Offered without comment, because there is nothing I can add or say better. Except, thank you, Sir. Yes, it's seven plus minutes, but they fly by and they are worthwhile.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you so much more than coffee.
Friday, May 31, 2013
Thursday, May 30, 2013
Too Much T.V.
I admit it; I've been watching a lot television recently. Movies and shows and the commercials that run in between them. While I'm not proud of it, it has at least, given me some interesting things to think about.
Thing the First: The person who is set up, learns something impossible, has their world turned upside down, is suddenly on the run. Inevitably, the character has something unbelievable they need someone to believe. They've been abducted by aliens. They aren't really insane. No one else remembers they exist. No one else remembers something has happened. They need someone to listen, believe them, and not call the police, the psychiatrist, the government, depending on the situation. Sometimes the confidant rises to the occasion. Other times, they assure the character they will listen and then they make the call while the character is finally getting a must needed rest, shower, or meal. So sad.
Which made me wonder ~ who would I call on if I needed someone to believe me when no one else would, needed someone to believe the unbelievable. Lithus, first and foremost. Because of particularly bitter exes, we had to agree a long time ago that we would believe what came out of each other's mouths over anything else. No, it's not to the degree I've mentioned above, but the concept is the same. He will believe me and help. If he doesn't believe me, he will still help. Our vows even included having the others' back. Second, the Lovely Cats. Yeah, she has her issues, but if I need her ~ really need her ~ she'd be there. Even if it means sneaking me across the border, paying off the aliens, hiding me from the people who are trying to set me up, or any of the other plots that have popped up recently.
Thing the Second: Also includes Lithus but not in the same way. There is a hero. He is doing something dangerous. His girlfriend/wife/fiance is in the control room when the government, ambiguously-good guys, people in charge decide they don't trust him to complete the plan and have to do something for the greater good that will end up killing our hero. At which point, the girlfriend/wife/fiance starts to cry and beg. That's all she does. She knows these people are about to kill the hero, whom she loves, and she cries and begs.
Dude. If the ambiguously-good guy goes to kill Lithus, greater good be damned, they will have to knock my ass out in order to accomplish their goal. I will be clawing and punching and screaming and pushing buttons and pulling levers and generally being a mad woman in order to keep them from doing whatever they feel they need to do. I get that they feel they need to do it. They are wrong. Why do these women just stand there and cry?
Thing the Third: Product placement has entered the realm of commercials. Really? And not something that makes some kind of sense like the fast food commercial includes a plug for the cola they serve with their combo meals. No, this is about a car commercial that includes an ad for windows 8. Or a clothing store commercial that includes a movie trailer. Are our attention spans so short that we can't even pay attention to our hot cocoa commercials without needing them to be ads for something else as well? *sigh* I guess the answer to that is evident, if I like it or not.
Thing the Fourth: It happened the other day. The first documentary dealing with something that is going to occur beyond my lifetime has shown up on my television. And I don't mean things that are going to happen beyond everyone's lifetime, or even beyond the lifetimes of everyone alive right now. I was watching a show and it talked about being concerned with things that were going to happen in 2050. And there it is. I will be 90. Lithus will be 99. Yes, technically, we could still be around to be impacted by the event, but really? The kids in my world will have to deal with this one without me. Until now, it's been "oh, I'll be in my 60s" or "...my 70s" and I plan on still being pretty damn vibrant. But 90s? Hmmm...
What about you? Who would call if they had to believe the unbelievable?
Those are random Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thing the First: The person who is set up, learns something impossible, has their world turned upside down, is suddenly on the run. Inevitably, the character has something unbelievable they need someone to believe. They've been abducted by aliens. They aren't really insane. No one else remembers they exist. No one else remembers something has happened. They need someone to listen, believe them, and not call the police, the psychiatrist, the government, depending on the situation. Sometimes the confidant rises to the occasion. Other times, they assure the character they will listen and then they make the call while the character is finally getting a must needed rest, shower, or meal. So sad.
Which made me wonder ~ who would I call on if I needed someone to believe me when no one else would, needed someone to believe the unbelievable. Lithus, first and foremost. Because of particularly bitter exes, we had to agree a long time ago that we would believe what came out of each other's mouths over anything else. No, it's not to the degree I've mentioned above, but the concept is the same. He will believe me and help. If he doesn't believe me, he will still help. Our vows even included having the others' back. Second, the Lovely Cats. Yeah, she has her issues, but if I need her ~ really need her ~ she'd be there. Even if it means sneaking me across the border, paying off the aliens, hiding me from the people who are trying to set me up, or any of the other plots that have popped up recently.
Thing the Second: Also includes Lithus but not in the same way. There is a hero. He is doing something dangerous. His girlfriend/wife/fiance is in the control room when the government, ambiguously-good guys, people in charge decide they don't trust him to complete the plan and have to do something for the greater good that will end up killing our hero. At which point, the girlfriend/wife/fiance starts to cry and beg. That's all she does. She knows these people are about to kill the hero, whom she loves, and she cries and begs.
Dude. If the ambiguously-good guy goes to kill Lithus, greater good be damned, they will have to knock my ass out in order to accomplish their goal. I will be clawing and punching and screaming and pushing buttons and pulling levers and generally being a mad woman in order to keep them from doing whatever they feel they need to do. I get that they feel they need to do it. They are wrong. Why do these women just stand there and cry?
Thing the Third: Product placement has entered the realm of commercials. Really? And not something that makes some kind of sense like the fast food commercial includes a plug for the cola they serve with their combo meals. No, this is about a car commercial that includes an ad for windows 8. Or a clothing store commercial that includes a movie trailer. Are our attention spans so short that we can't even pay attention to our hot cocoa commercials without needing them to be ads for something else as well? *sigh* I guess the answer to that is evident, if I like it or not.
Thing the Fourth: It happened the other day. The first documentary dealing with something that is going to occur beyond my lifetime has shown up on my television. And I don't mean things that are going to happen beyond everyone's lifetime, or even beyond the lifetimes of everyone alive right now. I was watching a show and it talked about being concerned with things that were going to happen in 2050. And there it is. I will be 90. Lithus will be 99. Yes, technically, we could still be around to be impacted by the event, but really? The kids in my world will have to deal with this one without me. Until now, it's been "oh, I'll be in my 60s" or "...my 70s" and I plan on still being pretty damn vibrant. But 90s? Hmmm...
What about you? Who would call if they had to believe the unbelievable?
Those are random Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, May 27, 2013
Memorial Day
The truth is it is far easier to understand, to accept, to forgive, when you are loved and supported than it is to do all those things when you are making it under your own steam. And let's be totally honest, a substantial passage of time helps a lot, too. It doesn't, however, take the place of love and support.
Thanks to social media and an internet that connects us all ~ and tells us when we've been checked out ~ I have learned that my ex, the SGM, is now the Command Sergeant Major (CSGM) of a damn cool company. It appears he was even handpicked, which shouldn't surprise anyone who has ever known him. And I find I am happy for him.
And so I thank him, for the first time here on Pobble Thoughts, for his service. For his patriotism. For his loyalty to his unit and his men. I thank him with a freer heart than I ever imagined possible. And I hope he's happy.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thanks to social media and an internet that connects us all ~ and tells us when we've been checked out ~ I have learned that my ex, the SGM, is now the Command Sergeant Major (CSGM) of a damn cool company. It appears he was even handpicked, which shouldn't surprise anyone who has ever known him. And I find I am happy for him.
And so I thank him, for the first time here on Pobble Thoughts, for his service. For his patriotism. For his loyalty to his unit and his men. I thank him with a freer heart than I ever imagined possible. And I hope he's happy.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Grandmothers
Ian, Mr. Write On over at And I Still Think So, posted on grandmothers today, which is noteworthy because my own grandmothers have been in my thoughts a lot recently. First, I wrote about two of them here not too long ago (and yes, during both Cam and Mrs. Pike's visit and Dr. B's visit, I went barefoot. Family v. company, I guess. Digressing, Pobble...). But also, I have had occasion to tell stories about them recently, too.
My second maternal grandmother (technically, she was a step, but we never thought of each other that way) was a rancher woman who married a fancy city lawyer (my grandfather) and brought her sense of propriety and pragmatism with her when she moved from the plains of west Texas into the suburbs of Dallas. My first house had hardwood floors, so I wrote her ~ the most proper woman I knew (with no apologies to my mother, who was, is, and always will be far too free spirited to worry too much about being proper) ~ asking how to care for them. Her response? Oh, honey, I have no idea. My hardwoods were walked on all day, every day, by dirty ranch hands. I was just grateful if they took their boots off before tramping through the living room. Yet this same woman could host a formal dinner party for the partners at the most exclusive supper club in the city, without batting an eye.
My paternal grandmother was sweet, plain and simple. Her greatest pride her whole life was being Mrs. Papa Pobble. She helped minister to my grandfather's congregations in a way I can only now, as an adult, even begin to comprehend. When my grandfather went to war in WWII, she went and bought a red hat, because preachers' wives couldn't wear red hats, but soldiers' wives could. I swear, it was the most daring thing she ever did. To this day, she is the most gentle soul I have ever encountered.
My first (biological) maternal grandmother died when my own mother was 16, so I never knew her, but I have always felt amazingly connected to her. I remember wanting to hear stories about her from her friends, her sisters, my mother. As a child, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about her, but then, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about anything, which is an opportunity I greatly miss.
Now, I am a grandmother. It's not a title I wear often, but my daughter (step, technically, but since she doesn't use the "step" part, I don't either; she's my kid) gets great joy in using the title when referring to me, so I guess I am one. My daughter and I met when she was pregnant with her first child and I explained that I would love that baby, that I would spoil that baby, that I would visit that baby ~ but that I wouldn't, under any circumstances, hold that baby. I don't hold babies, I don't care whose they are. When Lithus and I walked into the hospital room, my daughter's other mother was holding the baby. She and I had never met before but we grinned at each other, as grandmothers. As is wont to happen, she asked if I wanted to hold the baby and went to pass him to me ~ when my darling daughter, still exhausted from delivery sits up, announces "Pobble doesn't hold babies!" and flopped back down again.
Now, I have two grandchildren. Honestly, I am expecting a third before too much longer, because my girl is finally married to a man who adores her and treats her well and who deserves to be the father of her children (and who doesn't use the prefix "step" any more than anyone else in this post ever did). So, yeah, I'm expecting a third one of these days.
Circumstances and personality keep me from ever being the grandmother my grandmothers were, and I'm okay with that. But I think about my grandchildren. And I think about my grandmothers. And I realize I am part of a long line of pretty amazing women and, even though I never expected to be here, I'm okay with that, too.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
My second maternal grandmother (technically, she was a step, but we never thought of each other that way) was a rancher woman who married a fancy city lawyer (my grandfather) and brought her sense of propriety and pragmatism with her when she moved from the plains of west Texas into the suburbs of Dallas. My first house had hardwood floors, so I wrote her ~ the most proper woman I knew (with no apologies to my mother, who was, is, and always will be far too free spirited to worry too much about being proper) ~ asking how to care for them. Her response? Oh, honey, I have no idea. My hardwoods were walked on all day, every day, by dirty ranch hands. I was just grateful if they took their boots off before tramping through the living room. Yet this same woman could host a formal dinner party for the partners at the most exclusive supper club in the city, without batting an eye.
My paternal grandmother was sweet, plain and simple. Her greatest pride her whole life was being Mrs. Papa Pobble. She helped minister to my grandfather's congregations in a way I can only now, as an adult, even begin to comprehend. When my grandfather went to war in WWII, she went and bought a red hat, because preachers' wives couldn't wear red hats, but soldiers' wives could. I swear, it was the most daring thing she ever did. To this day, she is the most gentle soul I have ever encountered.
My first (biological) maternal grandmother died when my own mother was 16, so I never knew her, but I have always felt amazingly connected to her. I remember wanting to hear stories about her from her friends, her sisters, my mother. As a child, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about her, but then, it never dawned on me to sit with my grandfather and ask him about anything, which is an opportunity I greatly miss.
Now, I am a grandmother. It's not a title I wear often, but my daughter (step, technically, but since she doesn't use the "step" part, I don't either; she's my kid) gets great joy in using the title when referring to me, so I guess I am one. My daughter and I met when she was pregnant with her first child and I explained that I would love that baby, that I would spoil that baby, that I would visit that baby ~ but that I wouldn't, under any circumstances, hold that baby. I don't hold babies, I don't care whose they are. When Lithus and I walked into the hospital room, my daughter's other mother was holding the baby. She and I had never met before but we grinned at each other, as grandmothers. As is wont to happen, she asked if I wanted to hold the baby and went to pass him to me ~ when my darling daughter, still exhausted from delivery sits up, announces "Pobble doesn't hold babies!" and flopped back down again.
Now, I have two grandchildren. Honestly, I am expecting a third before too much longer, because my girl is finally married to a man who adores her and treats her well and who deserves to be the father of her children (and who doesn't use the prefix "step" any more than anyone else in this post ever did). So, yeah, I'm expecting a third one of these days.
Circumstances and personality keep me from ever being the grandmother my grandmothers were, and I'm okay with that. But I think about my grandchildren. And I think about my grandmothers. And I realize I am part of a long line of pretty amazing women and, even though I never expected to be here, I'm okay with that, too.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Loaded Question
"Do you remember the spreader bar story?"
Huh. Let's break that down for a moment.
First, that implies the person being asked the question knows there is a spreader bar. Second, that person knows there is a story to go along with said spreader bar. And third, that person actually knows the spreader bar story.
Regardless of what the story is, where there is a spreader bar, or even why there is a spreader bar, that's a good friend. When the answer is a nearly-doubled-over-with-laughter oh my god, yes, and then the two of you go on to talk about the latest thing that somehow manages to actually and for real tie into the spreader bar story, well, that's a damn good friend.
That's Dr. B.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Huh. Let's break that down for a moment.
First, that implies the person being asked the question knows there is a spreader bar. Second, that person knows there is a story to go along with said spreader bar. And third, that person actually knows the spreader bar story.
Regardless of what the story is, where there is a spreader bar, or even why there is a spreader bar, that's a good friend. When the answer is a nearly-doubled-over-with-laughter oh my god, yes, and then the two of you go on to talk about the latest thing that somehow manages to actually and for real tie into the spreader bar story, well, that's a damn good friend.
That's Dr. B.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Well, That'll Learn Me
Recently, I was contacted by two friends. One, I've known since college. We were in each others' weddings. We've stayed in touch through her work struggles, my divorce. Issues with our families. We're those kinds of friends. About three years ago, she fell off the radar. This was during the time that Lithus and I were going to Malaysia ~ and then weren't. Had great jobs ~ and then didn't. Were on the top of the world ~ and then weren't. Being my friend was tiring, to say the least. There was always drama. Honestly, I figured she was tired of it. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.
The other started out as a blogging buddy, but quickly transitioned into real life. But we met when he didn't have much of a support system and then, miraculously, beautifully, he did. Having better support, a happier life, not having to hide any longer, it was good. His blogging slowed down. He got busy. He dropped off. I figured, while we would always be buds, he didn't need me as much any longer and had moved on. Truth be told, this happens to me a lot. People are drawn to me because I handle the not-so-happy times well. Then, when the happy times return, I am often a reminder of the not-so-happy times and get left behind for the new world, new life, new friends. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.
As much as I hate to admit it, I got it so much and to such a degree that I didn't work too hard to check in with them, make sure all was well, see beyond the surface. Because being my friend had gotten tiring. Because he didn't need me the same way he once had. So yeah, I sent a few emails, a couple cards, but when met with silence, I let them go. Figured it was about me. There had already been enough drama. I didn't want to be that friend who has drama, and is needy and insecure, too.
Then, they both got back in touch. *sigh*
They hadn't dropped off for happy reasons. They hadn't dropped off because of me. Life had gotten shitty and I'd made assumptions. Yes, it made sense for me not ask if everything was okay. Again, on their surfaces, both of these wonderful people were okay. But wow, not so much.
So, you've all been warned. From here on out, I am going to risk coming off as the friend who doesn't get it, who can't take the hint. From here on out, you are going to have to say "Pobble, I'm fine; it's you." Okay, maybe not that, exactly, but you get the idea. Because my friends ~ and if you are reading this, you count, if I know you're there or not ~ are worth a little digging, a little nagging, a little reminding that you aren't in it alone, any more than you've ever let me be in it alone. Face it; you're stuck with me.
And to those two friends, I'm sorry. I love you. Thanks for reaching out again. You're stuck with me, too. :)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
The other started out as a blogging buddy, but quickly transitioned into real life. But we met when he didn't have much of a support system and then, miraculously, beautifully, he did. Having better support, a happier life, not having to hide any longer, it was good. His blogging slowed down. He got busy. He dropped off. I figured, while we would always be buds, he didn't need me as much any longer and had moved on. Truth be told, this happens to me a lot. People are drawn to me because I handle the not-so-happy times well. Then, when the happy times return, I am often a reminder of the not-so-happy times and get left behind for the new world, new life, new friends. Sad, but hardly indefensible. I really got it.
As much as I hate to admit it, I got it so much and to such a degree that I didn't work too hard to check in with them, make sure all was well, see beyond the surface. Because being my friend had gotten tiring. Because he didn't need me the same way he once had. So yeah, I sent a few emails, a couple cards, but when met with silence, I let them go. Figured it was about me. There had already been enough drama. I didn't want to be that friend who has drama, and is needy and insecure, too.
Then, they both got back in touch. *sigh*
They hadn't dropped off for happy reasons. They hadn't dropped off because of me. Life had gotten shitty and I'd made assumptions. Yes, it made sense for me not ask if everything was okay. Again, on their surfaces, both of these wonderful people were okay. But wow, not so much.
So, you've all been warned. From here on out, I am going to risk coming off as the friend who doesn't get it, who can't take the hint. From here on out, you are going to have to say "Pobble, I'm fine; it's you." Okay, maybe not that, exactly, but you get the idea. Because my friends ~ and if you are reading this, you count, if I know you're there or not ~ are worth a little digging, a little nagging, a little reminding that you aren't in it alone, any more than you've ever let me be in it alone. Face it; you're stuck with me.
And to those two friends, I'm sorry. I love you. Thanks for reaching out again. You're stuck with me, too. :)
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, May 13, 2013
And Introducing...
...Cam and Mrs. Pike!
Who came to visit us this past weekend. Cam pointed out that he and I will have been together ten years this October. On the one hand, that is reasonable. We've been friends a long time. On the other, how is it possible that he walked into my party ten freaking years ago???? And on yet the third hand that I keep close by just for situations like this, I can't really get my head around the fact that there was a time I didn't know him, and ten years seems mighty short.
As for Mrs. Cam, she came along not too much later. Cam told me about this woman he'd met and asked me to meet her. I agreed, because he was Cam and I'd been through a heartbreak with him and damned if I was going to watch him go through another one. Mrs. Pike and I met at a coffee shop ~ and I walked in with a huge chip on my shoulder. There was no way this lady was going to win me over in a couple of hours and a cup of coffee. Two hours later, I walked out, went home, and emailed Cam: Don't screw this one up. If you do, I'm keeping her. When I ended up a bridesmaid in their wedding, it was because of the relationship she and I had built, not because of the one I had with him.
We ate and laughed and walked and braved the weather and ate some more. There were three bars on Bourbon Street. Two dance clubs. An upscale bar. A dive bar. Two different tours. A movie set. And a gecko.
My two favorite things I learned ~
Thing the First: The area just beyond Rampart Street used to be Storyville, the bordello/red light district. The working girls would wear jasmine perfume and dance to the music that was playing. It is believed that the word "jazz" was derived from the jasmine perfume they wore while dancing.
Thing the Second: Mrs. Pike and Lithus cut quite a rug. And they both play the spoons. Who would've guessed?
Statues. Parks. Narrow streets. People watching. And talking until I was hoarse.
It was a whirlwind 72-hours that made me very happy.
Who came to visit us this past weekend. Cam pointed out that he and I will have been together ten years this October. On the one hand, that is reasonable. We've been friends a long time. On the other, how is it possible that he walked into my party ten freaking years ago???? And on yet the third hand that I keep close by just for situations like this, I can't really get my head around the fact that there was a time I didn't know him, and ten years seems mighty short.
As for Mrs. Cam, she came along not too much later. Cam told me about this woman he'd met and asked me to meet her. I agreed, because he was Cam and I'd been through a heartbreak with him and damned if I was going to watch him go through another one. Mrs. Pike and I met at a coffee shop ~ and I walked in with a huge chip on my shoulder. There was no way this lady was going to win me over in a couple of hours and a cup of coffee. Two hours later, I walked out, went home, and emailed Cam: Don't screw this one up. If you do, I'm keeping her. When I ended up a bridesmaid in their wedding, it was because of the relationship she and I had built, not because of the one I had with him.
We ate and laughed and walked and braved the weather and ate some more. There were three bars on Bourbon Street. Two dance clubs. An upscale bar. A dive bar. Two different tours. A movie set. And a gecko.
 |
| The movie set |
 |
| Not the movie set |
Thing the First: The area just beyond Rampart Street used to be Storyville, the bordello/red light district. The working girls would wear jasmine perfume and dance to the music that was playing. It is believed that the word "jazz" was derived from the jasmine perfume they wore while dancing.
Thing the Second: Mrs. Pike and Lithus cut quite a rug. And they both play the spoons. Who would've guessed?
 |
| Not pictured: Spoons |
Statues. Parks. Narrow streets. People watching. And talking until I was hoarse.
It was a whirlwind 72-hours that made me very happy.
 |
| Me, very happy |
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, but good friends are priceless.
Wednesday, May 08, 2013
Still Wearing Stilettos
It's been a while since I've traveled, so it's been a while since I updated my travel blog, Stilettos in the Outback. However! Even though I haven't traveled in a few months, I live in New Orleans, so there's always an update if I think about it. I thought about it: French Quarter Fest. Especially good if you like pictures. :)
Those are stiletto-wearing Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a nice, quiet coffee.
Those are stiletto-wearing Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a nice, quiet coffee.
Monday, May 06, 2013
Impatient Patient
Oh, I have been bored. Bored, bored, bored, bored. Nothing hurt badly enough to make me grateful to stay put, but if I moved too much, the incision pulled and it hurt. So, I've been sitting. Impatiently.
The sad part is not only have I been bored, but I've been boring.
Still, three people in three different ways, over three different venues, informed me today that I have been gone too long and the worry is beginning, in spite of my protestations against worrying. Which is fair. After all, you can only disappear for so long after a "don't worry" event and expect to still not worry. But Lord, I have nothing to write about.
Instead, have a few pictures. And know that I am back to (almost) full range of motion and will have things to write about again, soon. :)
Thank you for your concern, dear friends. One-armed hugs to you all.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
The sad part is not only have I been bored, but I've been boring.
Still, three people in three different ways, over three different venues, informed me today that I have been gone too long and the worry is beginning, in spite of my protestations against worrying. Which is fair. After all, you can only disappear for so long after a "don't worry" event and expect to still not worry. But Lord, I have nothing to write about.
Instead, have a few pictures. And know that I am back to (almost) full range of motion and will have things to write about again, soon. :)
 |
| The I.V. spot |
 |
| The healing nicely, thank you very much, incision |
 |
| Because we don't fuck around with beer and wine licenses down here in NOLA |
 |
| The movie set being built on our corner |
 |
| A gorgeous day in Louis Armstrong Park |
Thank you for your concern, dear friends. One-armed hugs to you all.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thursday, May 02, 2013
I'm Here
Yesterday went well. Today, I feel as if I've been hit in the chest with a medicine ball, and have almost no range of motion without pain, so I'm not moving much. Sill, I'm doing far better than expected. More when I'm not typing one-handed. And yes, Ian, pictures, too ~ although I won't vouch for the level of adorableness. Thanks for all the good wishes!
Those are Pobble Thoughts, That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Those are Pobble Thoughts, That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
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