do you remember several months ago when we talked about school fundraisers? I finally talked to the right people and put together a fun run at our school, and it took place yesterday and it was SO much fun because as a team we ran from St. Louis to Atlanta by way of 3,765 laps around our school track. Students and staff and parents (and one grandparent) received a bracelet for every lap they ran and at the end of the day all of the bracelets were counted and whoosh! Exercise and excitement and community and $1,500 to go toward an outdoor classroom.
Because I was there all day, I spent most of my free time walking laps. (I did take time out for a Subway veggie sandwich because Jeff delivered it to me and That Is LOVE.) Do you remember all of those ridiculous stress fractures I dealt with last year? Only one of them was bugging me, and the air was crisp and I had a tumbler full of hot tea and this song shuffled three times on my phone:
Cannonball made me all Girl Power! and Keep Walking! and (ouch) and If I Walk 1,040 Laps We’ll Exceed Our Goal!!!
At 3:00 I packed it up and declared the day a success. You should have seen all of those kids running. It’s a wonder I didn’t start weeping while thinking in metaphors and symbols and What An Amazing World We Live In. (My endorphin tide tends to run high (unless it’s running low).) One boy who is clearly not a runner ran eight laps in 15 minutes. Eight laps is a mile. When I told him that he just ran a mile, he actually stomped his foot and yelled, “Oh my God I DID NOT KNOW THAT!” That was my favorite part of the whole day.
Anyway, because our next adventure involves dressing up like people we’re not and passing out candy from the back of our car, this afternoon’s list included: freelance (done), talk to vet about Henry (done), and search out Mockingjay pin at mall (done). The list did NOT include suffer a blister while wearing my favorite shoes.
(Done.)
I know. Oh, and it bums me out because I LOVE those shoes! I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t be allowed to own shoes that aren’t clogs. Any shoe with a back on it eventually leads me to Bloody Blisterville, and I can only assume it’s because of my protuberant thin-skinned tendon. Shoes would be easier if I knew what I was doing. How are you? Should we do NaBloPoMo next month? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
Something happened on the evening of September 10th (it’s part of the 83% I’ll never share), and my mind has been spinning with questions ever since.
41 days filled with questions! Shall we explore a few of them? Please feel free to attack many or none!
1. Mascara on the bottom lashes. Is this still a thing? I still do it, but I’m not sure I’m supposed to. (The only thing that has changed in my makeup routine since 1985: I no longer light my eyeliner ON FIRE before applying it.)
17. I’ve tried the washing machine cleaning beady things. I’ve tried vinegar. Why do our clothes still smell sort of sour? Our washing machine will be eleven years old in March. Is it time for a new one?
23. Why do so many people assume that Vegetarian = Enigmatic? Honestly. I don’t eat meat. I don’t care if you do. I really don’t. It’s not difficult for me to find something to eat, and I’m so much more than Bewildering Girl Who Eats Plants. (Side story: Jeff and I went to an amazing vegetarian restaurant on Saturday night. The people at the table next to ours were definitely not vegetarians, and they had a lot of questions. “I want the tacos, but I like chicken or beef in my tacos. WHAT DO YOUR TACOS TASTE LIKE?!” “I’m headed to the symphony in two hours. Since I don’t know what your tacos are made of, I need to know that they are not cooked with a bunch of alcohol.” “You don’t have diet soda?! And you’re telling me that real sugar is better for you than sugar substitute?!” “They have beet fries but they don’t have French fries?! What’s wrong with potatoes?!” (Nothing. Nothing is wrong with potatoes.) I’m all for questioning everything and arming yourself with information, but why go to a vegetarian restaurant if you’re going to raise your eyebrows at every single thing that comes out of the server’s mouth? Also, how many ways can he explain Vegan Cheese before you just smile and either give it a whirl or pass?) ((My line is always, “I’m a vegetarian, but I’m not a jerk about it.” I know. I’m starting to be a jerk about it. I’m starting to be a jerk about a lot of things. Just ask Meredith how I responded this morning when she told me that it was too cold to do her homework. Fact: When I’m not in the mood for excuses, I can bring everyone in the room to tears in less than two minutes. You have no idea.))
26. I’ve been doing a lot of research. I’ll spare you the details (because the details include the words Ovary and Really Shitty Pain), but please know that along with research (online and printed because I’m thorough!), I’ve spoken to quite a few people who have had hysterectomies, and they ALL claim that the hysterectomy changed their life for the better. I went to the doctor last week, and she said that instead of doing a hysterectomy, she would like to inject a chemical into my butt that will fake out my girl parts into thinking they’re in menopause. We’ll then have six months to see how menopause will be for me before I actually start menopause in the next decade. I’m not a doctor, so I feel really weird about questioning the plan. (Beet fries?! Are you kidding me?!) BUT, what if the menopausal effects are actually side effects of the drug? How will I know the difference? Does this even make sense? It’s all I can think about lately because: Pain! Burning! Urgency! Endometriosis! Crying! Too much time spent in bed with a hot water bottle! How many cups can I pee into before we know what’s going on? (So far? Three cups in three weeks. This morning’s was actually paper instead of plastic, which felt like such a refreshing switch-up. Does anyone else ever feel the urge to pee into the cup and then throw that cup against the wall like Mötley Crüe? I never do it, and I probably never will, but The Urge Exists, and I picture myself doing it every single time.) (I did a cut and paste for those Mötley Crüe umlauts. I am not a keyboard wizard.)
29. Let’s take a break and talk about happy things. This sandwich is my very favorite sandwich right now. Also, this is my favorite ink color. A few years ago, I won a contest that involved designing a Pringles can. (I know. Life is weird.) One of the prizes was an iPod Touch. Because I already had one, I gave it to Jeff. Anyway, my iPod touch (first generation, six years old) died last week while playing the Teen Beach Movie soundtrack for Harper. (I really wish it would have gone out on a higher note.) Because he’s a gem, Jeff cleared off the Pringles iPod and presented it to me last night. I then spent nearly an hour putting music I love onto the “new” iPod. It was the most fun I’ve had in weeks. (I no longer pretend to like every single Andrew Bird song, and how freeing is that?!) This morning I dropped the kids off at school and headed out to pee into a cup while listening to a shuffle of my very favorite songs. It felt like Christmas and beet fries. Beet fries! Imagine the possibilities!
31. A friend of mine wrote this. It’s perfect and it honestly explains what I go through every time I pick up the telephone or sit down to write an e-mail.
34. I just realized that I’m not really writing questions at all. Guess what? As I type this post, a doctor at a vet school is formulating a homemade diet plan for our poor itchy Henry. In less than two weeks, I’ll be cooking vegetarian meals for Jeff and I, meaty meals for the kids, and God knows what for the dogs. (I had to fill out a checklist of foods I’m not opposed to cooking for Henry. Venison was on the list, as was lamb. I love my dogs, but I couldn’t check those boxes. I checked millet. Lots of beans. Cow stuff. Bird stuff.)
38. I have carrot cake in the refrigerator. Vegetarians can eat cake! (And lots of it, Betty Crocker.)
41. You’re so pretty and patient. I can’t remember the last time I sat down and puked up over a thousand words. And here we are. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
This morning I headed out for a flu shot and as I was listening to the radio, I heard the word Slut and it occurred to me that I can’t remember the last time I used the word slut. High school, maybe? Anyway, it then struck me that I haven’t visited Fluid Pudding in at least a week, so here I am! Thank you to sluts for the prompt.
My week of clean eating was a success, if success can be measured in Weight Loss and Lack of Tantrums. I’m down eight pounds from last month at this time (with absolutely zero exercise because an object at rest tends to stay at rest), and nearly four of those pounds can be attributed to a week of eating unprocessed foods (plus one caramel apple martini). The clean eating thing might seem unappetizing until I tell you something like “Right now I’m baking up a mixture of oats and pumpkin and cinnamon and you should smell my house.” (It’s a true statement. It’s been baking for nearly a half hour, and it smells delicious. The recipe is here. It was suggested by a friend and the only thing I’m doing differently is substituting coconut milk yogurt for the cottage cheese.)
Anyway, the challenge ended at midnight last night, yet I’m soldiering on to see how long I can last. It’s good to know that I can have an Oreo if I want it. Right now I don’t want it.
Meredith had a glorious time at fifth grade camp, but it appears that camp is a lot like Vegas. I haven’t heard many details beyond so-and-so winning a contest for having the longest tongue and the pizza wasn’t greasy like typical school cafeteria pizza. No stomach pills were taken, and everything that left the house returned to the house.
As I sat and worked on a sleeve cuff yesterday evening, a family of mosquitoes feasted on my right ankle. Every one of them hit a vein, so I’m sure my veiny leg has been added to the prime destination list for all bugs who bite. The mosquitoes are really bad in my neighborhood, and the woman next door has a theory that I’d share with you, but it contains words like Raw and Human and Feces and it’s lunch time. You’re welcome.
I’ll be picking the girls up in about an hour so they, too, can get their flu shots. According to my calendar, it’s National Children’s Day, and I can’t think of a better way to celebrate. (They’re not old enough to enjoy caramel apple martinis.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
It’s Migraine Week at Fluid Pudding, which means I’m taking pills and feeling a little hazy and preparing for the deluge! This is how it works. Three days before the headache REALLY hits, I feel electrical charges in my head. (I believe I’m speaking figuratively, although I’ve never held a light bulb to my ear when the charges are firing.) I started feeling the charges on Saturday evening. That’s when I started taking my customized cocktail pills!
Two days before the headache really hits, I start feeling nauseated. That’s when it’s time to bust out the Zofran! (I busted out the Zofran last night.)
One day prior to the slam, I get all sweaty and forgetful and tired and short-tempered. About an hour ago I drove to the post office to mail a letter to Meredith (I’ll explain later.), and about ten minutes ago I spent a disturbing amount of time searching for the very letter that I mailed an hour ago. (It wasn’t here. Because it’s at the post office. Because I mailed it. An hour ago.)
All of this to say: Business as Usual, although the timing sort of sucks because there’s a PTO meeting tomorrow evening and Meredith leaves for 5th Grade Camp on Wednesday. I’m boring you.
Here. This is better. I’m standing on the edge of a tiny tattoo. I had Georgia O’Keeffe’s hands tattooed onto my ankle when I was 23 and I could tell you why, but I’d almost rather not. (The things you stir up in your head are often much more interesting than my reality. Girl, you know it’s true.) Anyway, a few nights back I said something on Facebook about my current craving for a tiny ambigram tattoo on my arm and then the idea sort of blossomed a bit more and a wonderful woman/artist stepped up and said she would help me, and all of a sudden I have a jpg file and the possibility of a consultation with a tattoo artist sometime soon.
I’m 43.
(Harper got a tattoo when she was four. She’s such a badass.)
So. Fifth grade camp. Meredith will be heading out with all of her fifth grade classmates on Wednesday, and they’ll be building fires and shooting arrows (at nothing that’s alive) and looking at stars and singing songs and catching (and kissing and releasing) fish and basically having the time of their lives until Friday at approximately 2:45 when they return to the outstretched arms of their weepy mothers. Meredith is Very Excited.
One more thing. Starting tomorrow, a good friend of mine and I are kicking off a week long adventure of not eating any processed foods. I spent the morning at the grocery store buying butternut squash (pre-cubed because I am not strong) and (the largest possible) SweeTango apples and (clean and ready) mushrooms and (I have no adjectives for my) sweet potatoes and things that are made up of ingredients that I understand. It’s going to be tough, but not so tough. It’s going to be simple and healthy and clean and beautiful. (Have I mentioned that I’ve been taking pills for the past three days? Get over here and braid my hair.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
We left our windows open last night and the air was cold and amazing and I’m in a really great mood today because my favorite time of year is almost here. Crunchy leaves and handknit socks and comfy clogs and marching bands and spicy tea and cardigans and new glasses. (I tend to visit my eye doctor when the air is cool, and the visit is one of my favorite days of the year for two reasons: 1. I always learn something new., and 2. I leave with a prescription in hand for new glasses!)
Wait. Although this post is very much NOT officially sponsored, I’m about to talk to you about Rivet & Sway again. (Before I start singing, let me tell you that I RARELY do sponsored posts. A well-known oil company once asked me to write about traveling in a car vs. traveling on a plane/train/bus/etc., and I wrote a story about the time I took a Greyhound bus to Atlanta and ended up accepting unmarked motion sickness pills from a woman who claimed to be a nurse and then I mentioned that I had to throw away my headphones because a stranger demanded to borrow my Walkman for most of the trip and he was not clean, and anyway: the oil company told me to take out the stuff about the pills and the headphones and I refused and they took back their offer and I retained my dignity, Helen Reddy.)
Back to glasses. I love my glasses. I LOVE my glasses.
You helped me choose them last year, and you definitely made the right choice. Because I was so excited about the Home Try-On kit and because so many of you ALSO seemed excited, Rivet & Sway offered a coupon code to help you save $25 off of your first order. And you used it. Last month, Rivet & Sway asked if I wanted to partner up. If I promote their glasses in any way I want, they’ll provide the coupon code again (ANGELASWAYS) and kick some of their earnings my way. I mentioned them on Facebook in August, and four people used the code. All of this to say: People want good looking frames, and people want to save money, and I’m here to help you.
If you visit Rivet & Sway, choose three frames to try on at home (The Home Try-On kit is totally free and you’re under no obligation to purchase anything!), and then order using ANGELASWAYS as your coupon code, you’ll save $25. If you checked out the frames last year but didn’t see any that caught your eye, please know that they’ve added more designs! Let’s get glasses together! Again!!!
Today is the twelfth anniversary of Fluid Pudding, and that feels sort of crazy because more “milestone” events have happened in the past twelve years than during any other span of dozen in my life. (That was an awkward sentence. Are you still with me?)
When I started writing at Fluid Pudding (it was over at Blogspot back then) I wasn’t yet married, I had no kids, I had no dogs, I didn’t know how to knit, and I lived in Nashville. Also, I had braces (on my teeth), I weighed about twenty pounds less than I do right now, and although I was a vegetarian, I had never eaten squash or plantains! (I had my first bite of plantains last Friday evening. I can’t stop thinking about them. Bonus Fact: I had squash for lunch a few minutes ago. Butternut squash! Pre-cubed for my convenience!)
Wait. Look. Less than 12 hours after eating plantains, I had a blue opal shoved into the side of my nose. It’s my favorite nose decoration so far.
Despite all of the life-changing stuff (getting married, moving to St. Louis, buying a house, having kids, adopting more pets, getting a hole punched in my nose, purchasing a spinning wheel, cake balls…), nothing much has changed at Fluid Pudding. Actually, I take that back. The two things that are different now are the two things I struggle with nearly every day: Comments and Ads. I used to do neither. I now do both. (When I say that I struggle with Comments and Ads nearly every day, I’m exaggerating. It’s probably more like nearly every 17 days.)
I want to thank each and every one of you for stopping by here, even if you were simply searching out something dirty and are feeling slightly disappointed right now. (Please know that I’ve NEVER made pudding from a body fluid.) The Fluid Pudding Community (Please know that I know that sounds silly. Please know that I NEVER use the word readership or community or fanbase or anything like that when I talk about this website. Instead, I use words like hobby and lucky and smiley.) has made bread pudding together. We talked about doing a bowel prep together! (I think I was the only one who actually DID it!) Best of all? Last year we banded together and raised $500 so my favorite Walgreens employee could have a nice Christmas.
(The Fluid Pudding Community also had my back about eight years ago when every fast food employee in the United States dropped by and threatened to slam Harper’s infant head in a trailer door because I had the audacity to joke about sloppy eating. Do you remember that? Death threats! That was one of the worst days of my life. If I was running ads back then, I would have a nicer car right now! If I wasn’t running COMMENTS back then, I wouldn’t have learned an important lesson and that lesson is: Know Who You Might Offend When You Write About Pretending to Eat Like a Shark In a Fast Food Restaurant.)
I’ve made a few people angry with my website. (Most of them leave crazy irrational comments, and most of the time I just delete those comments and go on with life because this is my house.) I’ve made a few people think I’m writing about them when I’m really NOT writing about them and CONFUSION and clouds in my coffee Clouds In My Coffee! On the flip side, I’ve made SO many friends from Fluid Pudding. Real people I see in real life and real people I’ve never actually met, and once again: Lucky. Smiley.
As I move forward with Fluid Pudding (because I really have no plan to stop anytime soon) the only two questions I ask myself are:
1. Am I still having fun? Yes. Always. Even when I’m complaining, deep down I know that Fluid Pudding is here for entertainment (mine and hopefully yours). Example: I have a UTI right now (I’m on my second round of antibiotics!) and it really sucks, but come on. My life is still pretty sparkly.
2. Am I an asshole? No. I’m not. And I know you don’t like it when I use words like Asshole. (I stopped using the F word YEARS ago! At least here. In real life? Guilty in certain circles.) Anyway, as long as I can sit down at the computer and log in and share silly things without being a dickhead about it, we’re good, right? (Wheee! Three people are feeling VERY uncomfortable with my language in this paragraph. To those three people? I’m sorry.)
I went out to my car last week and found the largest grasshopper I’d ever seen hanging out on the hood.
Me: Hey there! If you need a lift, I can take you over to school. BUT, I need to stop by Walgreens first if that works for you.
The grasshopper faced forward and let the breeze blow into his compound eyes all the way to Walgreens. (This post is not sponsored by Walgreens, although I’ve now mentioned them three times.) Anyway, when I parked the car, the grasshopper was still holding on.
Me: I’m just grabbing a vitamin water. You can wait right here if you want.
He waited. When I started the car to head off to school, he faced forward again.
Five minutes later when I pulled into the pick-up line and turned off the car, the grasshopper paced the hood for a bit and then jumped onto the parking lot and into the flower bed. I have to admit, I got a little misty because it felt like I was sending a child off to college. (I guess it didn’t REALLY feel like that, but I *did* get a little emotionally attached to the grasshopper. He was so charming!)
The funny thing? For the next few days, anything my heart desired came to me.
(I know Jiminy was a cricket and this guy is a grasshopper. I know crickets and grasshoppers are different (Crickets hear with their legs. Grasshoppers hear with their abdomens. Crickets? Nocturnal. Grasshoppers? Diurnal!), but they all belong to the order Orthoptera, which means they share a common ancestor and WHY CAN’T WE ALL JUST GET ALONG?! Seriously, humans. I’ve about had it with some of you and your lack of compassion and your inability to care for anyone who isn’t just like you and oh! Suddenly, I’m no longer talking about grasshoppers.)
My cardigan is coming along nicely. Before the end of the weekend, I should be done with the back. Then it will be on to the sides, the sleeves, the cuffs, the collar, and seaming. The goal? Thanksgiving, but I’ll take Valentine’s Day.
This afternoon I’ll be meeting up with a friend to have our jewelry traded out at the tattoo place downtown. It’s starting to feel a bit like fall, which means I probably need to have a black opal in my nose and a soy chai in my hand. (Anything your heart desires (within reason) and so on? Manifestable!) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
When we last spoke, I was getting ready to dive into the world of Daily Medication. My headache doctor prescribed Effexor as a migraine preventative, and BONUS: Effexor also serves as an anti-anxiety medication! It almost feels like it was invented JUST FOR ME!
Anyway, last Tuesday I took my first Effexor. Within an hour, I was experiencing what I believe was my very first panic attack! (Pull out the baby book, Mom!) My heart was racing. I couldn’t settle down. I was sweaty and nervous and I couldn’t sleep and my stomach was in knots and I kept trying to use meditation to settle myself but it wasn’t working and I couldn’t catch my breath and I was crying in the middle of the night and desperately trying to slow down my head and on Wednesday I was unable to drive. Hazy. So hazy. It was horrible.
I haven’t yet called my doctor because I’m afraid she will say, “Yeah. It gets better.” If she says that, I just might need to switch doctors, and that would feel like a really sad high school break up, because I once made a shawl for her.
Along with taking my first (and final) Effexor last week, I also took my first yoga class! It’s a beginning class and the average age in the room is probably somewhere in the 60s and I LOVE it, although I sort of wonder if it’s really yoga. I have an idea in my head of what yoga should be and I know I’m horribly inflexible so what yoga should be is Challenging (I think), but this class isn’t particularly challenging. Hrm. (I went back today, and I was slightly more challenged because I’m unable to touch my heels to the floor during Downward Dog, and should the palms of my hands and wrists be hurting as I do Downward Dog? Because throughout the entire class, my wrists and palms hurt more than anything else.)
At the end of yoga class, we relax. Some people actually cover themselves with blankets. Today I heard snoring.
As I left the studio, I was approached by a 382 year old man.
Mr. 382: What were you guys doing in there?
Me: It’s yoga!
Mr. 382: YOGURT?! HA HA HA!!!
Me: I WISH it was yogurt!
Mr. 382: Honey, if you want yogurt, I’ll take you out for some right now.
And then I grabbed the back of his head and Frenched him because it was the very first time a random guy at the gym hit on me.
Any beginning yoga feedback would be appreciated. Also, a big bowl of butter beans. Lightly peppered. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>
