Inheritance is an interesting word. To some it means the money or items you receive when someone passes away. I guess this might even be the technical definition of the word. For me it’s more than that. Inheritance to me, is the things I have in me, because of them, the ones who are gone. The people who touched my life, helped shape me into the woman I am today. The people I loved, who are no longer here.
In the last five years, I have lost all four of my grandparents. I know I’m blessed to have known them at all, to have had them in my life. I have been told this many times and I know it to be true. It doesn’t help the sadness in losing someone, but it is a correct statement.
My grandpa (dad’s dad) has been gone the longest. He passed away the day before Halloween, five years ago. From him I inherited the ability to distinguish a liar from a truth teller. It’s all in the eyes he’d tell me. People look away when they are lying. They look you in the eye when they are telling the truth and it’s not hurtful. When they are telling you the truth and it’s hurtful to you, they look at your nose or their own hands. This is why he was such a good poker player, he could figure out someones tell, in seconds. Always look people in the eyes, he told me; then they know you care about what they are saying.
He used to take me on dates. Just me and him. Sometimes we went to the movies, sometimes out to dinner, occasionally to places like the zoo; but just us. He did it with my brothers (and later, my cousins) as well, but always as a one on one thing. This is something I do with my kids. Not all the time, but often enough. It always made me feel special and I can tell my girls feel that way too.
From him, I also am the biggest food and wine snob. I know what I like and how I like it and I’m not afraid to tell anyone. Good food is something I am willing to spend my money on.
My grandma (dad’s mom) died almost three years ago. My daughter Bailey (Bailey is not her real name) is named after her. As a Jew, she held the belief that one should not be named after someone who is living. I did it anyway. I told her, this is my daughter and I’m naming her after you. She’s as stubborn as you are and I am not religious and you really aren’t either. Besides, you’re dying anyway, so it’s not going to take away from your longevity. Might seem callous to some people, but she laughed and laughed.
Bucking the system, that was her and it’s what I got from her as well. She was born in Russia and her family came to America when she was a baby. One of the reasons they came here, was my grandma had a bad heart; she wasn’t supposed to live to see her first birthday. In Russia in the 1930′s, as a Jew, they were not going to get the best medical care for her. They had the money, but you know: Jew. So, they came to America in hopes of saving their daughter. When they got here, the doctors told her parents, she won’t live to see two. Then it was five, then ten, then twenty. They don’t know why she was still alive. Her heart was defected, it should have stopped by then. It wasn’t fixable. At twenty, when she was still alive, the UCLA medical center studied her. She is actually in some of their training videos that students still see to this day. When she married my grandpa, they told her not to ever get pregnant, she’d not live to see the baby born. She had four kids, in a seven year time span.
She was a fighter. She did what everyone told her not to do. She was a nurse and later worked for the draft board in LA; in a time where few women worked. She divorced my grandpa when she found out he wasn’t faithful, when my dad was ten years old; in a time when divorce was not at all common. She made it to seventy-five years old. Like, I said, she was a fighter.
My other grandparents, my moms parents, have both passed in the last four months. They died thirteen weeks, to the day, apart. I have just begun to realize how big of a loss this is. I tried to call her the other day. Harrison rolled over, like all the way over (and over) for the first time and I wanted to call and tell her. I let it ring once, before I remembered that she wasn’t there to pick up the line. I can’t make myself take the number out of my phone yet. Soon, but not yet.
Grandpa was a hard worker, he had the attitude that when you do something, you should do it right the first time, so you don’t have to re-do things. You should always be willing to work. Laziness was not a word that was in his vocabulary. That and he always was doing something. Always working on some new project, something to challenge himself. He was career Air Force and then when he retired, he went into his own business. Created a second business for himself. This is where my feeling of un-settledness comes from. Because I have those same qualities in me. And they are great qualities, I just need to figure out what to do with them right now.
He was a helpful, kind person: he’d help anyone in need. I get this from him too. Sometimes, well often, I wish I could do more. In time, I will.
I also inherited his insomnia. This is one quality, I wish I could return to sender.
For my grandma, no one was more important than her family. She took care of everyone. No one who walked in her door was unwelcome, nor went unfed.
She taught us all at a very young age to play games. Card games, board games, puzzles. Might have been her way to not have to entertain us, but there isn’t a grandchild of hers, who doesn’t enjoy playing games.
My grandma was a funny woman. She was raised as an only child and went on and had six children. She was a prude; which I’m not. But it did always make me laugh. She was the woman who handed my mother (the fifth girl, by the way) the pamphlet from a tampon box at eleven years old. Read this, she said and tell me when you need them. That was it, the big talk. Once when my brother got up to pee at dinner, she chastised him for not going to a bathroom farther away from the table. He was seven years old. But bodily functions don’t exist. At least that was her theory.
She was a little stuck in her ways; which I try so hard not too be, but I know in some ways, I completely am. She was good with money, which I did get from her. Luckily too, because some of her children really didn’t. She was very organized with her way of thinking, although you couldn’t always tell it by the way she was. I am this way too. You couldn’t tell it by my house, or my life, but I am an organized person. I know what appointments are next week, or next month. I know my kids shot schedule and the days off of school for the remainder of the year. I remember all of my many cousins birthdays and middle names. I always know exactly what I need to get at the grocery store. But I don’t have any of this written down. It’s all in my head.
I had all four of them around me in different ways, for my entire life. They helped me become a decent person. The gifts they left me, are ones I will cherish always. Hopefully I can pass them onto my children. Gifts that are more important than money in the bank or stuff in my house. My real inheritance.
Bailey has a true love for rolly pollys. She worries about them constantly. You know, because of the snow. They might be cold, maybe she should just go and find them and bring them inside where it is warm. (She doesn’t seem to get the correlation between her keeping them in her pockets and them meeting the dryer.)
She draws elaborate pictures for us, where we are always on vacation with huge smiles on our face.
Each of her animals, babies and Littlest Pet Shop Death Traps have a specific name. She remembers all of them. Always. She also reads too them. Not always the right words, but she reads too them. She also sings too them and rocks them too sleep…not the little pet death traps, but the animals and babies.
She tells the funniest jokes; she’s always been the class clown type.
She is an absolute love. Big on hugs and kisses and I love you’s. Everybody who meets her, just adores her. Her teachers, her friends, all of my friends, people in supermarkets.
But for freaking sakes, she may not live to see five years old. Four is my least favorite age. Give me a tantrumy two year old or a crazy three year old any day, but I’d like to skip four. Just pass it on by. Skip right over and move onto five. Maybe even go back to three, because she was a great three year old. Six more months of four and she might not make it.
I don’t want to be this way. I want to enjoy the wonderful side of her personality. Unfortunately she reserves that for everyone but family. We get the sneaky, wicked, mean, nasty, attitudy, bratty, know it all, spaz. The girl who walks by her brother, kisses him on the head and then smacks him. She is sneaking stuff; candy and treats, shows on TV. I find her watching TV or playing Wii when she’s been told to clean up her room or quietly read on her bed. When we ground her from the Wii, she hides the remotes (the freezer being her hiding place of choice), so none of the rest of us can play. She throws screaming fits any time she feels we are being unjust. Oy ve the girl has a set of lungs on her. I finally told her tonight that every time she says, I hate you mommy or daddy, she is getting one toy taken away. It’s going into the garage in a bag, until she can learn to at least use less offensive words.
Basically I want to ship her back. Return the crazy four and get back my sweet kid. If she’s still in there, which I get the sense she is. I’ve been here before. Five was not the saving grace I was hoping for with Morgan, but it was surely better than four.
Four is just evil. Four is scary. Four should be skipped. I recommend you all with three year olds or under, skip four, if you can figure out how. And then, let me in on the secret, because I have four years before I’ll be here again.
This post is brought to you by snow. Lots of snow. Lots and lots of snow.
Today is the official delurking day. Please go forth and comment. Because we are all comment whores who love….well comments. Spread the love. Say hello to someone who you always read and never comment too. Saying hello is enough.
The kids school is open today. I swear I tried to take them. Then I got stuck. In fact, my car is still stuck, about four blocks from my house. I couldn’t do anything except leave my car and walk home with my kids. In the snow. Did I mention the snow? I called the school and told then that they really should have closed. They said it was going to be a light day, that people were calling in left and right. Which is great, but seriously, you people close for in-service days all the time, what’s one snow day?
Either way, we are home. The kids are currently making some kind of a fort in the basement with about every blanket in the house.
I toss and turn at night. Eventually I get up and leave the room, because I don’t want to disturb my sleeping husband or son. Then I pace my house. I watch my little girls sleep. I flip through the 200 TV channels that are all showing nothing. I edit photos. Sometimes I carry my sleeping son around with me, just too smell his little head; too feel connected.
I can’t seem to read more than a chapter of a book at a time. Unfortunately, it’s never the same book that I pick up, so I’m not likely to ever finish a book. I start watching TV shows and then I get up too do something else, or I change it in the middle (which my husband just loves, let me tell you) and start something else. I start typing posts that I don’t finish.
I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t know where I’m going to go next. I’m at an impasse and I don’t know which fork I’m going to pick. I feel like I am stuck. I don’t know why I can’t decide what I want to do next, but I don’t know how too. I need to make a decision soon though, because I really, seriously need some sleep.
In this moment, I am staying at home. Is this permanent? I have no idea. Do I want it too be permanent? Yeah, I do. But I don’t know that we can afford for me to do so forever. For the next year or so, sure. But what then? What if I try and go back to work then and no one will have me? Do I give up the job that is waiting for me? I should, but I haven’t yet. I have until the end of January to make up my mind. Could I see putting Harrison in daycare? Even though he’d just go to my best friend Kate’s house; no I can’t see it. Then I wonder why it was so easy to put the girls in daycare (and they didn’t stay with Kate) at 8 weeks old, but I’m sitting here with a 15 week old and I don’t want too. How is that fair to my girls? Will they resent me for it one day? Will they be okay with it, since I can now be involved at the school? Since I can make it too all the soccer practices and have playdates at my house? Is it enough? Is it what I want?
I think about these things at night, when I should be sleeping. I have always worried at night, but right now it is worse.
I want to write. You know, for money; to help support my family. But I don’t know where to start. Is it even possible anymore on the Internet? I really have no idea. I have written half of a parenting book, but I stopped writing it over a year and a half ago. Is this something I should continue? Heck if I know.
I am waiting for the other shoe too drop. That’s the best way I can explain my feelings right now. Waiting for a giant shoe to drop on my head, on my family. Just waiting for the next thing too go wrong. There has been so much in this last two years, that I’m just sure there will be more. I have gotten so used to drama, that I don’t know how too deal without it. This makes my feeling of being unsettled, even worse. It’s like a double whammy.
I am not depressed. I get up every day and I take care of my family. I play with my children, hang out with my husband and chew on my infant sons toes. Sometimes I even do cook and do laundry. LOL. I am relatively happy in this moment, more than I have been in a few years. I have amazing girls who are at great ages and a son who is at that perfect stage of babyhood. I love where we live, I adore my family and friends and I love this blog, this community.
But I feel unsettled.
My lovely friend Kim, over at When She Wore Ponytails sent me some interview questions. Basically the theory is someone asks you questions, you answer them on your blog and you get out of writing anything of substance. Which is great, because substance can be hard to come by some days. Especially on days like today, when I had an asthma attack the second I woke up. Not a bad one, but still not pleasant. The after effect is the worst though, because it makes me feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck. Where was I?
Oh yes, my interview. I guess the original deal was supposed to be five questions, but since I’m not big on rules, I just let Kim ask me whatever she wanted.
1. Name the one song that above all through all the changes in your life and everything really defines you. When you hear it you always think, “Yep, that one’s for me.” or something like that.
Sweet Melissa, by the Allman Brothers. Mostly because my dad used to sing it too me as a lullaby as a small child. Also now, this is the only time he thinks of calling me, when he hears it on the radio. But I still think of it as my song.
2. Your good friend calls you and tells you she has been dating your ex (one you like) and they’re pretty serious and she wanted to be sure it was okay with you. What is your reaction? Would it be worse if it were a relative or the ex? Can you be totally honest with a question like that or would your husband kill you and put a hit out on me if we start walking down memory lane about your ex?
Well see this one is kinda entertaining. I’ve been with Logan since we were fourteen. the two boys I “dated” before him were not serious kinds of relationships. I wasn’t really into boys until I was say ten years old and even then not really. The two, well one ended up being gay and coming out when we were about 16. Logan knew him and would not care in the least. The other…oy Nathan. Nathan and I used to play truth and dare under his trampoline. Ahem. So if, wait what was the question? Honestly I wouldn’t care, although I hear he’s married so that might be weird. Logan’s not the jealous type, but bringing up Nathan makes him a bit odd.
3. The news finally reports something other than whether or not Brit Brit has on undies. What would be YOUR preference of story of all of the issues?
Hmm, how they are going to bring jobs back to the US. How they are going to start being smart about the Environment. Finding a way to have solar powered everything. Trying to find a cure for Cancer and AID’s. Working on ending world hunger. Because I could honestly care less about who is and who isn’t wearing panties.
4. Do you really believe that owl had a tongue? You know the one that would ask how many licks it takes to get to the center of a tootsie pop? I mean, have you ever SEEN an owl’s tongue? And if so what does an owl tongue look like?
All animals have tongues. I think. An owl has to be able to lick his wounds, or a stray um fur or what have you. So yes, owls have tongues. I’ve never seen one though and I wouldn’t want too. But I don’t believe one would care for a tootsie pop.
5. What do YOUR Rice Krispies say to you? And have you ever thought of telling them to fuck off?
I’m not a fan of them. They were giving me too much lip, so I switched to Cheerios.
6. I call you and tell you that you have to come try my drink recipe. Mine is shots by the way. None of this frilly stuff. But, I like others to make mixed stuff so I don’t die of alcohol poisoning. Plus I don’t want to share ALL of my secrets before I pass out. So, anyway, what drink do you make us and how many would it require before you were willing to sing some killer GNR in public. (don’t worry…I’ll totally write the words down for you)
First off, I know the words to more songs than I could care to remember. Ask me what my husbands favorite movie is (or car, or band) and I’ll look at you blankly. But ask me lyrics to any song that I’ve heard and I can generally remember it. I figure half of my brain is filled with song lyrics. Now that being said, I am partial to wine. But I can make a mean orange dreamsicle…although you may still die from alcohol poisoning. Maybe some vanilla vodka and Coke? This is a good one to make for others. Because as they start getting too drunk, I start putting more coke and less vodka. No one seems to be able to tell and then you won’t vomit on my sofa.
And hey, what secrets?
7. You get to school to pick up the girls and you see one of them kicking some boy. Of course we know you’d stop them. But do you secretly laugh on the inside that, haha, Kid. You just got owned by a girl. Or are your horrified that your lil one has “kick lil Billy” in them??
Yeah, this has already happened. Bailey is a fierce chick. At four and a half, I’ve had more conferences because of her, than Morgan in her seven years of life. I would stop it, but I’d be snickering too myself a tiny bit too.
8. Do you know why I could not sleep last night? And if you do could you please instruct the universe to never do it again?
Nopes. No idea. Too much Red Bull? Just a guess. But I hope you slept last night. (Kim sent me these yesterday, for those of you who are confused.)
9. How many questions can I ask before you fly over here and beat me up?
Um say, nineteen maybe. Twenty would have been going too far. I’m not the beating up type anyway.
10. So, all of your clothes are dirty and it’s time to go some place. You can either kick it in sweat pants or you can just wear some dirty jeans. Which do you pick?
Depends on the day. And jeans are only truly dirty if they have baby vomit on them. I used to care about going out in sweat pants…it was like an unwritten law in LA that you don’t do it. But Denver is much more laid back and it’s common here.
These are the technical rules, if you’d like to play along. Just let me know.
Bored and looking for ways to pass your day? Care to play along?
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I will respond by emailing you five questions. I get to pick the questions.
3. You will update your blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.
Can you hear my sigh of relief through the computer? I have just dropped the girls off at school. The first day back in oh three weeks or so. Somehow now that I’m typing that, it doesn’t seem like so long. But oh my friends, it was. I have always thought too myself how neat homeschooling would be. You know, if I had different children. Mine just wouldn’t make it. I’d kill them in the first month.
So, off too school they go. To learn, whatever it is you learn. To play, with whomever they play with. And to bug someone else. Don’t get me wrong, I love spending time with my girls. I will miss being around them as much…in say a week or two. But for now, I was happy to drop them off a few minutes ago. Thrilled to come home to my disaster of a house and the only sounds being, well me.
What I am left with is a tiny rolly polly of a boy. One who is happy to play with his socks and feet all day. One who doesn’t yet speak and his only demands are that he be changed the minute he is wet, or be fed the nano-second he is hungry. But this is still an easy improvement. I also have a trashed house and oh about 428 posts too read. I’m thinking I might just sit and read those all day.
So, how are you?
All for one and one for all. Or something like that. Funny, but this was probably one of the nicer names we were called in elementary school. They’d try and split us up every year, but it’s not like they could do it completely, since there were only three classes per grade in our school. We weren’t bad kids, nor trouble makers. But there was six of us. Six of us who knew each other since practically birth.
Well let me start in the beginning. It’s easier this way. Then as I tell stories later on, you’ll at least know who the players are.
My aunt Susan, who isn’t really my Auntie (but whatever), and my mother are best friends. They met each other in college, back in the early seventies. They both got married around the same time and waited and waited to have kids. This is according to them of course. I was born in April of 1980 and Susan’s son James was born the end of June. As they were the only people they each knew with kids, we spent almost all of our time together. As I love to tell him, because it makes him blush, James was the first boy I bathed with, the first boy I kissed. I was a baby, what of it?
We each others best friends, each others whole worlds. Then our moms got pregnant again. Which in reality, isn’t that big of a deal, except as time wore on, we got put in nursery school. We had both just turned two years old and they put us in the morning class. If you ask my mom why, she says it was to spend some one on one time with their newborns; my brothers Adam and Justin, and James sister Meredith. If you ask Auntie Susan, it was so they could spend their mornings drinking coffee and bad mouthing their husbands to each other. Husbands who did things like spend the mortgage on boats, or not coming home until 2am the night of a planned c-section. Truly, I think the truth is somewhere in between.
In school, like most small children raised like siblings; James and I played with each other. We were good kids, so we weren’t a problem, but we mostly played with each other. At least for the next year or so, until we were moved up to the preschool class. That year, they decided to separate us. Which in theory, was a good plan. But by nearly four years old, we were capable of making new friends. And we did. I met Kate the first day of school and James met Chris.
You can see where this is heading right? Now instead of two of us, there was instantly four of us. We played together at recess, we had play dates and sleepovers, if you asked any of us who are best friend was, we’d tell you we had three. We didn’t mind playing with other kids, we just sort of gravitated towards each other.
In kindergarten I met Emmy. The school had decided I was an instigator; that when we got in trouble, it was mostly my fault (I was framed, I swearz), so they put me in a class by myself. I had many issues with this, but I went up to the first girl who looked cool, who wasn’t talking to anyone and I made friends with her. I got lucky, because she was pretty freaking awesome.
In first grade, Chris befriended this crazy kid named Andrew. He had just moved to town, was a class clown and needed an audience. We were happy to fill that role for him. He was the one with the crazy ideas. The jumping off of the tree house onto the trampoline; the run away to china at eight years old; the try and escape into Mexico at fourteen, types of ideas. He was the reason we had many not so nice names attached too us. But shit, we had a lot of fun.
Andrew was the kinda crazy guy, the one with the big ideas. Everyone probably knew a kid like him. The wild one, the one most likely to get you in trouble.
I was the mothering one, but also the one who helped convince the others to follow through on the crazy stunts. I was also the organized one. The planner.
Emmy was the bossy one (sorry Em, but it’s true), who told us all what too do. She, the youngest of three sisters, learned early on that to make herself heard in this world, she had to be the loudest. She could argue us to death, which has proved useful, now that she an attorney.
Kate was the sweet one, the girl who stopped all arguments, dried all tears and made sure we were all okay. She could (and still can) tell by just looking at any of us, what our day was like. All she has too do is look at me wrong and if I’m in any kind of a mood, I start crying.
Chris was our very own bodyguard. I suggest you all have a Chris in your life. The man can do anything. You need a tree house built? He could do it himself at ten years old. He can fix a car, build a house and could possibly build an ark, if it were ever needed. Chris has never been a bully, but he made sure that none of us were ever messed with by one. He’d protect any kid who was getting picked on, even if he never knew their name. He also could touch a musical instrument and know how too play it. Of course it is his fault that I will forever vomit when I hear Hotel California, but that’s a story for another day.
James was (is) the nerd. The inventor. The reason we had money, for our big ideas. The boy ironed his monopoly money. He always had money, he hoarded it. He also used to charge interest on loaned money, even to his own mother. But he could also probably build an ark if necessary. (Ok, so I’m currently watching Even Almighty…but it is true.)
Later on, we met the crazy man that I married and um…jumped him (what?) into our group. You know about Logan and I. Emmy lives in the great wild of NYC, arguing her life away. Chris is an ER nurse in LA. He met a amazing chick named Steph in college. She is also an ER nurse. They’ve got two amazing boys, Malachi and Jett. We’re trying to get them to move out here, but so far, no go. I won’t give up though. James and Kate decided they were in love, somewhere around the time we went to college. They live here; James and Logan and one of Logan’s cousins run a business together. James and Kate have two kids, Mackenzie and Aiden. Somehow we’ve managed to create the same thing that we had for our kids, as all of them are around the same ages. Andrew, we lost in 1999.
We were there for each other, always. Through the divorces and subsequent re-marriages of our parents. Through injuries, hurt feelings and family drama. Marriage and children. Through the loss of one of our own. We’ve been there for each other, forever. I know more about them, then anyone else in this world. I spent the whole weekend catching up with Emmy. Not because we don’t talk, we do, but mostly these days, it’s through texting and emails. She’s busy, I’m busy (stop laughing) and we don’t have a ton of time for each other. However, even though it had been two years since we’d seen each other, it was like it had been days. That’s how you know a true friend, or this is my theory at least. If it’s been years or months and it seems like no time at all, they are a true friend. Another friend was at the house at some point and there was a lull in conversation. She said, oh uncomfortable silence. Maybe it was for her, but it wasn’t for us. It never is.
I just got back from dropping one of my very favorite people off at the airport. I’ve had such a great weekend and I’m feeling kinda blah now. This, my friends, is what comes from having too much fun; from staying up way to late, getting up way to early (thanks son), drinking too much wine and talking so much that you are pretty sure you could just not speak for three days.
I have a lot of stories too tell. Not so much from this weekend, because that was mostly catching up. Those stories, you all have heard. No, more like stories from my childhood. I’m working on one right now, but I swore to my kids that we’d go ice skating this morning. They go back to school Wednesday, which is not a day too soon.
Until I get the chance to post again, I have a question for you all…do you laugh at people in your head who are so retarded in a coffee shop? You know the ones, the lady who says she wants a short coffee, when it’s called a tall or small? The same woman who will repeat it six times, just so the guy hears it? (Like my four year old does, when I tell her no.) NO, I SAID THE SHORT COFFEE. Like he’s deaf or something? Which of course he’s not, he’s just wanting to make sure he gets it right. Plus, he was holding up the dam cup.
Or the man who orders a medium soy macchiato with a shot of vanilla, no make that an extra pump of hazelnut, or maybe mocha. Maybe all three, that sounds great. Extra foam, but no whip cream and um, can you please make that a decaf? Really, what the heck are you drinking? Do you even know? If not, please leave, cause the thought of that is making me kinda sick.
The decaf coffee. This alone makes me giggle at people. If you are pregnant and drinking it, well you are a braver person than me. But decaf in general makes absolutly no sense too me. Why in the world would you bother?
Maybe it’s just me. But it takes a lot out of me to not laugh at loud at these types of peoples.
Phone rings
Me: Hello.
Emmy (one of my bff’s, known her since kindergarten, is some high paid call girl lawyer in New York): I think you and Logan need to take me out to dinner.
Me: Emmy, this is Issa.
Emmy: I know that tard, I called you didn’t I?
Me: Are you drunk dialing me?
Emmy: Babe, it’s like 7:30pm my time. No one cool starts drinking until at least 9 o’clock.
Me: Okaaaay. Well um, NYC is a bit far for dinner tonight.
Emmy: I guess you’re right. Good thing I’m in Denver isn’t it?
Me: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH, serious? (Jumps up and down, screams some more, drops phone at least twice.)
Emmy: HELLO!!!!
Me: Are you really here? You can’t screw with me like this. I can’t handle it.
Emmy: I’m not, I swearz. Double-dips. I’m in line at Hertz to get my rental.
Me: I might need to scream again.
Emmy: Don’t, just shower and get your ass in gear. I’ll be there in an hour.
Then I died.
Actually I’m so happy right now, you have no idea. I hope you all have a great weekend. I’ll be back on Monday. I’ve got some catching up to do with my bff. Haven’t seen the girl in at least two years.
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