Samhain, 2012

Samhain is one of my favorite holidays. Before I celebrated it, and only celebrated Halloween, it was okay. Fun and cool, but no where close to a favorite. Now that I celebrate Samhain, it definitely gives Thanksgiving a run for its money.

In the past, Samhain has looked like  ~



This.

And this...



And even this (*sniff*)

This year, though... *sigh* This year, we are in a hotel room in Grangeville, Idaho. Our "kitchen" is this:

A microwave and minifridge

However! We found pretty plates:

Plus, the hotel, itself, has embraced the holiday:

And I always travel with candles (because you never know when you might need candles):

Holidays are, after all, what we make of them. Blessed be, everyone.

From Mrs. Pike this morning

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

My Brother In Law Is Cooler Than Your Brother In Law

...because my brother in law sent me this:







Pretty damn cool brother-in-law, if I do say so myself.

Those are Joss Whedon's thoughts, but I'm the Boston Pobble, and I approve this message. A buck fifty will get you coffee ~ or spam.

Move Your *Bleeping* Arse!

According to the Divine M, the Jersey coast has been evacuated due to the impending doom that is forcast to be Hurricane Sandy. Anyone who stays will have to pay all the costs of a rescue, plus a fine. Now, given all the build-up, I will roll my eyes just as hard as anyone should this thing fizzle into just another good-sized winter storm. That being said, if people are under a mandatory evacuation and don't evacuate, I am 100% okay with charging them for their own stupidity.

It's called SAR. It stands for Search And Rescue. It takes first responders out into conditions that are so bad that people have to be rescued from them. And when the roads are closed and the flood waters rise, you know who performs SAR? Helicopters. Flown by helicopter pilots. You know, kind of like this guy here:

Prepping

Flying

I'm kind of fond of this guy. And proud of him. And his ilk.

So if you choose not to evacuate, he, or someone like him, will indeed come get your ass. But I am totally okay with it costing you.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Gear Strip

The forecast today here in New Orleans is for 84. It isn't telling me, yet, what the "feel like" temperature is going to be, but I'm guessing somewhere up in the low 90's. At midnight last night, we were still in the mid-70s. My summer dresses and shorts are still at the very front of my closet.

Tuesday, we are heading to Grangeville, Idaho. Where the forecast is for highs in the 40s and lows in the 20s. sigh.

Today, I'm having brunch with a fellow author from the Alaska chapter of the RWA. If my gears are stripped, I can only imagine how she's feeling.

Those are soon to be chilly Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ iced, or hot, depending on where you are.

One For Us

I finally saw the latest Pixar movie Brave. First, let me say that, yes, it is Pixar's weakest movie. I am vaguely aware of some glitches behind the scenes with the original director and am not surprised to know it. I would even bet that there is hugely more to the story than that. The movie is that weak.

All that being said, oh my God, I loved this movie. It's boring. There's not enough plot. The characters beyond Merida and Eleanor are thin at best, caricatures at worst. There is a story to be told here. A girl's ascent into womanhood and the politics of breaking with her mother. Scotland and its clans and how it came together. And yes, gender roles and how they impact those of us who don't necessarily fit them. All of those stories are hinted at and none of them are told.

And oh my God, I loved this movie.

Merida has no desire to marry ~ and no one ever shows up to change her mind. There is absolutely no boy on her radar. She is never completed by meeting her prince...or her equal...or anyone. She is just fine on her own.
     
 Which is where I get a little snarky. I admit it, I am jaded. I am aware of how completely Merida is off the radar. No one is raving about her the way the princesses of color were raved about. If it was discussed, it was talked about as a "so-called feminist movie." Or it was disregarded because it is Pixar's weakest. I find these to be excuses for not acknowleding the fact that we finally have a "princess" who doesn't actually care to find a prince. They are also incredibly convenient ways of continuing to disregard the more tangible and impactful mysogyny of every other damn princess movie ever. Mulan came close, and I thank Disney for her. But Merida is different. And no one is talking about her.
 
The one good thing about Merida being off the radar is that I now longer have to wait for the hypocrisy to begin. Because I was. I was waiting for other women, younger and older, to start talking about how wonderful Merida is. How much they love her. How long they have waited for her. To which I call bullshit.

If you dressed up with your poofy dresses and your tiara, if you thought that one day your prince would come, if you believed that getting the right to marry anyone you wanted was the epitome of your story...You don't get to claim Merida now. She's ours. She belongs to those of us who really are okay on our own. Who really do find more adventure in exploring on our own than in being anyone's partner. 

Merida made the 14 year old in my 43 year old body sing, because Pixar created somebody who "looked like" me. Finally. So no, you don't get her. She is one for us.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Why Yes, I Am A Local

Several years ago, I finally realized that this whole moving in with Lithus thing was going to stick and I gave up my Massachusetts drivers license for a Washington one. That license saw me through... a lot. A move from Everett to Vancouver, bombing through Mexico, a cross-country drive, an almost-move to Malaysia, a hellish four months in Connecticut, another cross-country drive, and a stint in Nevada ~ at which point, my Washington license expired. Grrr...

I went ahead and got a Nevada license, but not because Nevada was in any way, shape, or form home. It was a temporary fix, at best. But it took a long to get an address in Alaska after that. And we didn't get around to getting Alaska drivers licenses before it became obvious that the move to Alaska was going to be exceedingly temporary, as well.

And we got an apartment in NOLA, but only kinda sorta lived here. We had one foot and most of our belongings out the door, at all times. Until this last summer. Something shifted this last summer. This last summer, we realized we really, really love it here. I mean, love it like it's Boston, love it. We want to belong here. We want to be at home here.

Today, we did it. We went and we sat at the DMV for two hours. We found the cooler, emptier room, and plopped down on the floor. And waited. And chatted. And waited some more. Until finally, two hours, and $45.00 later, we are, officially and formally, residents of New Orleans, Louisiana. I will be voting here on November 4th. We will be paying taxes here and maybe even getting mail,

It feels good. And strange. We have hardly had a homebase, let alone a home. But we do now. We are settled people. People with ties, if not quite roots. For the first time, our licenses even have the same address on them. Not bad for a couple of married gypsies.

Weird, but not bad at all.

 

 

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ with chicory in it, 'cause that's how we do it down here.

Gotta Use It

At some point, I will find a way to use this in a novel:

"I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose and fell a tree with my thighs, but if that's all you want to know about me, that's the last thing you will ever know about me."

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Happy Birthday, From My Mother

Sometime last week, my mother sent me a Daily Show link. I have just gotten back to NOLA and to fast enough internet to watch it. Today also happens to be my birthday, so it turned into a lovely birthday present.

The Daily Show with Jon Stewart
Get More: Daily Show Full Episodes,Political Humor & Satire Blog,The Daily Show on Facebook

Those are Pobble Thoughts. The coffee's on me, today.

Wrapping Up, Coming Home, Moving On...With Pictures

The last post with the Agnes comic strips was actually very telling. It was the day I stopped being directly helpful in Connecticut. Oh, don't get me wrong; I was still supplying emotional support. But both the Lovely Cats and Princess Kitty were doing better.

We had gotten through the urgent, survival times. We were now at the point where I was sitting, reading Agnes, and nodding saying "that was great! what next?" as she worked her way down a list. She was at the place where it was time to learn to do it all without another person there to help, because that is their new reality. They had to learn to do it without me, or they'd never learn to do it without me. It was time to go home.

On Sunday the 16th, I hugged everybody and headed out. After a (far too short) airport visit with Nemeria, I made it back to New Orleans and Lithus. Who met me at the airport looking oh so beautiful, and with 9:15 dinner reservations at Mortons. But first we stopped by the apartment to drop my bags and I found...

Flowers...

Winnie the Pooh underwear...

And oh my God, I actually own this jewelry

We had less than 36 hours at home before we moved out again. They were a good 36 hours, though. And then...back on the road. To fight fires this time, rather than log. Into Idaho and Montana. Into this:

If this is what it looks like from the ground, you can imagine what it looks like from the air.

But life is ... as it should be. "Back to normal" doesn't work. The Lovely Cats, Princess Kitty, and the Silent Prince have a new normal, and there's no going back. Lithus' and my normal is anything but. Still, life is how it should be. Again. And finally.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Interlude

It's been...strained...around here, for obvious reasons. Self-care is something I'm good at though and, as such, have rediscovered one of my favorite comic strips: Agnes, by Tony Cochran.

Until I have more time, allow me to share...

Because, after all, it is a fact. Rhinos do love the theatre.

Those are Pobble Thoughts, with some truth thrown in by Agnes. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, and perhaps even a lovely partner at the ballet.

Just To Be Very Clear

In sociology, there are labels attached to people in groups that define what roles people play. One is The Star. The Star is exactly who it sounds like. The Star is the person around whom the group revolves. This person is the one everyone considers their best friend. This person is kind enough and generous enough and open enough and loving enough to encompass everyone in the group. The reason everyone considers this person their best friend is because this person is each of their best friend. This person is not me.

Another role in a group is The Power Behind The Throne (PBTT). This is the person the Star considers his or her best friend. This is the person who, when The Star needs just a minute, The Star calls The PBTT. This person is not the face of anything. This person is not a sidekick. This person is the Doc Holiday to Wyatt Earp; Han to Luke; Zoe to Mal. This person is me.

Recently, I've had some unexpected and humbling things said about me. And I don't mean humbling, as in "damn right I'm that good, but I don't want to come off as arrogant, so I'll say I'm humbled" but honest to God humbled. I would tell you what they were, but I can't bring myself to do so. Trust that it is appropriate for some humility in the face of it all.

My favorite though is that I was called Samwise Gamgee.

In fairness, Sam comes off a little sidekick-y in the beginning, but watch long enough, and you realize he's not. He is, indeed, the power behind the throne.

He carries. He is constant. He is there. Remember this exchange:

 Sam: [Both are overcome by exhaustion] Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?
Frodo: No, Sam. I can't recall the taste of food... nor the sound of water... nor the touch of grass. I'm... naked in the dark, with nothing, no veil... between me... and the wheel of fire! I can see him... with my waking eyes!
Sam: Then let us be rid of it... once and for all! Come on, Mr. Frodo. I can't carry it for you... but I can carry you!

This was the exchange that caused the person to say I was Samwise. And this person is right. I will own it. I carry. I am constant. I am there.

But there is another quote of Sam's. One most people didn't even notice at the time, let alone remember:

 Sam: [tearing the spider silk away from Frodo's face] Oh no! Frodo... Mr. Frodo, wake up... Don't leave me here alone. Don't go where I can't follow... Wake up.

And this is what I want to be very clear about: I am selfish. I am a selfish, self-centered, self-serving bitch. I am not The PBTT for just anyone. There is this small group of people... I need them. I have accepted this about myself and about them and I need them. I will not give them up without a fight. Because I will follow them anywhere. I will carry. I will be constant. I will be there. But I don't want them going anywhere I cannot follow, so I will fight. And I will be stronger than whatever it is that I have to fight; I will be strong enough to carry whatever I have to carry. And I will win. Because I need them.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. And it will serve people well to remember them.

What It Looks Like

Do you see that body language? That is a family position, not a posed one. That is a personal moment, not a political one. That is a peaceful, happy family, not a cast of characters.

Do you see that expression? That is a man in love. A man in lust. A man in awe. A man in respect. A man in admiration. A man with an equal and he is looking at her.

Do you see that man? That man believes he is the luckiest man in the world in that moment. Not because of his job or his title, but because of the women in his life, who love him back.

That's the brass ring, people. That's what it's supposed to look like.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a hell of a lot more than coffee.

Really? That's It?

I'm learning I am really, really hard to shock. Don't get me wrong; I'm not hard to offend. There are horrors and horrific people in the world and I am appropriately offended by them. But shock? Shock is different.

Several times during the summer ~ even going back to late spring ~ people have said to me "I don't know if I should tell you/show you/share with you" some great thing in their lives because they are concerned it will shock me. It will be too much for me. It will change the way I feel about them.

Each time, I have assured these people that they can tell/show/share with me anything they want to and, if it shocks me, I will at least respect them for being able to admit to this huge thing and we would go from there. Each time, they have shared with me. Each time, I have waited and waited for the other shoe to drop ~ for the horror to be revealed.

A messy basement. A teenage pregnancy. A teenage abortion. A couple tattoos. A closet full of bondage toys, used consentually. Several too many drunken evenings.  ...  ...  Really? These are supposed to shock me? Do you know me? Have you met me?

The Lovely Cats "confessed" her messy basement to me. Talked it up so much that I expected a crack house lurking below us. Wouldn't let me go down there because it was, as she had been told by another friend, "like an episode of Hoarders." I finally took matters into my own hands and went down there. Obviously, these people have never actually seen an episode of Hoarders. Where were the dead bird carcasses? The piles of trash and waste? The towers of moldy newspapers? There aren't even paths down there, because there don't need to be paths! The stuff is spread out enough that large-ish stepping gets you through.

And, of course, there are the stories she is finally sharing with me that come out of her marriage. Again, don't get me wrong; they are awful. And yes, I would happily hand him his dick. And yes, she is a different victim because she is who she is in my world. But folks, I worked domestic violence for thirteen years. I can take what she can tell me.

It has been a season of Confess to the Pobble, because all of those abovementioned things have indeed been shared with me by different people. But no one has mentioned shooting up cocaine into their genitals, or molesting children, or drawing a weapon for the first time before they hit puberty. Also, no one has confessed to wearing flip-flops to high tea, cutoffs to the opera, or a t-shirt to dinner at 5-star restaurant, either. A warm salad fork I can handle, but just because I love you.

For months now, my friends and acquaintences and family have talked and I have listened. And the only thing that shocked me was how hard it is to shock me.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

What A Difference A Week Makes

But it actually starts sixteen years ago. My ... "friend" seems so inadequate ... she's my sister as much as anyone related to me by blood and biology. My Cats. My lovely, Lovely Cats. Sixteen years ago, she married a man who had made her cry the day before. And for sixteen years, he has worn her down. He has called her names until she believed them. He has showered her with insults until she thought they were true. I have seen him beet red and screaming, so close to her face he was spitting on her. And, still, what I saw wasn't as bad as it got, because it was always better when he had a witness; he was on his best behavior.

Last Saturday, he sent her to the hospital. He slammed her arm in the door to the point everyone thought it was broken and then wouldn't let her leave the house. Afterward, he made her beg to be taken to the emergency room.

It wasn't the first time the police were called. It was the first time neither of them could cover it up, excuse it away, charm it back behind closed doors. 

I'm sitting here, trying to find the words to explain just what he did, what it was like, and have just decided that I can't. It is impossible. The words I can find though, are the words that will follow her as she moves forward. And is she ever moving forward.

She is stronger after only one week than I have seen her in sixteen years. She is a better mother than she's been in thirteen years. She is more resolved than I've seen her ever. This will not happen again.

Is it easy? Of course not. Is she okay? Of course not ~ except that she is. Her brother said that maybe things were going as well as they could be, and I was able to reassure him that they were going even three baby steps better than that.

It's been a long week. It's going to be a longer...however many months the state requires and then he drags this out. She will go through times when she is weaker than she is right now. She will only continue to get stronger. She is already surrounding herself with better people, people who know the difference between love and control. People who understand that her being at her best is a good thing, not a threat. People who want her to succeed, not fail.

I watched her today at the beach, playing with her children, smiling and laughing and at peace. We were barely adults ourselves the last time I saw her like that. I've missed my friend. It's good to have her back.



Saturday night



Monday



Wednesday




One Week

It's been a long week. But as I was telling the Princess Kitty, as scary and sad as this week has been, this one week has made every day for the rest of our lives so much better.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

One! Two! Three! (Ah, ah, ah...)

ONE! ONE giant leap for mankind:

TWO! TWO different characters:

THREE! THREE sad losses!

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a happy childhood.

A Toast

...to the women who:

* finally say "no."
* recognize when enough really is enough.
* pack their shit.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it could be if they let it.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it will be if they let it.
* protect the right people.
* make the phone calls.
* don't make any more excuses.

...to the men who:

* know the difference between love and need.
* don't hit, yell, name call or abuse.
* are "real men" ~ in all their forms.
* don't need excuses.
* understand that fear has no place in a home or a family.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Getting It Right

Recently, I have been corrected regarding events here in NOLA. Corrected by two men who used to know more about the city than I, but who don't live here, have never lived here, and no longer know more about my hometown than I do. By two men who I have, in the past, thought knew me well enough to know that I a) rarely talk out of my ass b) usually admit to it when I do talk out of my ass and c) take polite correction (reasonably, if unhappily) well. I would actually prefer my friends to correct me, so I don't make a fool of myself in front of people who don't love me. But... If you are smug, and self-righteous, and seem to take pleasure in correcting me, I gotta be honest, it makes me question if you are actually my friend.

For the record, the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday are indeed called Carnival. Mardi Gras is only the day before Lent starts. Locals don't interchange them.

French Quarter shopkeeper: I probably make 25% of my yearly profit during Carnival.
Uninitiated: Oh, so Mardi Gras is good for you?
FQS: Oh hell, no! I'm closed on Mardi Gras. I don't want their drunken asses in my shop!*

Also, White Linen Night is a Warehouse District Event in August.

It's a community stroll, where the shops and galleries stay open late, offer wine and hors d'oeuvres. People ~ yes, wearing white linen ~ come and stroll and look in the shops and galleries, drinking wine and eating hors d'oeuvres. Dirty Linen Night is a French Quarter event that takes place the next weekend. A few years ago, someone from the Quarter decided that no one else in the city the Warehouse District shouldn't get any attention at all have all the fun, and created Dirty Linen Night. It's the exact same thing, only down Royal Street, with more liquor and less wine, and dressed in the linens that got dirtied last week in the Warehouse District. I know this exists because I got caught in it last night when I decided I wanted brussel sprouts with my dinner and went to the grocery store. Plus, there's a website and signs and announcements and shit like that. Locals know about this.

Local 1: Did you go to White Linen Night last night?
Local 2: I did, but I dropped a cocktail weenie on my top.
Local 1: At least you're ready for Dirty Linen Night next week.
Local 2: True that.*


* Dialogue may be exaggerated for effect.

So, when I referred to Carnival and Dirty Linen Night, I actually meant Carnival and Dirty Linen Night. Surprise! I actually know about my town. Don't get me wrong; I'm not hurt that you corrected me. Not in any way. However, I would remind you when you correct me, be correct. Or, at least, don't be smug, and self-righteous when you correct me and you're wrong.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Restless

I always know something's going on when I start to get restless. As I am these days. I know what it is, and it's easily fixed. More writing, less second-guessing. All will be well. But until I get back in my rhythm, I am restless.

I have suspected it for a few days, but just really got it today, sending an email to a friend. See, just recently, Lithus and I made the conscious, deliberate decision that we would stop looking outward and elsewhere and beyond. We love New Orleans. Love it. And no, we really don't want to leave unless the reason for leaving is massively worth leaving. Manhattan? Boston? Sure. Absolutely. Missoula, MT? Hoboken, NJ? You know...really not so much. Which is why it took me a little while to realize I was restless this time. Because I am happy, and I do love where I am, and I want to stay here.

But I've spent the last few days not being satisfied with this:

Or this:

Or even this:

No, I realized I was restless when I found myself thinking that this:

photo by Vivienne Gucwa

or this:

could make my life so much different.

The truth, however, is that if I'm not writing in New Orleans, I won't be writing in New York or Puerto Rico. If I'm second guessing myself here, I'll second guess myself there, too. The geographic cure only works when the problem is the geographic location, no matter how restless you are.

Because really, there ain't a damn thing wrong with this:

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

A Little More Than a Week On...

...and I'm getting better. The itching has all but stopped. The swelling is gone. Once everything heals up, I'll be able to shave again! Yay!

It's the little things.

Those are getting healthy Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Time Passes

I woke up this morning to the headline "Three Special Forces Operations Soldiers Killed in Afghanistan." First, it's not hard people. "Special Forces" are the Green Berets. Nobody else. "Special Operations" are all of the elite units, including but not limited to, Green Berets. Second, I... didn't care.

Don't get me wrong. Of course I care. The war is supposed to be over. Soldiers are not even supposed to be there, let alone dying there, any longer. But that worry that it is the SGM, that worry that maybe the Golden Boy finally got caught... Nope.

It just seems so long ago now. He seems so long ago. I am happier than I ever was. I am loved more than I ever was. I love more than I ever did. Lithus and I have known each other a little over six years, been living together for five, and married for three and half. And he was...so very long ago. Which is odd, considering this blog was started as a way to process my divorce from him.

Reading the news, I realized no one would think to call me if it was him, but also, even if they did think to contact me, no one would know how any longer. And I am just fine with both of those facts.

As the day went on, more information came out and it appears they weren't Special Forces, which means it wasn't him, which is fine, because I do not wish him ill. The Golden Boy lives to fight another day and good for him.

But me? I'm where I belong. Living my life. With my dear Lithus. I can't imagine anything else, any longer.

Those are peaceful Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.

Of Chicken, and Other Treats

It's Starbucks Day! Grab a coffee or a tea or a cookie or a bottle of water today and show your appreciation to companies that support LGBTQ rights. And, if you're craving a chicken sandwich while you're out, here are some alternatives.







Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but the one from Starbucks is gonna cost a bit more.

94

Wednesday was a holiday for me, so I decided to take some cornbread and fruit and a couple sips of rum down to the river and watch the sun set. The entire walk there, I'm thinking to myself "just make sure you don't sit in an anthill." See, I am highly allergic to ants. And not just the red fire ants. Little, black, garden variety ants will get me.

In fact, the last time I was bitten by an ant, I went into anaphylactic shock. Another allergen was present ~ toasted coconut ~ and no docctor has ever really been able to tell me if it was one of these, or the combination of the two, that led to the anaphylaxis. I just make it a policy to avoid both.

Which brings us back to Wednesday evening. I get to the river and look around. No ants. Fabulous! I sit down, begin to unpack my cornbread when I realize my dress has pulled up and the grass is dry and therefore biting into my skin. I adjust my dress when ~ and I know you know ~ I realize I am covered in ants. On my hands. On my feet. On my legs. And yes, they are biting.

This is where I will toot my own horn. I did not start screaming. I did not throw myself into the Mississippi River. I did not panic. Instead I packed back up and started paying very close attention to my breathing. So far so good.

I mentally mapped the hotels between me and my apartment, figuring I would stop there and ask them to call for help if necessary. I remembered I had my phone and called the Divine M, who rose to the occasion beautifully. And I made it home.

Even holding off what could be a medical emergency, there is something disconcerting about stepping into a shower fully clothed. But I did it. Rinsed everything, washed everything. Still breathing well. I even thought to drown whatever ants were still in my clothes so they wouldn't be crawling around my apartment.

Yesterday, once the swelling started to go really go down, I decided to count the individual bites. I gave up after 94. Figured that was enough and I didn't need to count any higher than that. Now? Now it looks like I'm a plague-ridden serf from Tudor England and I itch so badly I can just barely stand it. And I'm more or less bedridden because getting up and moving around causes everything to swell back up and hurt. And I'm stoned out of my mind on benadryl, because longer than four hours and the itching gets to the point that I can't stand it. And everything, including my kidneys, aches just a little as my body processes everything.


The pictures below are a little icky, if you're squeamish. Feel free to skip them. You're not missing much else in terms of writing. Instead, envision the town crier coming through, yelling "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" and that's about the same thing. :)

These are just of the one ankle.

You don't really need to see the rest of my body



See? Plague-ridden medieval serf, right?

But I'm livin'. And I'll take that.

Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.