Orange Mashed Potatoes
This is a family recipe that apparently Martha Stewart also makes.
Deviled Eggs
Always use Salad Dressing (Miracle Whip) and a touch of curry powder.
Pie with Ice cream
Because -
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
March - The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had
March Key Word Challenge - Wintergirls
For March the Keyword options were luck, wish, gold, rainbow, green, mountain, valley, magic, farm, and treasure.
I chose The Best Bad Luck Ever by Kristin Levine published in 2009.
I chose The Best Bad Luck Ever by Kristin Levine published in 2009.
Dit is a twelve year old middle child in a family of ten children who feels like his parents don't even know who he is. He is growing up a white child in a tiny town near Selma, Alabama at the turn of the twentieth century. He hopes that the new post master's son, who is also reported to be twelve, will be his summer friend.
The new postmaster transferred from Boston comes to town on the train with his family. Only two problems: the family is black and the son is actually a daughter, named Emma.
Dit isn't sure about having anything to do with this girl, but his mother, who believes in being a good neighbor regardless of race, assigns him to show her around and pretty soon they become uneasy companions. But Dit still isn't sure he enjoys this brilliant, book reading, and sorta bossy female friend.
As time passes the families grow closer together. Emma doesn't attend the white school with Dit, but she helps him with his homework thus learning all of his lessons and making up for the time she is losing at her school.
Partway through the year, the teacher at the white school decides to put on a play about the circus with her class. Dit is assigned the largest part, the ringmaster. He tries to learn the lines, but can't. Emma, who has been helping him, knows them all. Dit and Emma convince the teacher to let Emma take the ringmaster part.
Not everyone in town is as accepting of the family or of Dit's friendship with Emma. Kids at school tease him and more worrisome, the sheriff threatens them.
The tension comes to a head when the sheriff orders Emma out of the play. Racial problems erupt in the small town and eventually result in one person dying and another being on trial.
Dit and Emma struggle to find a way to resolve the problem that they feel responsible for starting.
This is a story of racial bigotry and social injustice. It is told in a way that is palatable to children. It is a story that says people matter and friendship can change circumstances. While many may argue that it isn't believable, I think that it is perfect for its intended juvenile audience.
I am moving my reading reviews over to a new blog site. Visit Reading to Fill the Spaces for future updates.
I am moving my reading reviews over to a new blog site. Visit Reading to Fill the Spaces for future updates.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Sometimes I Cry
May 10, 2010, I finally stopped long enough to listen to the whisperings of truth floating through my mind and heart. Inside I knew that they were true, but I was busy. So busy. Too busy and weary and deep in "I DON'T WANT TO DEAL WITH THAT!", to stop and invest the time to know.
But at about 10:10pm when all the kids were in bed and the house was darkening, I finally did.
I'd been worried about my child, who looked sick. She was always tired. And she'd begun an absolute love affair with water bottles and icecubes.
I went to the internet and looked up the symtoms of diabetes because I knew deep inside that was what going on with my one and only beautiful daughter.
She had them. She had them all.
*sigh*
I remember standing on the stairs crying and telling my sweet husband that I was pretty sure she was sick. In retrospect I realize he didn't really get it. He didn't KNOW like I did, but he worried.
So the next morning, Monday, I made an appointment for her at the pediatrician after school. (In retrospect I also should have probably gone to the emergency room that night, but it turned out okay in the end.)
I drove her and her four younger brothers off to school, the school I happened to be working at that day. Around 11am, I ran into a friend in the hall, the friend who I'd spent hours sitting next to during basketball practice for our sons earlier that spring. Hours during which she taught me all about autoimmune diseases, specifically the ones her children had: rheumatoid arthritis, celiacs disease, and Type 1 diabetes.
I told Kim I suspected that Miss M had Type 1. She said, "Well let's use my daughter's kit and find out." So we did. I got M and we all went to the nurse's office. Kim told me later as soon as she saw M's hands and tried to get that drop of blood to come out, she knew. The meter registered HI, which meant that M's Blood Glucose Level (BGL) was over 599.
Kim and the nurse said to call the doctor's office. I did. Then I played phone tag for about 45 minutes, until finally being directed to take M to the emergency room.
Off we went. On the way I called my husband. I told him where we were going and that I would call when I knew something.
It took less than five minutes to be taken back into triage. We immediately went from there into an exam room. (If you want speedy service in the ER coming in with an unknown high BGL is a great way to accomplish it.)
Then we sat for about four hours waiting for the test results and the IVs they had hooked up to stabilizer her..
At some point I contacted my poor worried spouse and he left work downtown and came out to the hospital near our house. The doctor came in to tell us that they were working to get her prepared enough to transport by ambulance to the downtown hospital where there was a PICU. My husband was completely lost. He asked, "Wait! What is wrong? Does she have diabeties? Are you sure?"
The doctor kindly backed up and went through everything. M had come in with a BGL of around 625. (Normal is 80-120) She had ketones present in her blood (acidic byproducts of breaking down fat because you can't use the carbohydrates for fuel), but there was no evidence of ketoacidois (likely thanks to the daily system flushing M had been driven to do with all of the icy water she drank.) Still they wanted to take her downtown where there was a pediatric internsive care unit, just in case she needed it.
Life moved right into surreal at that point. I'd brought an ambulatory child who was completely coherent in and suddenly you are about ready to send her into ICU? Well then. We have entered the Twilight Zone.
At close to 5pm they prepared us for transport. I rode with her in the ambulance. It was pouring rain. They didn't use the siren. She was rather perturbed by that thinking this is her first and possibly only (let's hope) chance to ride in an ambulance and she gets NO fanfare.
The next twenty hours sped by. They settled us into a room on the pediatric floor. Doctors came and went. Nurses came and went. Poking and prodding occurred at all hours. I "tried" to sleep in the fold out chair next to the bed where she tried to sleep.
Around 10am the next morning, Don, the diabetic educator came. He taught us all about her care. He explained counting carbohydrates, insulin, and exercise. He let each of us give him a shot of saline to practice our new reality. After about an hour he wrote prescriptions, gave us a million phone numbers for himself, her endocrinologist (Isn't it lucky that my endocrinologist is her endocrinologist? Hypothyroidism is an autoimmune disease. There seems to be a link among autoimmune disease. Lucky us.)
Then Don said, "As soon as she eats lunch, figures out the carb count for it, and gives herself a shot of the correct insulin, you can all go home."
Seriously? We each have drawn up and given one shot. She has tested herself once or twice. They just put us in an ambulance because she was took sick to do anything but head for PICU less than 24 hours ago and now you are sending us home?
So at 2 pm, 25 hours after we'd arrived at the ER, we were discharged. I felt completely unready. But off we went. Thank goodness for all those phone numbers. Thank goodness for two friend with diabetic kids. Thank goodness that dying from diabetes takes hours rather than minutes.
We made it. We made it through the next few days. We made it through her first half day back at school two days later on Thursday, when she went and explained her disease to all her concerned classmates. We made it through the all day field trip downtown on Friday, and through the school carnival that night. The carnival in which fried carbohydrates covered in sugar are the norm and in which she won two cakes and purchased with her leftover tickets enough icecream on a stick to feed our whole seven person family a few days later.
We have since made it through her first of many doctor appointments. Her first cold. (Bad numbers those days.) Her first day of middle school with a new nurse. Her first day of after school sports. ("By the way coach, she has diabeties. You will have to listen to her and let her stop if she needs to and make sure you know where her supplies are just in case.") Her first and second bout of stomach flu ("Be careful," says the endocrinologist. "If she gets dehydrated she will have to be hospitalized." Great thanks. Love this disease - as I force fluids that will be coming back up within 15 minutes.)
We have made it through a lot of firsts. And most of them are okay, but still I sometimes cry as I write the email to the new person who has entered her life, like I did this morning for the track coaches.
I cry as I let them know that she is really amazing. She can do pretty much everything on her own, including managing the disease during volleyball and basketball this year. And maintaining A's in all of her classes, most of which are gifted and honors classes despite the fact that her A1c tells us that she is likely running around at a BGL of over 300 more often than not. A BGL that would have most of us laying on the couch in a carb coma.
I write the email to get them onboard so that they realize and remember that she needs them to listen and watch and be ready to help if she can't do it herself. And that she really can't stand around and explain (or argue - oops the nurse and I forgot to send the memo to the librarian this year) about her condition and get a hall pass before heading for the nurse WITH A FRIEND WHO ALSO SHOULDN'T HAVE TO WAIT FOR A HALL PASS when she is low or high. (Honestly the school and the teachers have all been great, but really 42 BGL after spending forever waiting for the librarian to get through the process to create a PROPER hall pass was concerning.)
Most days are great. Most people are so helpful and willing to do anything to help. But you still have to remind them. Every time.
So sometimes I just write and think and feel the tears slip down.
Some things never go away. No matter how much you wish they would. No matter how much you wish you could take a break. And regardless of how capable, skilled, and knowledgeable you become.--Regardless of the thickness of the skin that develops to protect your heart, you still feel sad. And you cry.
But at about 10:10pm when all the kids were in bed and the house was darkening, I finally did.
I'd been worried about my child, who looked sick. She was always tired. And she'd begun an absolute love affair with water bottles and icecubes.
I went to the internet and looked up the symtoms of diabetes because I knew deep inside that was what going on with my one and only beautiful daughter.
- Increased thirst and frequent urination
- Extreme hunger
- Weight loss
- Fatigue
- Blurred vision
She had them. She had them all.
*sigh*
I remember standing on the stairs crying and telling my sweet husband that I was pretty sure she was sick. In retrospect I realize he didn't really get it. He didn't KNOW like I did, but he worried.
So the next morning, Monday, I made an appointment for her at the pediatrician after school. (In retrospect I also should have probably gone to the emergency room that night, but it turned out okay in the end.)
I drove her and her four younger brothers off to school, the school I happened to be working at that day. Around 11am, I ran into a friend in the hall, the friend who I'd spent hours sitting next to during basketball practice for our sons earlier that spring. Hours during which she taught me all about autoimmune diseases, specifically the ones her children had: rheumatoid arthritis, celiacs disease, and Type 1 diabetes.
I told Kim I suspected that Miss M had Type 1. She said, "Well let's use my daughter's kit and find out." So we did. I got M and we all went to the nurse's office. Kim told me later as soon as she saw M's hands and tried to get that drop of blood to come out, she knew. The meter registered HI, which meant that M's Blood Glucose Level (BGL) was over 599.
Kim and the nurse said to call the doctor's office. I did. Then I played phone tag for about 45 minutes, until finally being directed to take M to the emergency room.
Off we went. On the way I called my husband. I told him where we were going and that I would call when I knew something.
It took less than five minutes to be taken back into triage. We immediately went from there into an exam room. (If you want speedy service in the ER coming in with an unknown high BGL is a great way to accomplish it.)
Then we sat for about four hours waiting for the test results and the IVs they had hooked up to stabilizer her..
At some point I contacted my poor worried spouse and he left work downtown and came out to the hospital near our house. The doctor came in to tell us that they were working to get her prepared enough to transport by ambulance to the downtown hospital where there was a PICU. My husband was completely lost. He asked, "Wait! What is wrong? Does she have diabeties? Are you sure?"
The doctor kindly backed up and went through everything. M had come in with a BGL of around 625. (Normal is 80-120) She had ketones present in her blood (acidic byproducts of breaking down fat because you can't use the carbohydrates for fuel), but there was no evidence of ketoacidois (likely thanks to the daily system flushing M had been driven to do with all of the icy water she drank.) Still they wanted to take her downtown where there was a pediatric internsive care unit, just in case she needed it.
Life moved right into surreal at that point. I'd brought an ambulatory child who was completely coherent in and suddenly you are about ready to send her into ICU? Well then. We have entered the Twilight Zone.
At close to 5pm they prepared us for transport. I rode with her in the ambulance. It was pouring rain. They didn't use the siren. She was rather perturbed by that thinking this is her first and possibly only (let's hope) chance to ride in an ambulance and she gets NO fanfare.
The next twenty hours sped by. They settled us into a room on the pediatric floor. Doctors came and went. Nurses came and went. Poking and prodding occurred at all hours. I "tried" to sleep in the fold out chair next to the bed where she tried to sleep.
Around 10am the next morning, Don, the diabetic educator came. He taught us all about her care. He explained counting carbohydrates, insulin, and exercise. He let each of us give him a shot of saline to practice our new reality. After about an hour he wrote prescriptions, gave us a million phone numbers for himself, her endocrinologist (Isn't it lucky that my endocrinologist is her endocrinologist? Hypothyroidism is an autoimmune disease. There seems to be a link among autoimmune disease. Lucky us.)
Then Don said, "As soon as she eats lunch, figures out the carb count for it, and gives herself a shot of the correct insulin, you can all go home."
Seriously? We each have drawn up and given one shot. She has tested herself once or twice. They just put us in an ambulance because she was took sick to do anything but head for PICU less than 24 hours ago and now you are sending us home?
So at 2 pm, 25 hours after we'd arrived at the ER, we were discharged. I felt completely unready. But off we went. Thank goodness for all those phone numbers. Thank goodness for two friend with diabetic kids. Thank goodness that dying from diabetes takes hours rather than minutes.
We made it. We made it through the next few days. We made it through her first half day back at school two days later on Thursday, when she went and explained her disease to all her concerned classmates. We made it through the all day field trip downtown on Friday, and through the school carnival that night. The carnival in which fried carbohydrates covered in sugar are the norm and in which she won two cakes and purchased with her leftover tickets enough icecream on a stick to feed our whole seven person family a few days later.
We have since made it through her first of many doctor appointments. Her first cold. (Bad numbers those days.) Her first day of middle school with a new nurse. Her first day of after school sports. ("By the way coach, she has diabeties. You will have to listen to her and let her stop if she needs to and make sure you know where her supplies are just in case.") Her first and second bout of stomach flu ("Be careful," says the endocrinologist. "If she gets dehydrated she will have to be hospitalized." Great thanks. Love this disease - as I force fluids that will be coming back up within 15 minutes.)
We have made it through a lot of firsts. And most of them are okay, but still I sometimes cry as I write the email to the new person who has entered her life, like I did this morning for the track coaches.
I cry as I let them know that she is really amazing. She can do pretty much everything on her own, including managing the disease during volleyball and basketball this year. And maintaining A's in all of her classes, most of which are gifted and honors classes despite the fact that her A1c tells us that she is likely running around at a BGL of over 300 more often than not. A BGL that would have most of us laying on the couch in a carb coma.
I write the email to get them onboard so that they realize and remember that she needs them to listen and watch and be ready to help if she can't do it herself. And that she really can't stand around and explain (or argue - oops the nurse and I forgot to send the memo to the librarian this year) about her condition and get a hall pass before heading for the nurse WITH A FRIEND WHO ALSO SHOULDN'T HAVE TO WAIT FOR A HALL PASS when she is low or high. (Honestly the school and the teachers have all been great, but really 42 BGL after spending forever waiting for the librarian to get through the process to create a PROPER hall pass was concerning.)
Most days are great. Most people are so helpful and willing to do anything to help. But you still have to remind them. Every time.
So sometimes I just write and think and feel the tears slip down.
Some things never go away. No matter how much you wish they would. No matter how much you wish you could take a break. And regardless of how capable, skilled, and knowledgeable you become.--Regardless of the thickness of the skin that develops to protect your heart, you still feel sad. And you cry.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Stepping Back, Tripping Over a Pair of Stinking Shoes, and Getting Some Perspective
Not that long ago, (Well it doesn't seem that long ago in my mind. In reality it was four years ago.) I read a story about a woman who had decided she was tired of her husband and his habits. She got cranky. He got cranky back. They harped on each other all the time they were together. Their son felt caught in the middle.
One of the big things that bothered her was the toothpaste spatters that he would thoughtlessly leave each day marring the surface of the mirror. She railed on her husband for the mess he was making. Such a little thing, and yet the argument over it waged on leaving a torn up trail of hurt and angry feelings behind.
Then one day, he died. She was alone. She found that she missed her companion of 62 years far more than she ever thought she would. And she found that there were still toothpaste spatters on the mirror. Spatters that appeared daily, long after his funeral was over.
Recognition. Regret. Remorse.
Somedays I find myself frustrated and angry living in a house with other inconsiderate people. People who never load the dishwasher, even though they have been taught how. People who break the hinges off the doors because they are too lazy to hang coats and arrange backpacks in the closet and instead just force it shut. People who leave shoes laying about the house.
I become frustrated and angry. Looking around at the mess left behind, I long for the day they move on, and then I look closer at those dishes and see that some of them are sitting at my table spot.
And the shoes?
A quick jant about the house with a camera shows that nearly all the shoes----
Huh. That stinks. I'm at fault too.
Gotta process that for awhile.
Pause for thought..................
Perhaps I will miss them. I might even miss their mess. Maybe.
But while they are here, I might as well teach them about fixing door hinges.
One of the big things that bothered her was the toothpaste spatters that he would thoughtlessly leave each day marring the surface of the mirror. She railed on her husband for the mess he was making. Such a little thing, and yet the argument over it waged on leaving a torn up trail of hurt and angry feelings behind.
Then one day, he died. She was alone. She found that she missed her companion of 62 years far more than she ever thought she would. And she found that there were still toothpaste spatters on the mirror. Spatters that appeared daily, long after his funeral was over.
Recognition. Regret. Remorse.
Somedays I find myself frustrated and angry living in a house with other inconsiderate people. People who never load the dishwasher, even though they have been taught how. People who break the hinges off the doors because they are too lazy to hang coats and arrange backpacks in the closet and instead just force it shut. People who leave shoes laying about the house.
I become frustrated and angry. Looking around at the mess left behind, I long for the day they move on, and then I look closer at those dishes and see that some of them are sitting at my table spot.
And the shoes?
A quick jant about the house with a camera shows that nearly all the shoes----
belong to me.
Huh. That stinks. I'm at fault too.
Gotta process that for awhile.
Pause for thought..................
Perhaps I will miss them. I might even miss their mess. Maybe.
But while they are here, I might as well teach them about fixing door hinges.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Happy Birthday to me
My cousin just inspired me with this blog entry about her birthday. She is an amazing and talented woman who has been through great trials and emerged stronger. She is a woman of note. Her birthday was last week. Happy Birthday my dear.
Several years ago I learned that a woman at church celebrated her birthday for the entire month of August. Her husband and children treat her like a queen and pampered her for a month.
It sounded lovely, but not really practical at my house. She has only daughters who all go for this idea along with a worshipful husband. That's not who I live with, which is good since I'm not really into worship. I want love, respect, and attention on my terms.
In other words, I'm an introvert who wants to be acknowledged for a bit and then left alone to gather energy for the next social situation.
And my husband, who I adore and who admits to loving me too, is pretty good at listening to me every day, buying me what I want when I want it, and showing up with a dinner or flowers when I need it.
Also my birthday is in December. People try, but basically December is too busy for an actual birthday celebration for an introvert like me because work, school, and church parties fill the calendar and exhaust my social butterfly supply. For years I felt somewhat gypped, but I had no more energy to be social, so I wallowed neglected and tired.
Inspired by the birthday month idea, I determined about two years ago to take matters into my own hands and start celebrating my birthday early and late. I started in October. That year I managed to set up at least one lunch date with a friend or friends per month all the way to April.
While beginning the project and still feeling sad, old, and frumpy, I told my friend Tracy about it, and she, the woman who usually gets to cook a turkey dinner to celebrate her birthday, said, "I want to take you to lunch and then we will go shopping together and get you some new makeup." It was a great day. Not only did I get lunch and new make up, I also finished most of my Christmas shopping. Then on Monday she did my hair and showed me some things about make up. (She is also my hair dresser.) I seriously felt like I was a princess or movie star for a whole weekend.
So now we have a tradition, we go to lunch sometime between November and January. We don't spend as much time as that first lunch, but we recognize each other's birthdays. And I know that she, unlike most of the other lunch dates, really understands and cares.
My husband does nice things too. Sometimes he buys me a present I ask for. Sometimes he takes me to dinner. Sometimes those presents and dinner are nowhere near my birthday, but in my mind they are my birthday celebration of me being awesomely alive.
This year I wasn't as organized as the last two years. Life has been excruciatingly busy since September. I've had important things to get done and not much time to sit at home contemplating my need for love and attention, so time slipped past.
Pretty soon we were heading out of October and into November and my only lunch dates were dates to go and take friends to see theBoise Temple
December came. As usual a party was scheduled on my birthday. Not a party for me. A church Christmas party. Ham, funeral potatoes, bagged salad, and a small brownie dusted with crushed peppermint. Not my actual desired menu, and I sat at a table of 7 men, mostly under the age of 12, but hey - I didn't have to cook.
Along with the church dinner, came a national tragedy. Twenty children were brutally killed on my birthday this past year. Wasn't exactly a fun day for any one.
Fortunately I had decided in my busyness to call the new Christmas decorations I purchased early in the month, my presents. On that tragic day, I already had a beautiful display of mercury glass set up on my piano.
Later I took some of it and created a winter mantle that has brought me happiness in the last two months whenever I looked at it.
You might notice I have two more candlesticks and the round
votives t hat were not on the piano. Yes I got
a large amount of mercury glass. I quite like it.
I also bought the round white ball after Christmas because it was $2 and I liked it.
I choose good presents.
A friend whose birthday is even closer to Christmas than mine invited several friends out to lunch to celebrate ourselves. It was fun. And frankly I was feeling done. I'd had dinner, lunches, presents bought by myself, a tablet bought by my husband months before that was still bringing me great joy. My parents gave me money which I obviously spent on fun stuff. I was happy. I was fulfilled. I didn't feel like working anymore on celebrating myself. I had tried to put together lunch with Tracy Tracy
So imagine my complete surprise when Tracy presented me with this yesterday -
Several years ago I learned that a woman at church celebrated her birthday for the entire month of August. Her husband and children treat her like a queen and pampered her for a month.
It sounded lovely, but not really practical at my house. She has only daughters who all go for this idea along with a worshipful husband. That's not who I live with, which is good since I'm not really into worship. I want love, respect, and attention on my terms.
In other words, I'm an introvert who wants to be acknowledged for a bit and then left alone to gather energy for the next social situation.
And my husband, who I adore and who admits to loving me too, is pretty good at listening to me every day, buying me what I want when I want it, and showing up with a dinner or flowers when I need it.
Also my birthday is in December. People try, but basically December is too busy for an actual birthday celebration for an introvert like me because work, school, and church parties fill the calendar and exhaust my social butterfly supply. For years I felt somewhat gypped, but I had no more energy to be social, so I wallowed neglected and tired.
Inspired by the birthday month idea, I determined about two years ago to take matters into my own hands and start celebrating my birthday early and late. I started in October. That year I managed to set up at least one lunch date with a friend or friends per month all the way to April.
While beginning the project and still feeling sad, old, and frumpy, I told my friend Tracy about it, and she, the woman who usually gets to cook a turkey dinner to celebrate her birthday, said, "I want to take you to lunch and then we will go shopping together and get you some new makeup." It was a great day. Not only did I get lunch and new make up, I also finished most of my Christmas shopping. Then on Monday she did my hair and showed me some things about make up. (She is also my hair dresser.) I seriously felt like I was a princess or movie star for a whole weekend.
So now we have a tradition, we go to lunch sometime between November and January. We don't spend as much time as that first lunch, but we recognize each other's birthdays. And I know that she, unlike most of the other lunch dates, really understands and cares.
My husband does nice things too. Sometimes he buys me a present I ask for. Sometimes he takes me to dinner. Sometimes those presents and dinner are nowhere near my birthday, but in my mind they are my birthday celebration of me being awesomely alive.
This year I wasn't as organized as the last two years. Life has been excruciatingly busy since September. I've had important things to get done and not much time to sit at home contemplating my need for love and attention, so time slipped past.
Pretty soon we were heading out of October and into November and my only lunch dates were dates to go and take friends to see the
December came. As usual a party was scheduled on my birthday. Not a party for me. A church Christmas party. Ham, funeral potatoes, bagged salad, and a small brownie dusted with crushed peppermint. Not my actual desired menu, and I sat at a table of 7 men, mostly under the age of 12, but hey - I didn't have to cook.
Along with the church dinner, came a national tragedy. Twenty children were brutally killed on my birthday this past year. Wasn't exactly a fun day for any one.
Fortunately I had decided in my busyness to call the new Christmas decorations I purchased early in the month, my presents. On that tragic day, I already had a beautiful display of mercury glass set up on my piano.
The candles, candlesticks, votives, and long needle pine were my present.
The blue spruce pieces came out of my yard and the wreath
and glass balls are from previous years.
So imagine my complete surprise when Tracy presented me with this yesterday -
Mine was bigger and had a chocolate coated crust along with
exponentially more raspberries, blackberries and no mandrins.
Birthdays are great. Friends are greater. I’m really done now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)