1) Christian Slater never ages. Luckily, through the use of Photoshop, neither do I!*

2) Starring in non-corny 80’s cult classics ensures that people like me cut their proverbial teeth on phrases like, “Talk Hard,” and “Chaos was what killed the dinosaurs, darling.”

3) If I were Christian Slater, it wouldn’t be creepy to have a crush on myself.

4) I could try and board a commercial airline with a gun in my bag and not have it be “potential terrorist,” but “quirky.”

5) I could be a vampire who DOES NOT SPARKLE. VAMPIRES DO NOT SPARKLE.

6) I could’ve been BFF with River Phoenix, my first television boyfriend from ages 6-13.

7) I could claim to have a “baboon heart,” and then die in the arms of my longtime love. Mostly, I just want to claim that I have a baboon heart, although I might call it “bonobo,” because it sounds cooler.

8) I’d much prefer to have “distinctive eyebrows,” than a “distinctively (dimply) ass.”

9) My sneering voice would allow you to impersonate Jack Nicholson over the phone, which increases not just my ability to get on radio shows, but also my credit line, as he’s got platinum EVERYTHING.

10) I could get Nerd Cred with a cameo role in Star Trek VI – which would mean that all nerds would listen to me. Forever (and we all know how much I heart nerds).

*A lie – I don’t own Photoshop. BUT I COULD. MAYBE.

I’d been blogging a couple of years before I’d decided to branch out on my own and start Mommy Wants Vodka. I’d spent years carefully (read: badly) coding in the text, well before WordPress rolled out TinyMCE as a feature. My former co-blogger was an actual editor, the kind who got paid to read absurd submissions, so she had lots of time to fix up my terrible typos, misspellings and grammatical inconsistencies into something that resembled a story.

(Damn, I miss her.)

The audience on my previous blog knew me – perhaps not well – but well enough to have hung with me a few times over the years, which meant I was expected to produce material about a) my vagina b) my vagina or c) dick jokes. That’s what happens when you write yourself into a niche.

After Alex was born, things changed. I wanted to write about the way he’d not allow me to put him down – even for a moment – without launching into a full-blown meltdown. About how tired I was. How lonely things had gotten with a husband who worked 80 hours on a good week, while my friends, waiting to have kids, climbed their career ladders. I had cracked nipples and they had 401K’s.

So I wrote it out. I wrote hard.

I wrote whatever was on my mind at the moment I opened up the blank WordPress screen, never expecting that other people would read it.

I tried to imagine someone – one person – out their reading my now-completely jumbled words, riddled with the sort of grammatical errors that make an English want to use red pen on their computer screen. Someone besides lovely “people” trying to sell me Viagra or increase the size of my member. Right kind of them, thinking of my member that way. I never could quite imagine that. An audience? Me. Nah. I’m a crappy writer. A scientist. Not a writer. Never a writer.

I didn’t expect an audience. And quite frankly? I didn’t so much care. I wrote because I wanted to, not because I expected to become rich, famous, or fancy – being “Internet Famous” is like being the coolest kid at the nerd table.

(I heart nerds)

Blog posts are a snapshot of a moment captured in words – good or bad, depending upon the reader and the writer – and if I’d captured every moment, I’d never have had the time to raise my kids. Or pee, for that instance… Although a poem about peeing with a cranky infant strapped to my nipple could’ve been awesome.

In fact, if I’d written everything down that first year, it’d have been: “OMG WHAT AM I DOING, I CAN’T SEE STRAIGHT, WALKING INTO WALLS, BLAHHHH, SO SLEEPY, SLEEPY SLEEPY SLEEPY SLEEEEEPY. Where’s my coffee?”

Instead I took those moments, twisted them into something better, and went with it. Sometimes, I was happy with what I’d written, other times, I knew it was a glistening pile of dogshit, but I didn’t care. There were no “metrics,” no “monetization,” no “Facebook likes,” to judge the words I’d put in order on the screen as “worthy” or “unworthy.”

I miss those days.

Since I began this silly blog, I’ve hurt people. I’ve ruined friendships and I’ve ruined relationships. You might say they’d been ruined (or on the verge of) already – which would be true – but through no honest ill-will on my end, it’s forced those relationships into the outbox.

I’m sorry for that. Genuinely. I’d never wanted to hurt anyone.

Once I opened up about my divorce to you guys – a situation that had been building for so long, something I’d kept quiet for well over a year, things got real for me. My life turned upside down, shit rained down like that pink goo in Ghostbusters II (except in Chicago). It wasn’t pretty. And? I didn’t even get to see Slimer OR the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, those wily bastards.

I’d say that I was sorry for sharing my struggles with you, for being vulnerable, for asking for help when I needed it, except that I’m not.

Because for all the gossip and idle chatter; for all of the people who decided to pick sides and point their fingers, looking for someone to blame (divorce, like marriage, takes two to tango), I found a few people found comfort in my words. They understood what I meant, were in the middle of similar situations, or offered the one thing I’d needed: love.

And that’s all I need to remind me to keep going. To write hard. To ignore the naysayers inside my head and out. Because it all matters. And I can’t quit in a whiny pile of goo just because shit got real – I won’t.

If you’re out there, reading these words I’ve hastily strung together to form lackluster sentences, know that you’ve touched my life. It’s because of you that I’m still standing, walking around upright, and not huddled in a corner, weeping. MOST OF THE TIME.

No amount of comments,; no amount of subscribers, Twitter followers, Facebook likes can hold a candle to that.

Or this.

It all – all of it – matters.

Welcome to Shit I Found Saturdays, Pranksters!

Every week, I try to find some awesome shit around the ‘net to show you because, well, I feel sorta guilty for the whole “whinging about my divorce” crap.

Everyone needs a good laugh now and again.

This week, I’m dedicating my Saturday to the wonderful people of Band Back Together who have supported me, picked me up, dusted me off, and made me whole again; reminding me that truly, none of us are alone.

Even me.

Shit That’s Awesome:

I won an award. No, scratch that. I didn’t win this alone. My wonderful team of volunteers, our brave groups of writers and supporters, we won this award. To any of you who’ve read, lurked, commented, volunteered, written, or supported Band Back Together, we won this.

I sincerely hope that each of you reading these words know that you’re always welcome to write your stories of darkness and light, to drag your skeletons from the closet, and remind ourselves of one simple fact:

We are none of us alone: we are all connected.

Everyone has a story. Please tell us yours.

Shit I Read:

Kids Are Fucking Petri Dishes

Just A Fever (bring tissues)

Shit I Wrote:

Shit about saving cash and shit.

Amelia Has A Temper. SURPRISE TO NO ONE.

Shit I Did:

Posed In A Calendar

Ordered one of these (free!)




Here’s hoping it’s not fug.

Shit That’s Hilarious:

Whoops!

via Perez Hilton

Shit I Listened To:

————-

 How was YOUR week, Pranksters?

Because, I’ll be honest, until this afternoon, mine has been awful. Just a hard week.

Next week, though, will be better.

...by my bitch Kathryn

I’d probably change a few of these. IF I KNEW HOW.

————-

I’m off at a field trip today (no seriously, I do that shit sometimes. I know, what the nuts?). I should say this instead: I’m PROBABLY, if no one dies of bubonic plague or some shit, off to play with farm animals with my middle son. At least, that’s what I’m doing if I can figure out when and where this thing is going on. I think that parenting map needs to say something on the Chicago area that says something like, “Probably on a Field Trip or Dying of the Lurgy,” because hey, that’s what I do.

And as a thank you for putting up with my ass, Pranksters, but I’ve got a stellar giveaway going on tomorrow. Why? WHY NOT?

Also – who wants to meet me in VEGAS, baby? Because OMG I need a vacation – from LIFE.

We SO need to do this – Prankster vacation FOR THE WIN! (it kinda killed me not

P.S. How are YOU doing, Pranksters? Got anything hilarious going on?

P.P.S. I wrote about shit not to spend your cash on. Should probably include something about NOT going to Vegas when you’re SUPPOSEDLY moving out, but you know what? It’s Vegas. VEGAS BABY!

P.P.P.S. This should also go to show you the NEED for me to learn to be frugal. *hangs head*

I’m not the kind of person who likes to have Master Plans. It’s not that I don’t like a good plan, I just know whenever I shake my fist at the sky and say, “I *will* do (insert action item here),” The Universe laughs, pats my head condescendingly, and says, “Isn’t THAT special.” Come to think of it, The Universe sounds a lot like the Church Lady from the old SNL skit, which is neither here nor there.

Because my plans so rarely work out as according to, well, my plans, I’m used to shrugging my shoulders, cursing a little, and saying dramatically, “Come what may,” or, to be honest, it’s more like, “whateves.”

Instead, I grit my teeth, throw shit at the wall, and see what sticks. And I wonder how I broke two teeth in the span of six months. Here I was thinking it was “stress,” but we all know it was the rocks I’ve been gargling.

Wait, what?

MOVING ON.

Or, I should say, EVENTUALLY moving on, because really, that’s what Life in Limbo means: you duck, cover, and hope that this time, you’re the pigeon and NOT the statue, and tell yourself that if you’re the statue, that pigeon shit on your head makes a LOVELY accessory, isn’t THAT special?

I’d been planning to move into my shoebox apartment, of which I am extremely proud because it’s MY awesome dorm room, October 13. I’d figured that giving myself the opportunity to find things like oh, JOBS and DRINKING glasses might be good, because, hey, drinking water from champagne glasses sounds a lot more refined in theory than in practice. Kinda – but not really – like communism.

I’d slowly begun packing my things, realizing that I’d been in FAR too many weddings, what with the sheer number of black high heeled shoes I own, labeling them all “fragile” (FRA-GEE-LAE) just to confuse myself later on, because hey, moving sucks – gotta get your kicks where you can. If I don’t own a magnificent leg lamp, the best I can do is pretend that one might be in one of the boxes I’ve packed.

I do not, in fact, own this. However, THAT DOESN’T MEAN I CAN’T PRETEND.

Late last week, the apartment company called and told me the original apartment in which I was going to be moving into wasn’t going to be vacant any longer – blah, blah, blah owners staying blah blah blah – but that I’d be able to have another apartment. Did I still want to keep my move-in date October 13?

The answer was, of course, a resounding NO.

Not because it would be terrible to stay here a couple more weeks, not because I was quite ready to move, not that I actually owned glasses yet (SOON!), but because it was time. Living in my home, which I’d spent a hell of a lot of the past (counts on fingers) LOT of years, is just a reminder of what’s over. And while I may loathe goodbyes, it’s time for me to pack my happy ass up and move on down the road.

I told the apartment people I’d be ready to move by the end of September, because, well, I am. Days later, I’m still waiting to hear back if my NEW apartment will be ready by this time. I know apartment people are busy, and while I’ll usually use my patented, “stalk you until you tell me what I need to know – good or bad,” these are the people I’ll be renting from. As such, it’s probably a better idea NOT to piss them off or come across as “that crazy chick who calls every five minutes.”

So I wait. I pack, hoping I’m not going to be wearing the same outfit for the next 4 weeks, and I plan ahead, even while The Universe giggles in my direction.

While I wait, I play with this, which is pretty much window shopping for me (especially since they give away cool shit for free), while I wait.

And I research how to live on my own, how to cut costs, and what I can do to ensure that I don’t fall on my ass too hard. Learning how to live frugally? Kinda awesome.

Part I

Part II

One upon a January afternoon, three dumbasses walked into the ghetto (click to read the story), armed with bags of costumes and more makeup than a stripper could possibly use in her lifetime on the pole, which was a good thing, because we were on our way to LOOK like hookers – BAD hookers, I should add.

We were on our way to a photo shoot, which you’d think would be something that, as a child who grew up thinking the cameras in her face were actually paparazzi capturing her every blunder, I’d have been excited about, but I as I’d had to retake Yee Old Thanksgiving Family Portraits so often that I’d never learned that turkey was actually supposed to be warm, I wasn’t.

I was dead nervous.

Partially, it was the horrifying outfit I was wearing, so unlike the t-shirt and jeans I’d thrown on in the meantime. After Band Back Together had taken over the Blogger Body Calendar, we were all EYE OF THE TIGER about the 2013 calendar. Which I was in. You can call me “Ms. January, if’n you’d like,” or you can call me “Al,” if you don’t.

I’d ordered the outfit from some dance supply company, and it was too big, which meant my boobs flopped around like oranges in tube socks.

While the jaunty, spangly beret came with the awful oufit, I decided that I didn’t particularly want to wear it, perched atop my head like the world’s most ridiculous acorn cap – although to be fair, it may have made me APPEAR to be smarter – we all know that objects in mirror are stupider than they appear. The hat was no exception.

Even my daughter, who loves a good shiny almost as much as I do, decided it was hideous and refused to pose for a picture in it. Guess she’s got better taste than I do. Plus, it appears that if you wear the hat, you lose your calves and feet, and while I’m not entirely sure that WON’T happen with me one day, I’d rather not expedite that particular process. I’m rather fond of my feet, which do things like ensure I can walk into the kitchen to make ridiculously terrible coffee.

Anyway, I’d been waiting and waiting for the stylist to show up before Dawn and The Guy Formerly On My Couch were all, “Fuck, Becks, come here – let US style you.” So I did. What else could I do? Find some hooker and make her apply makeup more expertly? It was WAY too early in the morning for hookers.

Instead, my two “friends,” armed with a crimping wand and some makeup we found around the photo studio did my makeup in such a manner that I appeared to be a hideously BAD Diana Ross imposter, one of those things you just don’t wake up one morning and say, “today? I will do my BEST (WORST) Diana Ross impression.”

The pictures turned out better than expected, and all was right with the world.

Well, until I had to walk back to the car looking like a half-priced Diana Ross imposter, wishing I could stand around taking photos of the area without someone trying to buy a happy ending for 5 bucks.

I sorta forgot about the pictures because I’ve been a little busy with stuff-n-things, until Dawn reminded me, once again, that I needed to pull my head from my bung and LOOK AT THE DAMN pictures. Am I the only one who loathes looking at pictures of themselves? I can’t be. Because I totally do. I was basically all, *covers eyes* “WOW THAT LOOKS, *squinches up face in what I hoped would look like interest and not horror, * AMAZING!”

I can’t believe anyone puts up with me, either.

Anyway, the 2013, Band Back Together: I Am The Face Of Calendars are both ready and on sale – we’re doing a presale right now because obviously, cheaper is better (OR SO I HEAR).

Front Cover:

Back Cover:

If you’d like a pretty awesome calendar, even if it’s so you can hurl darts at my face, you can totally get one here.

So, um, what are you supporting when you buy this?

Keeping the lights on over at Band Back Together. Why? Isn’t that shit free?

Oddly, no. To handle the volume of work the site does, we rely on donations – often out of my pocket – to keep the servers whirring and clicking away.

Proceeds from the 2013 Band Back Together Calendar will be used for outreach efforts in 2013.

Band Back Together runs as a nonprofit, meaning we do not profit from any incoming funds. All proceeds go directly into Band efforts such as server costs or outreach efforts. As of this writing, we have not received a federal nonprofit status, therefore purchases or donations are (unfortunately) not tax deductible at this time.

Back before my life became a Telenovela – which may or may not be an insult to Telenovelas everywhere – I’d signed up to do the NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness) Walk in Chicago.

In case you’re unawares, I’ve been working with mental illness-y stuff for over two years at Band Back Together, trying to reduce the stigma of mental health and other traumas through the power of written word and appropriate resources so that we may all grow, learn and heal.

So this NAMI walk, winding through some of the most beautiful parts of downtown Chicago (not a dead rat to be seen anywhere!), I’d completely forgotten about, what with the impending move (which may or may not occur two weeks early), the dissolution of my union, packing, and trying to maintain some semblance of sanity (shut UP, I am sorta sane). Thankfully, our ever-present hero Dawn was around to remind me.

Repeatedly.

—————-

Dawnie, July 27: “Do you want to just go from my house? You can drive here and we’ll go.”

Me: “Huh? Your house? Sure! Can we order pizza?”

Dawnie: “You don’t remember?”

Me: “I remember pizza!”

Dawnie: “THE NAMI WALK!”

Me: “Isn’t that next year?”

————–

Dawnie, August 8: “So you’re meeting me at my house and we’ll go park downtown and walk to the area of the walk.”

Me: “WALKING? Should I wear my fuck-me pumps?”

Dawn: “I.Am.Going.To.Kill.You.”

Me: “What? They’re a PRETTY shade of blue.”

—————-

Dawnie, September 1: “So Erin and Maggie are meeting at my house on the 15th. We’ll carpool.”

Me: “K.”

Dawnie: “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

Me: “Nope. Will there be cake?”

Dawnie: “You’re fired.”

Me: “Second time I heard that today.”

—————-

My pea-brain can only handle so much information at once, so it’s safe to say I didn’t TRULY remember the NAMI walk until Thursday, when I was all, SHITFUCK how did I forget that? and both Dawn and The Guy Formerly On My Couch reminded me that my memory is like a block of Swiss cheese.

Which is why, on Saturday, not one, not two, not three, but at least 15 people reminded me to wear “sensible” (read: boring) shoes for walking a 5K. The Guy Formerly On My Couch went as far as to come over ahead of time and made sure I was not wearing gaudy flippity-flops or those awesome Strawberry 4 inch heels. He just subtly put my running (HA! LIKE I RUN!) shoes in front of me and stared pointedly at me until I put them on.

We arrived at Dawn’s with enough time to notice this:

If THAT’S not therapy-provoking, I don’t know what is. It’s also a handy way to ensure NO ONE EVER will steal your car. Because OMFG no. Clowns make me scared in my no-no square.

It was a good thing we were walking for mental health.

On the way to the city, I performed my dramatic re-readings of various emails, much to the delight (read: horror) of my car mates, which made me wish I had some old crappy love letters to do this with – it’s one of my favorite things to do at a party, besides yell randomly, “NO I DON’T WANT TO LOOK AT YOUR RASH.”

When we got downtown, we made a beeline for the NAMI 5K, held somewhere in Grant Park.

While I’ve never been one to walk (or run) for a cause, I have to say that it was pretty empowering, even if there were no snacks to be had. (WANTED SNACKIES!)

Mental illness is one of the only illnesses in which you’re actively judged for having. It’s our job – high heels or not – to reduce that.

I think we’re off to a good start.

————-

Wrote this about dreaming big and the importance of NEVER giving up your dreams.

Welcome to Shit I Found Saturdays, Pranksters! Every week, I try to find some awesome shit around the ‘net to show you because, well, I feel sorta guilty for the whole “whinging about my divorce” crap. And everyone needs a good laugh now and again.

Play along below!

Shit That’s AWESOME:

While I have a long winded post in the works about it, we pulled it together. We got the Band Back Together for mental illness AND made a snazzy calendar! I can’t wait to put mine up… which means I should PROBABLY ORDER ONE. Click the button to keep the lights on over at The Band! (or just because you’re an office supply nerd like me.)

Proceeds from the 2013 Band Back Together Calendar will be used for outreach efforts in 2013.

Band Back Together runs as a nonprofit, meaning we do not profit from any incoming funds. All proceeds go directly into Band efforts like server costs or community outreach.

Shit That’s Hilarious:

Barack Obama is tired of your shit.

Power-Up Arcade Light – I totes want this for my new place.

Shit I Did:

I was totally in a book (motherfucker) and it’s awesome. Really proud of it.

Shit I Wrote:

Stuffs about budgeting

That thing below? TOTALLY HELPING ME WITH BUDGETING. For SERIOUS.

Kindergarten Drop-off, Yo

Shit I Saw:

And this may make you die of laughing:

Shit That Made Me Pee Myself:

I’m a SUCKER for a good montage:

Shit I Listened To:

——————–

So what’s new with YOU, Pranksters? Those damn link things never work for me, so tell me, how’s things?

Look how far we’ve come, Baby Girl. Look how far we’ve come.

————

I also wrote this. Someday, I’ll stop calling AAA the AARP. Someday, but not today.

I read somewhere, probably on the Internet, or maybe I saw it on one of those wacky sitcoms that divorcing people are supposed to throw things around, hurl objects in the general direction of the other person, and generally yell, scream, and glower at the other while such things as “who gets the ginormous television?” and “why do you want a ginormous television that will take up your shoebox apartment, Becky?” Life might be more interesting that way, but the last time I tried to throw something at someone, I screamed, “Fuck you, motherfucker!” and lobbed a full large Diet Coke at his head. While he was sitting less than one foot away from me, I hit the car window, and the soda didn’t even rain down upon us like a delicious heavenly rain.

I was seventeen.

Since then, my objects of choice when I’m ready to break things are box fans, which make a nice satisfying THWAP when I kick them, only to realize that I’ve broken three toes and the fan is still sitting intact, mocking me with it’s Made in China sticker. Hurling things is clearly out of the question, as I’ve demonstrated that I’ve managed to hurt myself fairly badly on bubble wrap. BUBBLE WRAP, PRANKSTERS. That shit is SOFT.

(tell that to my finger)

(that’s what SHE said)

(buuuurrrrnnnnnn)

Anyway.

Since the time for hurling and lobbing of objects is long gone, and Dave’s birthday was this weekend, I suggested that we go out to a nice dinner, full of NON-scathing looks and celebrate. Everyone should have a party on their birthday, right? Right. (you may surmise that I both love and hate birthdays and you’d be correct – even my shrink informed me that he, too, likes to pretend that his birthday doesn’t exist, which made me feel a little better about changing the date on mine so often that I have to pull out my driver’s license and see, YUP, was actually born July 15).

“Hey,” I asked Dave on my way out the door on Friday night. “Can you make us some resos for Saturday night?”

Because, when I was very young, my parents removed my bladder and replaced it with a squirrel’s bladder, it took me a good 12 minutes to pee three times before I actually manged leaving, which made me shake my fists at the sky at the squirrel who’s living out there, having to pee once every seven years, before I heard Dave howling from the next room.

“Capones is closed,” he said, when I came in to see what the ruckus was about.

“Whaaaaa?” I couldn’t believe it – it was a staple out here. An old restaurant fashioned out of one of Al Capone’s Speakeasy’s from the roaring twenties, before he died of VD.

“Like for good,” he replied. “I think the owners retired.”

I made a glum face as he suggested one of his favorite sushi restaurants. “Works for me,” I replied, finally out the door.

The day of his birth dawned without me recalling it was such, which made me feel like a shitheap – who forgets birthdays? Apparently, that answer is Yours Truly. “7:00,” he said as I poured my morning coffee, heading to the fridge to dilute it with milk – Dave makes coffee that’s so strong it curls your hair and makes you shudder.

“Dammit,” I said, upon seeing the fridge. “We’re out of milk.”

Sheepishly he looked at me, “Sorry,” he said. “I drank the last of it in my coffee.”

“S’okay, I’ll improvise,” I replied as I grabbed an ancient bottle of SlimFast. I poured it in, noting the chunks that plopped into my coffee and stared sadly at my now-chunky coffee.

The rest of the day, I spent in my garden, painting my roses a decided shade of pink, while some dude rubbed Dave with oil and massaged the kinks from his neck.

6:30 rolled around and I noted that Dave was, in fact, sitting on the couch and looking at me expectantly. “Shit,” I hollered as I flew up the stairs. “Getting dressed now!” I threw on whatever didn’t smell like it had been IN the garden and made my way back downstairs and out the door.

We rolled into the sushi place about 10 minutes prior to our reservation and sat in the bar, where I stared at the photo I’d taken when I walked in, hardly believing vending machines, one of my favorite things on the planets, had failed me so miserably:

Sign of the apocalypse.

Dear Snooki: please don’t spray-tan your baby until he’s at least 6 months old.

Finally our table was ready, which was good, because I was about to cry about the stupid Vending Machine with JERSEY FUCKING SHORE in it. We ordered our dinners and sat back and talked about this, that and the other, the idle chit-chat you do when you’re talking to someone you know well. It’s a good thing, I guess, we haven’t been fighting, because I had at my disposal, about three hundred different things that could’ve been fashioned easily into weapons all American Gladiators-style.

Instead, I took a picture of my soup for one reason (and not because it was tasty OR delicious):

Mmmm. Soupy.

That’s a nice reminder that taking pictures of your food and making them look NOT like piles of baby barf requires a professional photog. NOT EVERYONE CAN BE A FOOD BLOGGER.

(I may or may not have feeling bitter pants about the whole “Jersey Shore” vending machine)

Then, because it’s the right thing TO do, I made sure everyone knew it was Dave’s birthday, which meant a half-dozen Japanese people would sing him happy birthday in butchered-English. He loves to be embarrassed by me. He just never SAYS it, which is how I know.

I also made sure to take as many embarrassing photos as I could, which, unfortunately with my broke ass iPhone, didn’t work too well. But here’s the only one I got:

The thumbs-up were my idea – gives the impression you’re REALLY happy! You can tell he’s happy – not at all annoyed by me – by the look on his face!

I can hardly wait for the next year. I’m thinking singing, stripping, male telegrams.