All You Have to Change is Everything.

Hooking up with Kate Motaung over at Five Minute Friday today.

Today’s word:  Change.

 

0002321_0

 

I take to change about as well as Red takes to having a band-aid .  There’s a lot of shimmying and wailing  A couple fan kicks.  Some pathetic bargaining.  Some snot.  A bit more of the wailing business.  Sometimes there’s even a frantic bit of hopping around on one foot which usually leads to, you guessed it, another band-aid situation.

I don’t like change.

That’s like saying I don’t care for strep throat.

Good golly, when I decide to bake cookies, I start three days early by setting out flour and some bowls.  I have to commit slowly to cookies, because it’s such a monumental task.  It is too much change, I tell you. Day two, I set out some vanilla.  Maybe a spoon.  Perhaps even the cookie sheet.

Day three – we conquer softening butter.  And so on.

Anyhow.  About three years ago I decided to basically change everything about my life.  It’s like I woke up one day and said, “I think I’ll try to get through this day by standing on my head and speaking French.  Should work out all right.”

It was the kind of change that made my whole world feel like I was in one of those fun houses where all the furniture is on the walls and you walk on a sloped floor, leaning and laughing and trying to find a door.

Except I wasn’t laughing much, and I had a lot of doors all around me – most were big ones with nice pretty labels on them labeled: Pinot Grigio, Pinot Noir, Pinot Whatever, Merlots and lots… etc.

But I made it through one day.  I basically stayed in bed (for real) because the whole house was all tilty and getting up meant I could head for a door.  Bed was easier.

Day two, much of the same.

And so on.

And after a while, after a long long while of shifting and shimmying and hopping around on one foot and WAILING and pleading – I pretty much realized that I have changed just about everything.

 

My soul was awful back then.  It was tired and sick and sad.  I couldn’t imagine a world without drinking, but I couldn’t stand the thought of continuing drinking.  I was trapped.

And therefore today I will sing and shout and cry out from the rooftops with a big fat Amen:

CHANGE IS GOOD.

I AM FREE.

 

 

 

Screenshot 2014-08-28 08.46.02

 

Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me.    Psalm 51:10

 

Well here I am at the dentist.

 

visit-to-the-dentist1

 

Lately I have been practicing something called “metacognition.”  That’s a big word for being aware of my thoughts.  Like, acknowledging (even out loud) how I’m feeling.  See that mosquito hovering around my face?  I would say, “This mosquito is annoying me.  I am rather annoyed.”*

Or how at least twice a week I find out my fly is open and I wonder, “How long, oh tired out zipper, have you betrayed me?   Oh, I am feeling, um, rather pathetic and crummy.”

That last one is a bit embarrassing.

This is all supposed to help me be “in the moment” and to “process my feelings”  when I’m “feeling a bit like I want to take a chainsaw to my day.”  It also helps very much if whenever I use the metacognition thingy that I go all “quote fingers” on you.

I had to go to the dentist today.

Metacognition to the rescue!!

 

So, I’m sitting in the chair, and the dentist has me basically reclining so far back that my feet are above my head.  I can feel my cheeks (the ones on my face) start to slide up towards my eyes.   “My feet are above my head.  I think this could be some sort of yoga pose.  It probably is good for my back.  I am feeling fine.”

Then, she puts that gigantic piece of pink rubber in my mouth and kind of thwacks it around, shoving it in with tenacity and skill.  It tastes just like a pencil eraser. “My dentist has a lot of tenacity and skill with that pointy metal thing.  This rubber feels all sorts of unacceptable.  I am feeling like this is unacceptable, really.  That’s how I’m feeling.”

I start to concentrate on the poster of the Colorado Rockies that is stuck to the ceiling.  Smooth move, dental workers.   This poster is riveting.  I could stare at it for, like, three whole minutes and just feel the rapture of that mountain stream casca-

GOOD GUACAMOLE, SHE IS POKING ME WITH THE GIGANTIC NEEDLE THING I AM GOING TO DIE.

“I am feeling like I am going to die.  The gigantic metal needle thing is poking all around in my mouth.  This is, I think, pretty much just the worst thing ever.”

Mountains.  Stream.  A bit of tape at the corner that is falling off.  I think there is a stain on the ceiling that kind of looks like Ronald Reagan. Breathe.

“Yep.  Pretty much still think I’m going to die here.  Right here in this chair.  They would feel pretty bad, the dental community, wouldn’t they?  I bet they would.  This is just awful.  I hate everything about this.  The world is just a terrible place, that there are people who put needles in your mouth and say things like, ‘Now, you’ll feel just a pinch.’  That’s like when you go to the ladybits doctor and she says,  ‘Now just relax.'”

I count four corners on that poster.  Yep.  Counting.  I can also count how many tiles are up there, but I have these Blublocker glasses on and and everything is this trippy gold color.  For some reason this makes counting hard.Screenshot 2014-08-25 22.13.51

I wonder if my husband will miss me, after I’m gone.

AND THERE’S THAT DRILLING SOUND.  I HAVE SEEN MARATHON MAN.  I HIGHLY REGRET IT, BUT IT HAD DUSTIN HOFFMAN IN IT AND I JUST LOVE HIM.  HE WAS SO YOUNG IN IT AND HAD THAT GREAT 70’S FEATHERED HAIR AND ALLBUT REALLY, JUST A TERRIBLE MOVIE.

“I feel like I’m going to die again.  It’s a good thing I didn’t wear my workout clothes to this appointment.  I am in clean underwear.  This is a bonus.  But yes, I am still sitting, looking at my toes and pretty sure Jesus is calling me home.  No drama, here.”

Holy cannoli, my dentist just said, “Uh oh.”  This made me tense up so much my entire backside basically levitated me out of the seat.  It seems I have a fractured tooth.  More work to do.  More drilling.

“So, I am still sitting here. My appointment is lasting way longer than I thought.  This is just awful again.  I am feeling, uh, scared and fearful and frightened.  And yes, I know those all are synonyms but you can’t expect me to come up with better word choice at time like this.”

This dental dam thing is really starting to get all slimed up.  So that’s just gross.  Have I mentioned this is just awful?  It really is.  Wal-Mart on a Saturday morning kind of awful.  Chucky Cheese has nothing on this.

“Ok.  What am I feeling?  Yep.  This is pretty much just awful. Still awful here.  Nothing new to add.”

I am convinced at this point that this appointment has gone on far too long.  In fact, I think it’s time to just disentangle myself from the rubbery grip of the dental dam and storm out of here.  But not before I give a perfect exit speech, indignant and powerful. This is just cruel, I tell you.  Medieval quackery!  Hocus pocus!  I’m calling the news channel!  This is ENOUGH!

In my mind (a lovely, green place, I tell you) I see it:  The moment plays out as eloquently as the final courtroom scene in To Kill a Mockingbird.  It would be an  “In the name of God, do your duty” kind of epic speech.

But, as most of my life tends to go, what I envision is not reality. (Oh that it were!  My life would be so much more fabulous if it just would actually match the rock and roll show with a side of A Room with a View slide show in my head!!)

Alas, no.  Reality would be me, wobbling to a standing position, half a pink bit of rubber thing still sticking out of my mouth, and my hair all bunched up wacky from all that reclining, saying something like this:

“Ib da mabe of Dod, do you dooby  Id da mabe of DOD.  BELIEB HIB!”

And from there, history.

Thank you, metacognition, for saving the day.  Because, right prior to my speech and introduction into that dental office’s hall of fame, metacognition piped up with:

“Dude.  You are one dial short on the rotary phone of nutball.  Just sit here.  It’s awful.  But you, my friend, have bad teeth.  And also, you are NO Gregory Peck.”
“So here I am.  At the dentist.”

 

grumpy-cat-did-you-smile-today-no

Perhaps it’s because he didn’t floss.

*One of my dear friends once told me that a mosquito landed on her face while she was in the car and she promptly slapped herself in the face.  Did she actually kill the mosquito?  I never found out because once she told me that story I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that there was actually someone else out there who functioned like me that my synapses stopped firing for a minute.

 

Toddler Opera and #NetflixKids

amesbooks

Cherry Ames! This is the type of nursing I can handle.

 

 

I have become nurse again because Red is sick.  Again.  I know, I know, he just was sick but any of you with children might know this interesting bit of news:

Children are walking germ buckets.

 

Anyhow, he wasn’t bad sick or anything.  He had a low fever and a bit of a cough and I think also just plain old tired out-edness.  I wasn’t too concerned.

Except for one small problem (cue scary sharknado music here):

HE WAS GONNA MISS HIS FIRST DAY OF PRESCHOOL.

I KNOW.  IT’S SO AWFUL I EVEN TEXTED HIS TEACHER IN ALL CAPS. I FELT ALL CAPSY ALL AFTERNOON.  HE WAS GONNA LOSE HIS EVERLOVING TODDLER STILL DEVELOPING MIND.  WE’VE ONLY BEEN TALKING ABOUT THIS FOR 12 MONTHS.

And once he was actually informed about this whole thing, he started wailing with operatic intensity.  There was vibrato, folks.  We’re talking bel canto.  I applauded when he was done, whilst wiping snot and trying to cuddle without getting that snot all over me.

Ok, I am going to interrupt here.  I am a mom, right, and moms should be able to cuddle and not worry about snot.  I know this.  But, in the interest of full disclosure (somewhere the lawyer is again rolling his eyes)  I am going to admit something to you that I have never admitted to anyone:  I don’t do snot.  I can do *tics off on fingers*: pee, poop, pee mixed with poop, barf, the fakeout barf (barf that doesn’t happen when you are sure it will) and even exploding barf.  Also some straight up saliva but that’s a whole other post.  I don’t do snot.)

Once the wailing turned down to a small two-part aria in the key of despair, I figured I would pull out a few of my sick-day tricks to lessen the sting.

“Red, hows about some popsicles?

“No.”

“Wow.  Even the ones that aren’t homemade that you love? The ones with Red #5 that make you nutty?”

“NO. I quit Red#5.  Dat stuff is awful.  Whaddya trying to do, get me sick?”

“Oh. Ok.  I’ll call my therapist later.  Wanna color with me? We can color some rockets! Or, wait, Kitties and Rockets?”

“I am over rockets.” sniff  “Not kitties though.”

“You wanna just draw kitties with me?”

“No. I’m going to make this as hard as possible.”

“Ok…  Hows about we have our own school?”

“Wait, WHAT? We can do that? Like, have school HERE?”

“Well… yes.  It’s actually a real thing.  People do it all the time.  Their children are usually scary smart and well adjusted.  But as for us, we’re gonna do it just this day.  Not every day.”

“This is ALLOWED? I canna do school HERE.  In our HOUSE?”

“Stop speaking in caps. It’s too dramatic.  Yes.  It’s called… *whisper* homeschooling.”

“HOMESCHOOLING!?  BRILLIANT!!”
“SHHHHHHH!  Just today!  Only TODAY?  OK?  Don’t get any ideas.”

 

So, we did school.  Fitting, I guess, since the poor kid was dying to get at some markers (kitty pictures did occur) and the alphabet on a chalkboard, and something with pipe cleaners that ended up looking like a lower intestine (I was going for art class – Abstract impressionism).

To cap the day off, we watched this classic:

Screenshot 2014-08-20 22.59.23

At this point, Netflix was, again, ready to save the day because Red was fading fast, but he simply had no idea how to turn himself off and just… rest.  The kid does not do rest.  I don’t do snot.  He doesn’t go naps.  Really, this is horribly unfair.  If we could just somehow trade

Anyhow, Emily’s First 100 Days of School, inspired by the author Rosemary Wells, was adorable.   Red, my little bunny, curled up next to me and was entranced.  I was too.

 

Here’s hoping the next time Red is sick it isn’t during his beloved VBS, or the first day of preschool, or some other huge thing, like Royals opening day (which is during school, I know…  but someday I have a feeling his dad is gonna make this a “thing.”)  I hope, actually, the sweet kid is never sick again, of course.  But I’ll take a good long cuddle with him on the couch, watching my beloved throwback television anyway.

 

Netflix_StreamTeam_Badge

Disclosure: I’m a member of the Netflix #StreamTeam.  Netflix comp the service we were previously paying for in exchange for my monthly posts and ramblings about movies and family viewing.  I love this.  I watch movies and then chatter about them.

 

 

 

I Am Felling for You

school_starts2

My five-year old, Blonde, is now in kindergarten.  So, now we have mornings now that go like this:

Me:  Blonde, I need you to eat, dress, brush, and get your backpack on.  Maybe all in that order.  And within the next seven minutes.  I realize this is totally unrealistic but alarm clocks are hard.

Blonde:  I cannot respond to this.  It’s like BIG early.

Me:  Blonde, clothes, oatmeal, toothbrush – HERE.  Don’t be overwhelmed little one. Just try to remember to put your underpants on first.

Blonde:  Why? Why da underpants first?

Me:  BLONDE, WOULD YOU PLEASE GET GOING. NOW. WE NEED TO GET A MOVE ON.  LET’S GO. IT’S TIME TO GO. LIKE OUT THE DOOR. WE NEED TO GO.  LIKE, RIGHT NOW.  LEAVING.  LEAVING NOW.

Blonde:  I call your bluff, lady.  And Red is still sitting on the floor in the kitchen with his oatmeal.  Evidently he doesn’t think he can eat it. Or that tables are a thing.

Henry: (faintly, from the kitchen):  It’s too buttery.

Blonde: He’s crazy.

Me: He is crazy.  How can anything be too buttery?  Blonde, your hair. Smush it down.  And your pants are on backwards.

Blonde: I am expressing my individual creativity.  I gotta be me.

 

The cat just sauntered past.  He has not eaten, brushed, and he has no underpants on either.  This is chaos.

Me:  Ok troops. This is Momsie.  We are now in level ORANGE.  I repeat, Level ORANGE.  IF WE DON’T GET TO SCHOOL ON TIME THE TEACHER WILL BE MAD.  I CANNOT HANDLE THAT; I AM A TEACHER.  WE JUDGE EACH OTHERWE TELL YOU WE DON’T BUT WE DO.

REPORT TO THE DOOR, STAT!  AND I WILL SMUSH THE HAIR, BLONDE.  YOU ARE NOT HARRY STYLES.  NOT YET.

 

 

The troops headed out, on time. I was pretty sure Jesus just decided to take pity on  me and stopped time for a bit. He can do that, you know.  Once we got to the school, Blonde set his helmet on his handlebars, and started to tip over a bit on his bike.

“Mom! Catch me if I fell!”

I did.  And I will.  At least for a little longer.

But if you’re late, you’re gonna have to deal with your teacher yourself.  Unless it’s my fault.  Then we’ll just tell her I just got out of the hospital, brain surgery, something like that.  I am pretty sure she would buy it.

 

Red, as we are heading back on our bikes, glances back at the big school.  “Yep.  He’s in der!”  He heads for a hill.

“Here we goooooooooooooo!”

Yep. Here we go.

kinder1
Carol’s mother is a lot more relaxed about this whole deal.  And Carol has creepy eyes. Maybe that’s why – Carol needs to Get. Out.

The Tell

stock-vector-ancient-joker-play-card-34796800

Linking up with Five Minute Friday over with Lisa-Jo Baker today.

 

Today’s theme:

Tell

 

In poker you learn about The Tell.

Don’t lean or twitch.

Don’t look down. Don’t look away.

Don’t softly sigh.

Don’t let them know.

The Tell gives your cards away, and then

The game goes.

The whole thing goes right down the drain.

Like the money and the time,

And possibly even your pride a bit.

 

 

Today I am tired of The Tell.

I lean.  I sigh.

I get twitchy.  I sometimes squirm

like a toddler; itchy in my skin.

I look down, and away.

I look up,

for help and answers,

(mostly for help; answers later)  as often as I can stomach it.

The Tell will tell me that

it is best to be still, and careful.

 

I just don’t listen anymore.

I have my own story to tell.

 

 

Screenshot 2014-06-20 11.03.12

 

 

 

 

No Really, I’m FINE.

 

I really don’t want to talk about it.

All week long, I have been dealing with We Came Back from Vacation and My House Fell Over Under All the Laundry.  Really, it did.  For some reason, as wonderful as Colorado is, it breeds laundry.

So, I’m prancercizing through my week, getting back into the whole Mom groove, feeling my vibe, chilling back into this whole nuclear family at home thing.

Next thing you know,  we’re hanging a stuffed backpack next to the door, and picking out clothes for the next day,  because it’s (DRUM ROLL):

THE FIRST DAY OF KINDERGARTEN!!! 

I was cool with that.

Totes cool.  We had bought the supplies a month ago.  We had the doctor’s papers signed proving that Blonde is un-plagued.  We had even bought him a new toothbrush to toast the occasion.

I did edit the outfit he had picked since the one he chose kinda looked like he wanted to enroll in clown school.  Other than that, we were locked and loaded for:

THE FIRST DAY OF KINDERGARTEN!!!

And everything was gonna be just fine!

Like, totally fine! No problems here!  I have been preparing for this day since, uh, well about 5 years ago!!

school_starts2

And then I took him in to the classroom, shook hands with the teacher, watched him hang up his gigantic back pack, and signed up for something (I am not sure what).  We did hit a bit of a snag there when I realized I was gripping the teacher’s hand rather tightly, and staring at her with a lot of intensity.  I was trying to read her.  What if she hated all children and as soon as I left she decided to sell them?

It’s possible my husband had to suggest I leave.  I waved a lot to Blonde as we left, sort of the over-wave.  Like “is she having a seizure?” kind of waving.   Blonde didn’t much notice because there was play dough.  She had carpeted floors.  AND play dough?  The woman is fearless.

And still.  We’re good! This is awesome!  Blonde is so gonna love it!

And we’re walking home, the husband is chattering away about something that I had absolutely no interest in whatsoever; no problemo.

About half a block later, he’s in mid sentence about something involving rotating tires on something vehicular, I turned around and thought:  “He’s in there.  I’m going to just go back now and get him.”

From thereon I think the husband switched gears (GET IT? SEE WHAT I DID THERE? Even amidst Momsie distress I still got it.)   The hubs has learned that if there are tears he must stop and start talking to me like I am an injured baby bunny.  And yes, I KNOW this is somewhat patronizing, but I like baby bunnies and I chose this analogy.  So, he’s all:  “Ohhhhh. What’s wrong?  Is it allergies? Did you wave too much back there?  Something’s injured?  Do you need a juice box?  Or some alfalfa?”

We are now starting to play that great game for husbands and wives called:

Try to Figure Out What’s Wrong With Me, but Do It Fast Because Otherwise You’re Totally Insensitive!

Then:  It HIT him (which means, I finally had to say it, but there was no actual hitting involved):  The wee blonde is gone.

 

I spent the rest of the walk arguing in my head with Einstein about his whole theory of space and time and relativity and all. Where did the time, uh, GO?

Pfft.  Einstein is so overrated.

But, then again, if Blonde keeps going to school, he can learn that for himself.  I guess that’s acceptable.

 

The one on the right is a bit tall for elementary school, but he's cute and good with a protractor, so I bet they'll take him.

The one on the right is a bit tall for elementary school, but he’s cute and geeky good with a protractor, so I bet they’ll take him.

 

 

 

 

An Open Letter to the Mom On Vacation Who Would Really Rather NOT Use the Communal Showers, Thank You.

images

“This is really pretty.  And I could really use a hot shower.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Mom up there in all those beautiful mountains:

You’re on vacation.  It’s fabulous.  Everything looks like a post card.  There are rustic chipmunks frolicking about, and the air is redolent with the smell of REAL ACTUAL pine trees, not cleaning solvents.  You are here in this wonderfulness, all outdoorsy and wholesome, for a whole week.  You even used your Swiss Army knife to whittle a stick at one point.  You WHITTLED by the fire, people.  Basically, you are a walking REI catalog.

There is, however, one small problem.

You fear the shower.

Nooooo, not like in an Orange is the New Black kind of way (and if you have no idea what I am referring to here then God bless you), or in a EWWWWW, GERMS –  THAT EBOLA BADNESS HAS STAGGERED ITS WAY INTO THESE SHOWERS I JUST KNOW IT,  kind of way…

No.  You fear the shower in a… Uh,  I just don’t want to really have to deal with the awkward eye contact and mumbled “good morning, let me show you my jammies and morning hair but hopefully nothing else cuz this space is rather cramped and steamy” kind of way.

You know all those Dove commercials that are all, “let’s just celebrate being beautiful women, OK?  Let’s just be comfortable with ourselves, no matter what, and just embrace our skin, right?”  Yep.  Right.  They never talk about embracing their hair.  In the morning.  When it looks like this:

fbride9

That’s just not right.

Pretty sure that’s where we women draw the line.  We’re all, “We love each other! We’re beautiful!  Our bodies are amazing! Some of us had babies come out of ‘em!  It hurt but we’re cool!  Group hug!  We are wonderful!  Our extra skin is wonderful!  All the folds where folds shouldn’t necessarily be are wonderful!  In fact, our– WHOA HECK.  YOUR HAIR IS OUTTA CONTRALL WOMAN.  BACK THAT RIGHT ON OUTTA HERE.  We are judging you.”

 

And while we’re at it, there’s a couple other things you have been, shall we say, challenged by on this trip:

1.  Purple crocs.  It’s all you packed for leisure wear.  You are reminded that crocs are terrible things.  They make any outfit – swimwear, jammies, jammies paired with morning hair (see above) just bad.  It’s possible you could get away with the crocs if you were, say,  a blonde, leggy au pair from Germany.  But, as it were, you are a mom from Kansas with rather short legs and absolutely no ability to speak German.  In fact, the last time you were in Germany (a million years ago, pre kids, as is everything in your life that involved a passport and verve) you bravely took on a few words but kept mysteriously slipping into an accent that sounded a lot like the Swedish Chef from the Muppets.  Nicht gut.

So, every morning, as you leave your dreaded showers and squeak, squeak SQUEAK home in your slimy crocs, you really wish you had just packed some flip flops. And some dignity.

2.  Mountain trails with your sweet toddlers will mean copious amounts of antacids and prayer.  Why? because for some reason each toddler will walk on the exact EDGE of the trail, 90% of the time, all the while chattering and skittering about like a squirrel on espresso.   I mean really.  REALLY?  Is it absolutely necessary, wee one, to walk RIGHT UP ON THE EDGE OF THAT TRAIL? THE ONE WITH THE 500 MILLION FOOT DROP OFF?  Has no one taught you the laws of physics and gravity yet?  Well, no, I know no one has, really, yet actually done that.  But STILL.  Look OVER THERE.  NO TRAIL.  Just AIR.  And no, I am NOT exaggerating.  It’s the MOUNTAINS.  There are no kiddie trails here.

3.  After each wonderful hike, all natured up and such, going back to the cabin to create a healthy and tasty meal on a grill with some foil, a fork,  Cheetos, and some soggy hotdogs is, at best, daunting.  But if you just put a lot of CHEESE on all of it, you still can win.  Because cheese?  Dairy. So = healthy.

4.  Marspellows on da grill fix everything.  Grumpy?  Have a s’more.  Marital problems because, vacation?  Stuff your feelings with this golden toasty goodness.

By the way:  I am of the firm conviction that if people could just sit around a campfire and make and serve s’mores to each other with a starry sky overhead – we would not have to worry about all those cease fires and such in the news.  In my humble opinion.  (Hubs is rolling his eyes.  He is now talking using words like, “Oversimplification” and “Starry eyed”  and I think, “Hippy Magic.”  I would offer him the Mom Platitude about how “don’t roll your eyes, they’ll stick that way” but my mouth is full.  With da marspellows.  Food of da Gods.

5.  There’s all these pharmacies here that have green leaf signs out front.  It’s confusing.  And that’s all I am gonna say about that.

6. It is possible to fit three roomfuls of stuff into a one room cabin.  It’s just that… your brain is done after that.  So, once you have figured out how to store your cutlery neatly rolled up in your underwear, and all the bug spray is slipped into the hiking boots, which are holding up the box of shampoo, the bible, and five packs of Slim Jims,  your brain kinda shuts off and you just want to watch an episode or two of Hoarders.

7.  There are some bikers who are here.  Two cabins down.  There’s a lot of handkerchiefs tied on heads.  Not in a cute, Cindy Lauper kind of way.  Oh, and beer.  Beer is alllll over their perimeter.  If there are any slugs in the area they should avoid cabin 23.  It’s a death trap.   You catch your husband eyeing their big shiny bikes with what you think might actually be envy.  Of course your boys are in total awe.  There really is nothing left to do but invite them for some food with cheese on it.

 

 

I think it’s safe to say, dear Anti-Communal Shower Mom Who Is Really REALLY Trying to be a Good Sport About All This -

You deserve a junior camper badge.  And yes, it’s perfectly Ok to squirrel away the bag of Reese’s for your own consumption at a later point, like right after you sqeaak, squeeeeaaak, squeak past the bikers and you realize as you get back to your cabin that though you had wadded up all your clothes in your towel, you managed to drop your bra right outside their cabin.  Retrieving it was fun.  You wondered if they were gonna regard this as some sort of secret gang signal and you were now initiated into their heavily tattooed fold.

It’s possible.  Your hair would fit right in.

 

Get your own biker name!  Click here.

 

a2991a