Building Castles

I have spent a lot of time living in, building, and furnishing castles.

As a gung ho Jesus cheerleader, they were only accessible through miles and miles of winding roads, roads that felt like deja vu instead of progress.  The stones were made of the compressed spines of the faithful, but there were beautiful beds to sleep in while you were there.  The ceilings over these beds took my breath away night after night–all gold and purple and correct.  Few people talked about the locked rooms, and so I didn’t really worry about them myself until I got restless one night and started to wander the halls.  This didn’t last long before someone came to chase me back to my room and tuck me in with a platitude on the cheek.  It is only now, years later, that I hear secondhand what may have been in them.

As a school teacher, the roads to the castle were deceptively straight and the stones were transparent.  I was thrilled.  I knocked out every wall I could find in order to make room for everyone.  I banished the beds…and then seated them in cold, metal chairs that cut into the skin.  Only the sensitive ever named the cutting feeling, the rest just bled to death slowly with their eyes once again fastened on the ceiling.  I tried installing trap doors with paper covers, eight-and-a-half by eleven windows, anything to bring the attention horizontal, but they were too focused on the dragons crisscrossing the sky.  I have to admit, those dragons were hard to ignore.

As a daughter the castle I built was quiet, with a deep dungeon for even more unspeakable things.  As a friend, I bought a fleet of motorized golf carts to see to all my guests as quickly as possible, and I had fireworks going 24/7–not because I particularly cared for fireworks, but I’d heard they drew a crowd.  With every new castle the buildings grew harder to find and inhabit.

And then one day, like all good plot twists, I lost my building permit.  It was just gone.  Without it, none of the contractors would show up to work and none of the real estate agents would sell me land.  I checked my other pants pocket, and then I checked my other other pants pocket, and then I sat on the ground for a while to have a think.  It was a confusing time for a lifetime builder.

Thankfully, I have never been alone.  Furniture designers, carpenters, bricklayers, and all types of people who knew about structures that breathed, started to wander down the road to where I was sitting.  I have mostly listened, sometimes argued, and then started again, slowly, to build small things–a dance, a supply of colored pencils, a crew, a way to listen to my father, a smile, an ability to slow down.  I have heart rocking gratitude for these lessons, these teachers.

Tonight’s teacher was six, and surprise, I once again found myself building a castle.  This castle had sharks in the moat, but they were nice sharks, and all had saddles so people could ride them in to come visit us.  There was a dungeon “for people who annoy us,” but they were only allowed to be held for a week tops, the amount of time it takes for people to stop being annoying.  And, they were held on the other side of the diamond waterfall so that they could have something nice to look at while they were calming the fuck down (my words, not his).  This castle had a litter of newly hatched baby dragons, but no one worried when one of their enormous teeth fell out and pierced holes in the ceiling.  It made it easier to see when it started raining interesting things like lima bean sandwiches.  This castle had a café that served only ice cream and bacon (to which I stopped myself from saying “FUCK YES!!” out loud to).  However, when the chef came in (his Mom) and served us pasta, he explained that it was important to occasionally have veggies as well to ward off the highly contagious dragon flu from our staff, friends, and villagers.  This castle was full of friends for multiple parties, but we didn’t worry whether they liked it at our place or not.  In fact, we left during one party to go down the road to a movie theater run by vampires.  The people were all there when we got back.

This castle had room.

It had room enough for everything.

Nothing was turned away, nothing.

I am not as talented as he is, yet.

But I reject the notion that this talent grows only with children.

I clean off my old tools, I buy and accept new ones, and I start scouting the horizon for spaces.

Spaces for everything.

 

 

Advertisements

Sunday Love Letter

Driving to Fremont this afternoon, the hills were beautiful; all tumble down gold like pennies from a giant’s pocket.  I felt the overpowering gratitude of mundane moments that has swooped me up over and over again in the last few years.

Lately however, I’ve been wanting to find a more indelible way to mark one of the most stunning eras in my life thus far.  I’ve thought about getting another tattoo, but the first hurt badly enough to make that highly unlikely.  I’ve even considered getting professional photos, but as my logical side pointed out, no matter how lovely those might be, I can’t see paying money to look at pictures of myself.  So, for now, that leaves me with words.

What is it that I want to remember so badly?

I want to remember that at 35, I finally agreed with my Dad and entered “the best years of my life,” giving by far the fewest fucks about anyone’s judgement that I had ever given.  I want to remember that some of my biggest illusions shattered, and it didn’t kill me.  I want to remember that I stopped letting fear keep me consistently small, and started asking for its wisdom on what else was about to grow.  I want to remember that at 37, I left a career of 13 years, something stable that I was good at, because the price of maintaining my comfort and my ego were too high.  I want to remember learning to speak my own languages, all of them.  I want to remember that I started spending time outside–in forests, in parks, in labyrinths, in cities I’d never been to before.  I want to remember that I stopped seeing friendships as legal contracts, and started seeing them as a constellation of stars, beautiful whether close or far from me.  I want to remember that I faux-hawked my hair, and that I finally understood the power of my own femininity because I chose it, not just submitted to whatever definition was in front of me.  I want to remember that my body, mind, and spirit started all showing up in the same place, more often than not.  I want to remember all the roads I walked to the middle of; still terrified by the mess but also intrigued by it.  I want to remember that I started saying ‘no’ and ‘I’ll think about it.’  I want to remember falling in love with poetry again–writing, speaking, reading.  I want to remember sleeping and waking at times that make sense for me.  I want to remember finally listening to the trees that had been trying so hard to get my attention.  I want to remember leading 8th graders in meditation, and how their faces looked when we had to leave that place.  I want to remember my cat snoring on the pillow next to me while I write.

While getting my toes painted today the lady breaks in from several minutes of silence and says, “I remember you from before, with long, long hair.  You don’t look so happy then as you do now.”  And words aren’t enough for this, the fact that this is true, but I use them to continue to graft this gratitude into my skin, to continue to bring the world something that does not destroy me in the process.

“Mirror, mirror on the Internet…”

Like many of us, I keep online dating, even though it is clearly the seventh circle of hell.

I used to justify it by saying, “But my job keeps me from meeting people, so it’s really all I have at my disposal.  It’s better than nothing”  (Don’t get me started on how many stupid ideas keep running on the strength of that line).

However, since that’s not true anymore in the last year and change, and I do meet some intriguing men out and about, I’ve had to find another purpose for this system, or officially ditch it and thus risk falling asleep at late night jobs when I am not awake enough for anything else.  Plus, I have more than one single friend whose self esteem is in jeopardy if one more person gives up on the Internet.  My solution is brilliant–online dating as a mirror to self, almost a meditation of sorts.  Let me explain.

I have gotten to the point that I can tell what’s going on with me, based on how I react to men’s dating profiles.  Now, I’m decently self aware to begin with, but I find this to be a fabulous tap-tap-tap on the shoulder when I need it.  Examples, give us examples!  Okay, since you asked with such enthusiasm.

Some nights I will find myself staring at the dogs and cats in guys pictures.  I will notice which ones look trapped, and counsel them on how to run away and get to the nearest no-kill shelter.  Some nights, when I’m really feeling my duty, I’ll ask every dog or cat in every picture, “Are you sure about him?  I think you can do better.”  That’s when I stop and wonder, what part of me feels unguarded or unprotected lately?  Do I need to stand up and be my own advocate, and not the theoretical advocate to pictures of animals?  The answer is probably yes.

Other nights, I find myself staging whole conversations between the assorted buddies and family members in some of these fine gentleman’s photos.  I wonder how he made these friends, what his family is like, and before you know it, I’m shutting the computer down to call my Mom or check up on a friend I haven’t heard from in a while.  The brilliance of storytelling is that it is often easier to process your own web using stand ins.  The bummer of storytelling is when you never get to the self processing piece.

I’ve also been known to take on a defense attorney like conversation with some of the items in these men’s profiles.  “Alright, Jake of Menlo Park.  You say you are into hiking, so when was the last time you hiked?  Oh, you’re the strong silent type?  That won’t help you now Jake, you’re in my courtroom.  What is the closest hiking trail to your house?  What is the difference between a sneaker and a hiking boot?  ANSWER ME JACOB!!!!!”  This is usually when I look up to the cat/dog/goldfish I’ve just scared the shit out of–yes, I do have some of these conversations out loud–and wonder who I feel is lying to me right now.  What part of my life is currently out of integrity and trying to snap back into line?

Even tonight, as I plodded through profiles, I couldn’t help but notice how gorgeous everyone’s hair was.  Many of them also seemed one dimensional or douche-y, but other than that it was like Vidal Sassoon and Fabio had gotten together and built a master race of good haired robots.  I wanted to play with all the hair so badly!! Like life sized Ken dolls, boinging curls, bristling flattops, braiding long shiny manes like I used to with My Little Ponies in the bathtub.  “Why are you so pretty, goddamnit!!” was uttered more than once, I won’t lie (what would be the point at this juncture, I’ve already thrown all my weirdo cards at the Internet).  So, tomorrow, I will pick up my paints, or pick up some produce from the Mexican market that sells iguanas (even though I have never seen one), and give my fingers a chance to create and play.

In closing, if my next love, great or small, is somehow reading this, I know it sounds jaded as fuck.  It’s not really that as much as my frustration at how technology flattens and hides your story from me.  Get your ass in gear and let’s start this adventure!  My Romantic Smush Monster (RSM for short) has been sequestered too long 😉 Until then, the RSM and I will keep trying to tell me what I need, if I’ll listen.  Instead of beating myself up for not disconnecting from the technology deluge more often, what if I use it to listen differently?

Listening Practice: Vignettes in Entering the Mess

Everyone I know is asking some variety of the same question right now.

How do I contribute to healing, racial and otherwise, in a way that encompasses concrete action and personal examination? 

I talked about listening in my last post, as part of my personal examination, and so I wanted to share with you three moments from our city’s peace rally this weekend.  Despite my temptation to speed past what was being said when the ‘white fragility button’ was pushed, I found myself listening in a way I haven’t before.  I was listening with the curiosity I used to bring to my students, and I am humbled and further curious about what I heard.

Ghostbusters

He had kind eyes and a clever sign with the iconic Stay Puff Marshmallow Man as a Klansman instead.  This tall African American gentleman, clearly a practiced speaker, quickly put the crowd at ease with his warmth and humor.  In the short time each speaker was allotted, he started drawing a parallel between reading levels and people’s willingness to deal with racism.  In part I think he was trying to highlight the ridiculousness of people who still needed what he called “the Disney version” of our country’s history with racism–namely, slavery, Civil War, Martin Luther King Jr., the end.    While his point made sense, as a teacher I started thinking about it literally.

When I first started teaching, I encountered reluctant readers with the firm sword of ‘they should learn to read for the intrinsic value of it.’  I had always been a reader, delighted in words.  It didn’t make sense to me that others were not.  In fact, it seemed insulting to bribe them with extra credit, candy, and all manners of ingenious bribes that teachers come up with over the years.  I had to fall on that sword a lot of times (I mean a lot, a lot, a lot) and get my metaphorical guts everywhere, before I was willing to concede that some kids just weren’t there yet.  They needed a ‘carrot.’

So what if that’s true of understanding and dismantling racism?  Yes, we should stop being racist assholes because it is the right thing to do.  I also know it is inherently and deeply unfair to ask or expect people who have dealt with it THEIR WHOLE LIVES to care about those who are truly backward in their thinking.  And I am not suggesting that a Nazi, or someone else who wants you dead, deserves that.  But there are others, like myself, who are genuinely motivated to move with heart and take responsibility, but we’re struggling with the ‘how,’ feeling it out as we go, hoping it will be enough.  So could we have racism flashcards, like we do phonics flashcards for new readers?  What would breaking down this complex reading look like?

And, what was my own ‘racism reading level?’  I put myself at about sixth grade, for those who are interested.  Like most sixth grade readers, I can understand a plot, a few nuances, but if there’s not enough action, too many big words, too much description of the setting, or if I have to read aloud to my peers, I start getting sweaty and losing attention as I scan for the nearest exit.  I want to read the hard books on this subject, but like a brand new English speaker I had once who carried around Harry Potter for the better part of a year and finally brought it back to me unread with tears in her eyes, they make me despair sometimes that I won’t ever get it.

Thank you, fellow tall friend, for giving me a metaphor I could wrap my brain around.

Southern Swag

This lady scared me.  She was beautiful, both steel and roots in one body, but she scared me like the black mothers of some of my students used to.  I knew I better be on point and not waste her time with trifles.  I could hide behind the label of teacher, or in this case rally attendee, but she wasn’t having it.  She started speaking about multiple encounters she’d had with police brutality, and how even today some had warned her to not “say too much” before coming up to address this largely white, affluent audience.  I had to grab Wonder Woman’s lasso to get my attention back, it was running out on her words so quickly.  But then she came to a point that stunned me into complete attention–black people have always known what it is to be other, but now, under this administration, unless you are a white, male billionaire, everyone will soon know how this feels.  “And what are you going to do then?”

Weirdly, I found myself excited by this point after the shock of it stopped me short.  I started thinking that maybe this was EXACTLY WHAT WE NEEDED.  Forced disenfranchisement.  It is hard, and maybe impossible, to teach empathy as an intellectual exercise.  What if we finally fucking felt it?  What if we looked around to men and women of color and went, “Oh, you weren’t just being melodramatic”?

The American government does not love us.  Institutions can not love us, because institutions are not people.  They are meant, at their best, to be a representation of people’s hopes and values.  They are concrete buildings, built on abstractions.  Unfortunately, when we confuse institutions with people, we have a harder time trying to change them.  I can’t be the only one on planet Earth that has struggled to correct this thinking, and there is still an inexplicable part of me that wants the institution to love me (probably because the rules for loving and relating to people seem much more vague and messy).  When I left both organized religion and public education, I was an exemplary participant and cheerleader. Understanding that the institution did not love me was heartbreaking each time.  However, doing so allowed me to realize how little I had settled for, the other possibilities that were present, and sadly, the opportunities I had lost to really be with the people inside these institutions.

The current administration is allowing sickness to surface on every level.  Could the silver lining be that it reminds us of how much we need each other, of how similar we are, of how we are in charge of shaping institutions, not the other way around?

Thank you, brave warrior, for believing in our collective destiny enough to tell us the truth.

Matter-of-Fact Boy

Upon leaving the rally, I walked past a mother and her two young sons.  I overheard the following snippet of their conversation:

Son: “I’m glad they are saying all these things.”

Mother: “How come?”

Son: “Because maybe the bad people will hear them and change their minds about hating.”

And I saw the mother’s face.  Overwhelmed with the myriad of conflicting emotions a moment of hope like that brings, she did what we’ve all done as adults.  She gave the, “Awww, that’s sweet,” face.  I’ve seen that face given to me, to artists, to children, to anyone really who holds a pure and simple emotion or belief fiercely.  In response, he gave the face I’ve seen on children time and again, the face I myself have given in response to the distance created by condescension:  “What?  I’m not kidding, I’m not trying to be cute, or quirky, or entertaining.”  What he said to his mother was true and completely possible in his eyes.  There was zero conflict between his heart and the state of his words/actions.

After all these years, I can only believe that adults are jealous of this integrity, this harmony.  And maybe it’s not the “real world” that kids or other dreamers live in, but if it is not “real”, why do we go to such great lengths to destroy it?  Why do we make children learn the word ‘pretend’ in order to meet us where we’re at?  Shouldn’t we protect any vessels that can shelter and grow hope this pure?  Shouldn’t we chase this degree of alignment, integrity?  I know that every time I unearth more of it for myself, I have more love for the people around me.  We already save seeds against future disasters, so this is not a new concept.

Thank you, little seed, for hoping.  I can’t honestly hope like you do yet, but I am working on it.

What could you hear today, if you were listening, that would help heal the world?

 

When Things Need Replacing

I could only bring myself to watch one clip of events unfolding in Charlottesville.

In it, a torch carrying mob chanted, “You will not replace us.”  In a split second I was keeled over in gut shaking sobs on my couch, cradling my laptop as if it were a baby.  Though I revile their message, I found myself connecting to the feeling underneath that chant–the feeling of pouring yourself into something, right or wrong, so vigilantly that you develop tunnel vision.  If and when your hacked off awareness then starts to creep back, push in on you, the feeling of having worked for a lie is terrifying.  Change brings anger.  Your self-worth crumbles.  The rules seem to be new, just as you finished mastering the old rules.

I felt these same things while leaving the church fifteen years ago, and public education one year ago.  I never picked up a physical torch, but I burned lots of things to the ground in both those seasons.  I never pointed an actual car at a crowd, but there were lots of bystander casualties as I came to terms with my illusions.

I wasn’t crying for the Nazis, but because I did not understand how we as a nation could possibly combat this cellular fear of otherness that is now oozing from our historical pores.  Dealing with children who still inhabit children’s bodies is one thing, but what if the child is in an adult’s body?  How do you begin to enter a space where tantrum and logic are both present?  I felt hopeless, like I wanted to run away.

But tonight, somewhat calmer after a neighborhood peace vigil, I can listen enough to hear my heart.  Although I want there to be a “right” course of action, I know that’s not possible.  The only “wrong” course of action is inaction, allying with hate through inactivity and numbing distraction.

So, what else can I do?  What else am I asking of myself in response to this newest display of fear?  Listening is the first word that comes to mind.  Seeking out stories that are different than mine, and doing what it takes to strengthen the skill of listening without judgement or concurrent narrative.  Facing institutional and interpersonal racism is some people’s everyday lives.  I believe this with my brain because I’ve both seen and heard it, but my heart has not yet absorbed it enough to be fully transformed, to consistently act in line with my values instead of my privilege.  Even tonight, as a young trans woman spoke at the vigil, I found myself wishing she would tone down her anger a little.  My very next thought was really more of a sigh, a deep one, on realizing how much better I need to be at listening.

Owning my own racist/privileged attitudes, in explicit terms, is the next request I feel myself making.  What is my part in Charlottesville?  Well, first off, I am frustrated at the never-ending nature of social justice struggle.  I want there to be one big action, or a series of smaller actions, that will count as “enough” on the cosmic scales.  I want that action to have concrete and somewhat immediate results, and I want it to be hard enough to do that it feels “worthwhile.”  In short, I want to tap in and tap out again with something I can put on my Facebook.  By doing so, I contribute to how long these struggles take.  This option is less available for folks who are fighting for their own lives.

There were also lots of times as a teacher that my racism was quite clear to me, but more recently, I’ve become aware of it in my internet dating practices.  My first instinct is to swipe left or delete men of color, often times before I have even read what they have written.  When I do read, and often find myself intrigued, I find myself saying things like, ‘it would probably be easier for him to date someone who is Black.  How could I ever understand what life is like for him in a way that would be enough?’  Translation: I am not willing (yet) to put myself into the vulnerable territory of doing that work, even though it is the exact same work I ask people to do in getting to know me.  I tell myself I don’t want to add to someone’s pain by misunderstanding them, but I am not entirely sure that is honest.  I often add insult to injury by conflating these men with the absentee Hispanic and African American fathers of my students all these years, and the judgement I hung over those men was immense.   Again, it comes down to my ease.  It is easier to know people as categories than as individuals.

I assure you, there’s more.  The countless moments that I am probably not even aware of as they are happening.  I hope to shift that, rooting these weeds out with kindness where I can, with a little ass kicking where I can’t.  I also don’t expect a gold star for these revelations, but I am starting to see that if I don’t name them plainly, then there’s little hope of real change; a heart that more closely matches my outward actions, so that the actions don’t become just a politically correct bandaid.  I don’t want to march, donate, email, call, and still allow myself my comfortably dirty corners.

I don’t know how else we start truly belonging to each other, seeing each other as parts of ourselves, when some are born with such privilege or such struggle, but I know we have a lot of things that need replacing before we get there.

What the Water Wants

This summer has been weird.

On the one hand, there’s been traveling, dinners out, dancing, a new friend, swimming, sleeping in, jumping out of trees, poking into new career possibilities, committing to an examination of my fears, and a cute boy to spin me around the dance floor and call me beautiful all night.

On the other hand, people are cancelling jobs left and right, I’m borrowing money, an abnormal pap smear sent me in for biopsies, my Dad called me aloof again, a very large check got lost in the mail, aforementioned cute boy turns out to not be a great communicator, and still, no life plan that makes sense to anyone.

I’m not used to so much good and so much challenge all colliding at once.  I’d arranged my teacher life to where it was either mostly stress or mostly relaxation–aka, the school year and vacations.  I’ve started to feel like someone carrying a large bucket of water, full to the brim, trying to keep it from sloshing out.

This was very much the metaphor in my head as I started warming up for dance class on Monday.  Stretching, breathing, paying attention as usual, and then bam!  An utterly disruptive question.  You know the ones I am talking about, right?  The questions that are not necessarily logical.  The questions that will lead to more questions.  The questions that are turning points.  It was all this, and yet elegantly simple: what does the water want?

I’d like to say my response was spiritual and enlightened, but it was more along the lines of, “WTF!!  I am too busy trying to hold all this to consider what ‘this’ needs.  Can my stupid brain unhook from my magical intuition for just a few minutes, IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?!?!?!”  But, after having what amounted to a dance tantrum, I calmed down enough to be able to consider it as more play than work.

I tried to move like water as I dropped into the rolling beats of the warm up set.  I felt my own sweat, the heat of the day still trapped in the walls and floor, and puddles of light from the overhead bulbs.  I experimented with sloshing up against the side of an invisible bucket.  I flexed and bent to feel the liquid in my wrists, elbows, knees.  The dance, as it tends to do, reached up and took me.

I was water.  And then, I had my answer.  A perfectly non-answer, answer.

The water wants to be water.

I was tempted to tantrum again.  In my very own version of Family Feud, the left brain says, “This is not an answer to which you can create action steps.  This is not an answer that you can explain to others.  THIS IS NOT AN ANSWER.”  On the other side of the board, right brain says, “But it is.  And you feel what it means even if you can’t say it in a million words.”

A request for more patience.

Hold the shifting conditions lightly little H2O molecule, everything is temporary.

Feel the fun of making a mess.

Look at who and what is around you, one of many.

You are soft.

You give life.

So much combining.

The water wants to be water.  And so, year two of Delaney Walkabout begins.

 

All the Things I Wanted to do at the Farmer’s Market Today

Summer!  Colors!  Sun!  Everyone magically emerges from their houses at once, as if they had forgotten that the outside existed.  This makes it an excellent season for people watching.  As I sat on the curb near this week’s musical selection, taking it all in, my beautiful mind started to entertain me.  Thus, I give you everything I wanted to do at Farmer’s Market today:

  1.  Shave the impossibly tiny goatee of the solo, acoustic guitarist.  Why was it so tiny?  Is that all he could grow?  It was providing no sun protection to his very white skin…aka superfluous.
  2. Flick peanuts or glitter bouncy balls at the people who were taking their fruit and veggie gathering agenda very seriously, and I mean, VERY SERIOUSLY.  Are you seeing all this, people?  The little kids were.  I made eye contact with and smiled at about two dozen of them whose little necks were rotating like windmills to see it all.
  3. Offer to sit with the little boy whose mom was in a hurry.  He saw a piece of trash near me that looked like a frog (it really did) and he crouched over it in fascination for barely a minute before his mom pulled him away.  He started to fuss and cry, and I didn’t blame him.  I didn’t blame her either, mom is a serious job, but I would’ve sat there with him and looked at the frog trash until it lost its allure.
  4. Eat more slowly.  It struck me, as I pulled perfect strawberries from the white plastic bag, that each one of them had the entire care, art, and intention of the entire Earth in them.  WTF???  WHY DO I EAT SO FAST ALL THE TIME?
  5. Make friends with the couple wearing the matching clown pants.  Only really cool people could own such ginormous pants.
  6. Organize the people around me in the eating area to play musical chairs, even though the acoustic version of “With or Without You” is probably not a great musical chairs song.
  7. Swipe ‘no’ on every single man on Tinder.  Better yet, I’d organize a collective of women who would infiltrate and do the same.  We’d force the men offline en masse, and then maybe they’d learn to relate in real time, less posing and hunting.  I feel this would be a tremendous service to woman kind.
  8. Steal the sari of one of the Indian ladies I saw.  It was the most amazing piece of fabric ever–spring, summer, and all the colors of all the fruits and veggies, combined perfectly without being loud or confusing.  I pictured running around her like Road Runner or Flash.  I wondered how many circles I’d have to do in order to unwind it and run away.  Then I thought, not only would that be a crime, but probably a hate crime since she’s Indian.  I wonder now how many hate crimes happen because our love is immature, and all we can think to do sometimes is possess the thing we can’t understand but are drawn towards.
  9. Give the little boy in a green Portland shirt a better show.  He snuck up at one point to shoot me with his bow and arrow made by the balloon animal guy the next aisle over.  I gave him the obligatory twitching and dead person tongue hanging out, but he seemed unsatisfied.  I wish I could have given him cartoon lines of chaos coming off my body, full orchestral back drop, and various audience members with large, liquid anime eyes, jumping and cheering.
  10. High fived the mom who dressed her twins the same.  I don’t care what anyone says, that shit is adorable.

Happy Sunday everyone!  Keep all your eyes peeled…there’s delicious stuff happening out there.