Archive for July, 2011
I’ve been sleeping like absolute crap lately because — oh God — I’m too lazy to get up to pee in the middle of the night. I AM TOO LAZY TO PEE, ergo I wake up at 5, unable to contain it any longer and then I am UNABLE to go back to sleep, so hello, I’m rising at 5. This would be fine if I went to bed at 9 or 10, but I RARELY have the presence of mind to do that, so there I am, going to bed at midnight and getting up at 5, which, at the risk of sounding like a total princess, is just not enough for me unless I’ve got a newborn, and even then, I’m counting on a shitload of adrenaline to get me through.
Oh, first-world sleep problems, how you torment. The real kicker is that I’m on this mad HYDRATION! kick since being completely flattened by a surprise migraine last Thursday. I think surprise migraines are the best kind, don’t you? The kind that give you a fever, make you think you have the flu and then, BADOW! 101 degree fever! Searing pain! An urge to lie down in a dark room and ban electronic devices from existence!
One of the things that kicks me the most about parenting — and I’m not pretending this is a NEW thought, by any stretch — is that you never really know if you’re doing a good job. I mean, you don’t. There are no performance reviews, unless they are measured in minutes between tantrums, and even then, there are too many variables to determine if you had any hand in the tantrum-free time, or if that was just because they were sick/tired/cranky on tantrum day or vice versa.
I’m self-aware enough to realize that I’m making this entirely about me, when that’s the last thing parenting is really about, but I would be lying if I said I had no idea what I can and can’t take credit for, you know? Sam is a pretty compliant kid. She’s a sweet kid. Yes, she pulls attitude and GOD, SHE HAS HER MOMENTS, and I KNOW she’s only two, and my God, it’s going to get a thousand times worse, but I have no idea what aspects of her behavior have anything to do with MY behavior. Is she generally a good kid because of something I’ve done, so that I can repeat it? Is it something I HAVEN’T done, so I don’t do it in the future? Is it just HOW SHE WAS BORN?
Gah, there is NO WAY TO KNOW. I know plenty of people who are good people — and I’m guessing, good parents — with kids of all ages who are, um, DIFFICULT. And these are good people! Who are good parents! So it’s like, what DO YOU EVEN DO? Is it just dumb-shit luck with the kid’s personality that’s inborn? Do you just sit back and throw your hands in the air and declare yourself impotent?
And as a parent, do you EVER feel like you did a good job? I like to think that my parents are at least breathing a small sigh of relief that I turned out okay, if that can be measured in happiness and a reasonable modicum of success, totally obnoxious Twitter gaffes notwithstanding.
(Seriously, is there a medium that’s gotten me in MORE trouble? Is it really wise to tweet every thought unfiltered from my mouth, when nine times out of ten, I don’t mean it as Judgy McJudgerson as it sounds? Like, here, let me judge YOUR debt issues, even though you have clearly illustrated to me that you are responsible, but SHIT HAPPENS. Even when I FULLY KNOW people who have such debt who are not idiots and come by it honestly, and yes, I’m still self-flagellating over that, because the people I AM judging are not EVERYONE in that situation, so WHO EXACTLY DO I THINK I AM? See also: the economy. Let me say it again: Mea culpa. I’m sorry.)
(You may be free to judge me for my horrific housing woes, if you like, for they are a legion of unsavory miseries full of salacious, discomfiting details.)
ANYWAY, even NOW, with me being happy and married to a great guy with a sweet kid, are my parents still worried about me? Oh yes, I’m sure they are, but worry does not equal worry that they failed me, you know? I hope they’re at least taking SOME credit for having done a good job, because they did.
I can’t believe I’m about to reference something so EXTREME, but there was this crazy-ass murder in Adam’s hometown (he’s obsessed, feel free to ask him about it) — a kid who just graduated from high school killed his girlfriend in a fit of rage. They were both freshly minted 18-year-olds. How horrible is THAT?
And you know, on paper, the murderer’s family looks PERFECT, so it’s not like I can sit there and blame them, because again, THEY SEEM LIKE LOVELY PEOPLE. Wayland is a nice community! With nice parents! And only TWO murders in the last TWENTY YEARS. I hate to think that everyone is blaming THE PARENTS for the crazy shortcomings and, um, MURDER at the hands of this 18-year-old kid.
(Yes, I just went from pondering if I’m raising a kind person to fearing I will raise a MURDERER.) (Just call me Arlene.)
(Also, I seem to have moved from parental responsibility to taking responsibility for one’s actions as an adult, but while YES, I recognize that 18 is adult, he still lived at home, had JUST graduated high school, and HE MURDERED HIS GIRLFRIEND, HOW CRAZY IS THAT?)
And then what about the great kids who had AWFUL parents? WHAT ABOUT THEM? Again, should we just THROW IN THE TOWEL, toss our kids in a playpen and give up on bothering with quality time and time-outs? IS ANY OF THIS STICKING?
It’s like this whole parenting this is just A HOT FAT MESS, and NO ONE HAS ANY IDEA what they’re doing, I’m sorry, they don’t. Well, my friend Amanda does, but this is because she’s the best mom I’ve ever witnessed in person, ever. HER kids will turn out perfectly, and all because of her. I’m certain my real-life friends who are in the same circle are not offended by this, because this is the kind of dirty salacious gossip we say behind her back: She’s a great mom who puts me to shame, dude. (Hi, Amanda!)
But seriously, I DO wonder: at what point in a well behaved kid do you give the parents credit, assuming there aren’t any obvious issues? Is it luck? Parenting? WHAT? I AM FLYING WITHOUT A NET HERE.
July 28th, 2011
My husband has a fairly strict moral compass, if by fairly, you mean absolute. He’s easily the most ethical person I’ve ever met — things like infidelity, dishonesty and really, anything that could be considered unethical by just about anyone who isn’t currently in prison are COMPLETELY foreign to him. And I can’t explain why I found his reaction to The Kids Are All Right so hilarious, except that I just DID.
Him: Meh, I watched The Kids Are All Right
Me: Is that the one with the lesbians played by —
Him: CHEATING LESBIANS. NOT OKAY.
Yes, even when infidelity is fictitious, completely hypothetical and about a group of people who do not mirror his own relationship in any way, shape or form, he finds it completely intolerable. (Although you want to see him REALLY lose his mind? Ask him how he feels about Indecent Proposal. Blind rage.) I can’t explain why I find this so hilarious, except that the statement alone was said with such incredible indignation and frustration. Never have the words, “CHEATING LESBIANS!” been uttered with such disdain. Plus, I’d say that at this point, the likelihood of Adam becoming a transgendered lesbian are pretty slim, and yet his intolerance for moral ambiguity crosses all lines, even those he cannot personally identify with. I love that.
Interestingly, this is an odd segue into something I’ve been thinking about lately, only because it’s come up in conversation and/or happened to friends of mine recently. A few people I’ve known for years — YEARS! — who are now in their mid-thirties, and in some cases, early FORTIES, have recently left their spouses and/or longtime partners and discovered that they were not, in fact, the sexual orientation they always identified with, but are now straight and/or a gay male/lesbian, and yes, it’s gone in ALLLL directions. Oh, you were gay? Wait, you’re straight? And you’re with … a man? Are you … sure? What about Laurene/Bill/Jane? Not that I have any prejudice or fear of either situation — certainly not — but for some reason, one’s sexual preference seems so ingrained in who someone is at an early-ish age (I’m of the unflappable belief that sexual orientation is born, not made, although I recognize that the realization for many comes much later), that it strikes me as unnerving for all parties involved, and definitely hard to cope with.
On a personal level (because I like to make things all about ME), I am always slightly shaken no matter which direction the orientation turns, because I can’t help but fear that one day I’ll wake up and not know who I am. Is it that abrupt? Were there signs all along? Am I going to wake up one day and tell Adam I’ve left him for a lovely woman named Miriam? (Please, if you will, envision his embattled cries of, “CHEATING LESBIAN!” if I did such a thing.)
And it doesn’t just apply to sexual orientation, I suppose, although that’s the most concrete example I can come up with at the moment. When people change some fundamental aspect of themselves in the middle of their lives, I always wonder if it’s as abrupt as it seems, although of COURSE not, right? It only seems that way from the OUTSIDE. Like when a couple you’ve known for decades and has always seemed happy suddenly up and splits up. How did this HAPPEN, we all wonder incredulously. They were always so HAPPY! You NEVER know what’s really going on unless you ARE that person/couple, and making a snap judgment based on your own outside experiences is about as useful as shouting “cheating lesbians!” to no one at all. No matter how happy a person seemed the way they USED to be.
(You know, like Marc Anthony and Jennifer Lopez.)
This is the kind of thing that if I were you reading it, I’d be thinking, well, this HAS to be personal or allegorical, right? Disappointingly, it isn’t. I’m rarely smart enough to pull something like that off (plus, I think posts like that are needlessly cryptic and annoying and NOT EVEN THAT CATHARTIC), so this is, sadly, at face value. My marriage to Adam is entirely intact and truly happy, despite the fact that he’s snoring next to me right now (RIGHT NOW), and the last Miriam I met was my pediatric dentist in the seventh grade.
Have a happy Monday!
*Elton John and Brandi Carlile, who is gorgeous. I might not actually BE a lesbian, but I’m not BLIND. I GET IT.
July 24th, 2011
On two occasions recently, I’ve had disagreements with people, and on BOTH occasions, my reactions were off, and I’m stewing inappropriately about it. I’m not averse to confrontation, nor am I averse to admitting when I’m wrong, but the thing is, I had the OPPOSITE reaction to the one I wanted to have in both situations.
To wit: It seems I only go one of two ways in a disagreement lately, which is to dig my heels in entirely and declare my righteousness, or to fall on my sword completely, and in BOTH recent cases, I have had the OPPOSITE reaction to what I now think I SHOULD have had. As in, when I should have taken full responsibility and apologized, I dug my heels in, but when I should have dug my heels in and told the person to eff off because THEY were being totally inappropriate, *I*, instead, fell on my sword and declared MYSELF to be the inappropriate one. And now I want to go BACK to both parties and rectify the situation, but THAT would just be STUPID, because NO ONE WANTS TO REHASH AN ARGUMENT.
And yet, there it is. I think in the case of saying hey, I was wrong back then, would be fine, but in the case of saying hey, remember when I apologized and acted like I WAS in the wrong? HA HA, just kidding, YOU ARE A TOTAL DOUCHE! I don’t think that would work out so well.
Anyway, I should tell you that I got my wish, and it turns out I’m a carrier for MTHFR, but, well, it seems to be a non-issue, as it’s not active, and please don’t make me go into any more detail than that, because I don’t have it. I am DETAIL-LESS on the topic, mostly because everyone seems to think that it’s a carrier issue (which an alarming number people have) and not an active condition. This, combined with my fetal chromosomal defects — which are the kind that account for up to 40% of miscarriages, leading it to be a non-carrier issue — makes everyone STILL believe that it’s dumb-shit luck, but lo, off to the geneticist I go anyway, and I’m not even sure why. It all seems to be CYA at this point, but I also have to tell you that for all the insensitivity of my doctor’s office (mean nurses! incompetent medical assistants! receptionists lacking brain cells!), I am BEYOND impressed with my actual DOCTOR, and the way she’s treating this, and me, with such thoroughness, to make sure that I move forward knowing we did all we could.
Is your head spinning after reading that paragraph? Because my God, seriously, I suddenly feel like those people who post every detail of their fertility numbers, including betas and progesterone and all these things I don’t understand, but read with rapt attention like I do. But despite all the bullshit, having a doctor who seems to actually be paying close attention to me feels really good, even if it took two flipping MONTHS to get to this point.
So! Three pop culture points, and then I’m out like a MTHFR:
1) I am stupidly both surprised and NOT surprised by the JLo-Marc Anthony divorce. I mean, I always got the impression they were FRIENDS before they got married, like, for YEARS and that has to suck. On the other hand, remember when JLo was basically the Runaway Bride and married EVERYBODY? On the THIRD hand, I heard that he was a controlling, borderline-abusive bag of dicks, and for some reason, with her serial dating/monogamy history, I could somehow SEE JLO putting up with such shenanigans, because despite her attitude, she’s always seemed fairly insecure and conciliatory.
For example, who says that men don’t compliment you on your body because “they’re afraid of [your husband]”, as she did in People magazine ? NO ONE SAYS THAT, unless you think your man is insecure and/or YOU are afraid of him. If I were a celebrity, I wouldn’t say that about Adam. I mean, Adam is definitely protective of me and WOULD kick some ass on my behalf it was warranted, but it’s not like MEN ON THE STREET are just cowering from his presence. (Sorry, honey.)
Also, what’s with his creepy negotiations in getting his DISGUSTING SKELETOR FACE on American Idol ALL SEASON LONG? At least with the divorce, his foul mug will be off the show, although my God, he’ll probably figure out a way to work that in to the DIVORCE SETTLEMENT. WHY DID YOU HAVE CHILDREN WITH THIS MAN, JENNIFER? DIDDY WAS A BETTER CHOICE.
You see the analysis I’ve put in here, yes? Are you afraid? THIS IS WHAT YOU SHOULD BE AFRAID OF. Not Marc Anthony. THIS. The amount of time I’ve spent thinking about the two of them is criminal.
2) January Jones is having a baby, father unknown. I am DYING to know who the father is, and if he’s MARRIED, like, say, Bobby Flay, as everyone is speculating, then MY GOD, COME ON, JANUARY. Quit being an amoral asshole. Also, can someone PLEASE tell me how these goddamn celebrities just keep FALLING PREGNANT right and effing left by these MYSTERY MEN? Or, in the case of Arnold, just GETTING people pregnant? HOW? I mean, obviously this has never been my personal strong suit, but COME ON.
Meanwhile, I try to imagine my reaction if MY husband came home and told me he impregnated another famous woman, and I just CANNOT. I can’t imagine a situation that does NOT involve me just PASSING OUT COLD and never waking up.
3) Mona from Who’s the Boss? on True Blood. HA HA HAHAHAHA. Also, how in God’s name is Curb Your Enthusiasm STILL ON THE AIR?
*Jennifer Lopez. Remember Ben, Jennifer? Remember how you wrote an ENTIRE ALBUM to him, including a godawful song about him? And … AHA HAHAHAHAHAHAHA God, I am mean.
July 17th, 2011
So I’m flipping through magazines while Sam takes a bath* and I see this little gem about George Clooney and his most recent break-up, and how one of his friends allegedly said, off the record, that they had little in common (QUELLE SURPRISE!) and how he’s very intelligent and politically astute, but tends to go for women who do not challenge him, and are not his equal.
Wait … you don’t SAY, O Friend of George? You’re saying that a smart, accomplished, handsome, 50-year-old man has little in common with an Italian model 20 years his junior? YOU DON’T SAY. I can’t explain why this stuck in my craw so much, or why I’m continuing to mull it over, rolling it around in my mouth like like a root beer barrel (and I hate root beer!), but there it is. I mean, it’s the world’s biggest no-shitter, the concept that attractive, powerful men — particularly celebrity types — have a tendency to go for young marshmallows, but it drives me absolutely BAZONKERS. Yes, Michael Buble, I’m SURE you, at 35, with reasonable intelligence, have a TON in common with a 24-year-old Argentinian model. I’m SO SURE in fifty years, when her looks have faded and she’s looking ganked out and a little raw from too much Botox, that you will have TONS to say to each other. TONS.
It drives me absolutely nuts, mostly because it just reminds me that some men (and let’s face it, women), when given vast opportunity, fail to make the smart decision by choosing what’s best for them, and instead, pick what’s easy and attractive. It’s like this creepy primal thing playing out in grand scale. MEN CHOOSE HOT WOMEN. Basically, they eat the damned light fruit (OH YES, I DID, TRUE BLOOD) all the time, when they should be leaping into the abyss, FOR THE LOVE.
*I don’t know why I feel like it’s important for me to distinguish that I read magazines sitting on the toilet, lid closed, while Sam is in tub with her plastic buddies, vs., you know, sitting on the toilet with a basket full of magazines doing unmentionable bidness. IT JUST IS. And yes, I am a terrible mother who flips through magazines while her kid bathes instead of making the experience interactive and wild and fun! Sometimes, kid plays by herself. I’m there, of course, watching, and so is Sunny. It’s Sunny’s JOB to manage bathtime, in her mind, and she takes it very, very seriously. “It’s TUBBY TIME! HEY LADIES!” I yell before we get Sam’s towel and head to the bathroom. And damn if Sunny doesn’t haul her ass up from wherever she is to make sure she’s present and accounted for during every second of Sam’s bath.
Second of all, Friday Night Lights comes to an end tonight (Friday, July 15), and I know I sound like a total loser, but it’s really quite emotional for me, even though I’ve seen the whole season already. I’ve grown attached to the characters in genuine way that I haven’t been on television in years, maybe ever. It’s one thing to be be entertained by something like True Blood, but another to find yourself really emotionally connected to an entire family, albeit wholly fictional. I don’t usually do this sort of thing, but as some of you know, I write for Smart Pop Books on occasion (I love them so, and I’m not just saying this, their editor-in-chief is among the best I’ve ever worked for), and they’ve done an anthology on the show that I’m a part of. I just … I love this whole book. My favorite essay, for the record, is Jacob Clifton’s (yes, TWoP Jacob) essay, “Come Home: Identities in West Texas.”
It’s not coming out in print until August, but it is available as an e-book from Amazon and the like, and even if you hate my writing, you should check it out, because there’s so much good, smart stuff in it aside from what I wrote, honestly. I think it might be my favorite book of theirs, although The Girl Who Was On Fire is AMAZING.
(For this one, in case you were wondering, I wrote about the Taylors’ marriage.)
Either way, if you aren’t watching Friday Night Lights, it’s not too late to catch the whole show in its entirety. I DARE you to watch it and not shed a tear and/or have at LEAST one naughty dream about Tim Riggins. I DARE YOU.
And finally, because Adam posted this picture on Google+ and I’d damn near forgotten about it, here, have a picture of us with OJ Simpson from our honeymoon. Yes, really. YES, REALLY. Also, he was wasted, I was trying to swim away later, and I accidentally kicked his girlfriend in the stomach. And then he made some CRAZY OFF THE WALL INAPPROPRIATE comments about marriage and how his last one (NICOLE) didn’t end so well. Which, OMFG. Also, I’m pretty sure Adam would want me to note that he is not actually that short, but is in the water, squatting down, for reasons that are unclear. But I promise, he’s six feet tall. OJ, however, is a flipping giant. HIS HANDS. HIS GIANT HANDS.
July 14th, 2011
I got the results back from my karyotyping and recurrent loss shenanigans, and … there was nothing. While the fetus showed chromosomal abnormalities (a thought I found strangely comforting), they were/are mostly anomalous and not likely the result of a carrier issue. Thrombotic panel? Negative. Fifteen (15!) other blood tests? All normal.
What we appear to have here, ladies and gentlemen, is a case of crappy luck.
My feelings on this are understandably mixed. On the one hand, I mean, HOORAY! There’s nothing wrong with us, and all signs point to us being able to have a healthy pregnancy down the road. When I balked about my age (35), the nurse actually laughed and said, “You’re 35, not 45, Jonna. Most women we see at your age are trying for their FIRST baby.” Which, you know, comforting, and also true. The east coast is not known for its young mothers.
On the other hand, I really wanted it to be something we could fix easily. Which, haaaa, easily, as if such a thing exists even if there’s an issue. But I really wanted it to be MTHFR or Factor V Leiden or hell, I was even hoping for lupus antibodies at this point. But you know, instead it was probably a bum egg or an issue with all that dividing and multiplying and busy work that embryos have to do, and that is … frustrating and terribly normal. And scary, because, you know, it could happen again. It MIGHT happen again. I’m 35, and my eggs are what they are, and it’s … oh, blergh.
I know, right? Two miscarriages, so what? People go through worse. But it sucks, it sucks, to think about having to go through it again, assuming that the chances are exactly the same as they always were — which is to say that statistically, my chances of having a miscarriage the third time are not much higher than a first-time pregnancy. You’d think this would be comforting, but instead, it just means that I’m unprotected, as illogical as that sounds. Having two miscarriages does not statistically protect me from a third. My body doesn’t care whether it’s my first or my third, it just goes on as though everything is fresh. Statistically, each pregnancy is its own entity, and statistically — most of the time, anyway — they can’t find a reason for it, it just is.
Well, it means I just have to buck up, grow some balls and keep at it, is what it means. After all, is that not the quintessential lesson of parenthood, in all forms? I don’t know why all ovulation kits don’t bear a surgeon general’s warning that this shit is not for the weak, that once you start down this path, you are essentially fucked, in every possible meaning of the word.
We went to playgroup today and Sam wore a helmet for a rather significant portion of the morning. She picked up her friend Molly’s bike helmet, insisted on putting it on to ride the motorcycle, then kept it on for pool time, swing time, water table time. She wore that stupid helmet and she looked ridiculous, and my heart sort of shattered for her then, because God, there’s my kid, wearing an absurd-looking helmet, but she doesn’t know how silly she looks, she just wants to wear the helmet because she thinks it’s cool. She’s doesn’t know it’s not cool, and if she did, she doesn’t care, because at two, she’s not self-conscious about anything. She sings along to Elmo’s World in the most off-key voice you’ve ever heard, and when she sees a bunny, no matter how many times you tell her to be quiet, she immediately screams, “MOMMY, ITSA BUNNY! LOOK! LOOK!” and goes excitedly lumbering towards it.
I just … you know, I’d do anything for her. Anything. I’d have the guts to do anything if it meant she could have a better life. And if I apply the same logic (however flimsy the application may be) to my future children, well, I guess I can at least muster the guts to keep trying for them to be born, I figure. (FLIMSY CONNECTION, RIGHT? I KNOW.)
It’s going to take a little time, though, I think.
*Badly Drawn Boy
July 13th, 2011
I took last week off just to kick back, enjoy summer and catch up on some stuff, if by “stuff,” you mean, oh my God everything. We went to parades! Barbecues! Nantucket!
Yes, we saw Meredith and family last week, and oh, man, I just love them so. Unfortunately, I took jack for photos, so you’re just going to have to view Mer’s, which includes a photo of our children KISSING. Felicity is a dream, and did, quite literally, follow Sam around whisper-yelling, “SHAM! SHAM!” Her little face is this amazing mix of everyone in their family — I could see Joe, Mer’s parents, Meredith. It’s not often that a kid is such a perfect physical reflection of everyone who loves them, but she really is.
It’s a hideous thing when your friends don’t live near you, and I hate that our kids won’t live near each other to grow up and poke each other in the eyes in greeting for as long as they live at home. Meredith, too, as always, makes me feel normal and sane just in being near her for five minutes. And Joe. HA! Joe had Sam wrapped around his finger the moment he picked up and ant, just for her, and let it wind between his fingers while she screamed in excitement, “LOOKIT MOMMY! It’s an ANT!” followed by, “Joe is so cool.”
I am unfortunately (fortunately?) blessed with a child who, like her idol Muno, thinks bugs are the bomb. An hour doesn’t go by in our house where she’s not screeching from her playroom (a converted patio, now a sunroom and its former patio nature attracts more bugs than the rest of the house), “MOMMY! MOMMY! IT’S A SPIDER!” Following this excited declaration, I either sweep up the spider in question to, um, put it down for a nap in night-night (what?) or inform my precious offspring that it’s a fuzzy or a piece of lint. “It’s a FUZZY,” she says with total reverence. “A FUZZY!” As though this stray piece of flurn is a new species of bug, waiting to be discovered and documented.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, I am enjoying the hell out of this summer with my kid. I really am. We’re spending most days outside, covered in sunscreen, sweat and the mist of whatever water-type attraction is in closest proximity, even if it’s just the $10 baby pool I got at BJ’s (totally a store, not a euphemism). This year, one of the smartest things I did was to get a season pass to Davis Farmland, because we’ve spent at least two days a week there, feeding the goats, cows and sheep that, um, roam free, for serious (“ANIMALSGOATS!” all one word, just like that), hitting the splash pad and getting ice cream before we play in the bubble pit. (There is a bubble pit. I KNOW.) When we’re not there, we’ve been hitting playdates galore, and one of our good friends owns (OWNS!) a near-regulation size bounce house, and there has already been bouncing, and promises to be a lot more.
I tell you something, for as much drama as they bring, two-year-olds are basically advertisements for why people should have children. I’m having so much fun with this kid lately. She’s verbal enough that communication is rarely a source of frustration anymore, super-sweet and affectionate and is at a stage where I am not only her favorite person in the world for things like food and comfort, but conversation and hanging out, too. It’s so obviously fleeting — hell, she’s going to SCHOOL in the fall — but I just want to freeze time and make this summer go on as long as possible.
I’ll see you more this week, but for now, I’ve got to crash. Two parks, a trip to Davis, some pool time and a long walk in the neighborhood (ALL TODAY) tuckered me out, although it barely made a DENT in my child’s energy level, WHAT THE HELL?
*Jesca Hoop. Usin’ it again!
July 11th, 2011