I have a weird dog.
Somebody (I forget who--maybe a few of you) recently said, "All dogs are weird."
I know, but listen, okay? My dog is very shy. He's just starting to actually approach people at work, instead of waiting for them to approach him. And his approach is always very halting and cautious, even if he ends up kissing their hands--never bouncing and enthusiastic like you would expect from a small dog. (He does, however, continue to greet me with bouncing and tail-wagging, which is gratifying.)
He is afraid of loud noises, low noises, and anything that might possibly be construed as a "bang." Unlike some animals (and maybe people), when he gets scared, it stops up his digestive tract entirely. On the Fourth of July when I took him outside for his nightly "business," he dragged me around the entire block in terror and never did get said business done. In the car on the way to work, he will hyperventilate through the entire commute if I drive with the windows open or if enough motorcycles pass us.
All this, and yet he loves the vacuum cleaner. Today I vacuumed and he followed me from room to room with a smile on his face, watching the lighted attachment go back and forth over the floor. He didn't let it get too close . . . but he didn't let it get too far, either. Maybe he thinks its some strange sort of dog--although he didn't attempt to sniff its hindquarters, so maybe not.
Anyway, I like my strange little backwards doggy. But I wish I had a better idea what was going on in his head.
Friday, July 17, 2009
It Pays to Ask
Today I stopped in at the hospital to find out if I could talk to my doctor about that letter I received earlier in the week.
Diane-Who-Remembers-Me was there, which was great, since she remembers me. (Well, she would--she helped me fill out my leave of absence forms when Starbucks was being a little obtuse about them.) "Hi, Diane!" I said, "I had a test last week and . . . "
"Ohhh," she said, "You got one of those stupid letters, didn't you?"
I wasn't sure how to answer this question, and before I could she said, "The one that says there's an area that they think is benign? They're talking about your scar tissue. Let me show you the actual report they sent to the doctor."
She went away for a few minutes and came back with a photocopy of the report. She showed me the relevant documentation. In normal-people terms, it basically said what I already know, which is that these particular imaging tests don't really give them a ton of information for me, and that I have a scar.
Well, duh. I knew I was going to have to have follow-ups (using various testing methods) every six months or so. They do have to keep an eye on these things. But there isn't really an area of concern, even though there is an area they have to watch, if that makes any sense.
"They don't have a good form letter for this," said Diane. "So they send out that anxiety-inducing one every time." It sounds like it isn't the first time she's had this conversation.
I know I'm at risk, but I'm not more at risk than I was before I got that letter, and I guess I think that for now? I'm okay.
Thanks for praying. You can do that as much as you like.
Diane-Who-Remembers-Me was there, which was great, since she remembers me. (Well, she would--she helped me fill out my leave of absence forms when Starbucks was being a little obtuse about them.) "Hi, Diane!" I said, "I had a test last week and . . . "
"Ohhh," she said, "You got one of those stupid letters, didn't you?"
I wasn't sure how to answer this question, and before I could she said, "The one that says there's an area that they think is benign? They're talking about your scar tissue. Let me show you the actual report they sent to the doctor."
She went away for a few minutes and came back with a photocopy of the report. She showed me the relevant documentation. In normal-people terms, it basically said what I already know, which is that these particular imaging tests don't really give them a ton of information for me, and that I have a scar.
Well, duh. I knew I was going to have to have follow-ups (using various testing methods) every six months or so. They do have to keep an eye on these things. But there isn't really an area of concern, even though there is an area they have to watch, if that makes any sense.
"They don't have a good form letter for this," said Diane. "So they send out that anxiety-inducing one every time." It sounds like it isn't the first time she's had this conversation.
I know I'm at risk, but I'm not more at risk than I was before I got that letter, and I guess I think that for now? I'm okay.
Thanks for praying. You can do that as much as you like.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Echos of Last Year
In response to my last post, Jeff commented, "A common thread in these dreams is the idea that you've got a medical issue that part of you knows needs to be checked out but some how you ended up not doing it. I wonder if you've got anxiety, perhaps related to the cancer, that you're not having as much medical care as you should."
"Oh," I thought, dismissively. "That's a pretty good theory, but actually I've had a lot of check-ups recently and they've all been in the clear." If anything, that would have been last year, when I had a lump I could feel but which didn't show up in initial testing and which no one really thought was anything to worry about. It did occur to me that the check-ups themselves were maybe triggering the dreams--maybe they were dredging up memories of last year. Anyway, whatever the case, I feel that I am in good hands and that I'm being well-monitored.
But . . . today I got the official report back from a medical exam I had last week. It says, "Your recent imaging exam . . . showed an area that we believe to be benign (not a concern). However, you should have a follow-up to confirm that this area does not change."
What? Not again. At least it (whatever "it" is) showed up this time. And the follow up appointment was scheduled for me and isn't until mid-January. So I guess they really aren't all that worried. But they weren't before. They thought it was benign before. I kind of don't care if it is benign. I just don't want anymore "areas of concern." I want to be able to get away with not having chemo, and I want the cancer never to come back, and . . . well, yeah. That's pretty much it.
"Oh," I thought, dismissively. "That's a pretty good theory, but actually I've had a lot of check-ups recently and they've all been in the clear." If anything, that would have been last year, when I had a lump I could feel but which didn't show up in initial testing and which no one really thought was anything to worry about. It did occur to me that the check-ups themselves were maybe triggering the dreams--maybe they were dredging up memories of last year. Anyway, whatever the case, I feel that I am in good hands and that I'm being well-monitored.
But . . . today I got the official report back from a medical exam I had last week. It says, "Your recent imaging exam . . . showed an area that we believe to be benign (not a concern). However, you should have a follow-up to confirm that this area does not change."
What? Not again. At least it (whatever "it" is) showed up this time. And the follow up appointment was scheduled for me and isn't until mid-January. So I guess they really aren't all that worried. But they weren't before. They thought it was benign before. I kind of don't care if it is benign. I just don't want anymore "areas of concern." I want to be able to get away with not having chemo, and I want the cancer never to come back, and . . . well, yeah. That's pretty much it.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Blood
Grandma Grosser used to keep Reader's Digests in the bathroom. I must have been pretty young when I started reading the jokes, which probably explains a lot about my sense of humour. As I got a little older, I started reading the articles, too, if they weren't too boring, and I remember once reading something that said people who had a lot of nightmares were usually very creative and had a greater chance than other people of going crazy.
This was not overly comforting to me at age 14 or however old I was when I ran across it. It was bad enough not knowing who my friends were on any given day. Now I learned that Yay! I was creative! (already knew that) and Boo! I was going to end up insane! This all because I had had nightmares (or at the very least extremely vivid dreams) ever since I could remember. My childhood bedtime prayers had always included a request that I would have "a good sleep with happy dreams." It rarely worked, although I kept praying it for years without seeming to have been too terribly disillusioned by the lack of results.
Or maybe it was just a really delayed result. I don't have nightmares much anymore, and when I do have them, they generally seem to be of a repetitious variety, so I'm not very frightened. There is, of course, always the suspense as to whether the "bad guy" chasing me through the secret passages of a house is going to find me this time, but this kind of thing has happened so often that it doesn't usually really induce genuine fear anymore.
This past week, though, I've been having lots of weird dreams again. I don't remember them as well as I usually do. They just haven't been very restful. And at least two of them have involved blood. In one of them, a blood vessel burst in my eye, but instead of making that rather alarming red patch that such things cause, it burst externally, so that my eye was actually slowly oozing blood. I could see with it and everything, but it was pretty annoying having to continually wipe blood out of my eye. It was even more annoying that everybody around me in the dream was so grossed out by it that none of them would help. Everyone kept saying, "You really need to go to the doctor. You really need to get that checked out." But apparently I was incapable of getting to the doctor on my own, or else other more grave things kept happening to other people who we had to help more urgently or something, and no one was willing to bring me to the doctor themselves.
The other dream was just two nights ago. A lot of things happened in it, but one of the things was that someone kicked or punched me in the mouth or something, and loosened my teeth. We (whoever "we" were) decided to just leave it and hope that they'd firm up again, but shortly before I woke up, one of the teeth loosened instead, and blood started oozing from around it, too.
So now I'm wondering. What's going on in my head? And what's this blood stuff? And is there some kind of connexion between the fact that one dream was about an eye and one was about a tooth, and "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth"? I don't think I'm feeling particularly vengeful toward anyone . . .
Oh. Except maybe Sleepy's. Which is a little ironic, really . . .
This was not overly comforting to me at age 14 or however old I was when I ran across it. It was bad enough not knowing who my friends were on any given day. Now I learned that Yay! I was creative! (already knew that) and Boo! I was going to end up insane! This all because I had had nightmares (or at the very least extremely vivid dreams) ever since I could remember. My childhood bedtime prayers had always included a request that I would have "a good sleep with happy dreams." It rarely worked, although I kept praying it for years without seeming to have been too terribly disillusioned by the lack of results.
Or maybe it was just a really delayed result. I don't have nightmares much anymore, and when I do have them, they generally seem to be of a repetitious variety, so I'm not very frightened. There is, of course, always the suspense as to whether the "bad guy" chasing me through the secret passages of a house is going to find me this time, but this kind of thing has happened so often that it doesn't usually really induce genuine fear anymore.
This past week, though, I've been having lots of weird dreams again. I don't remember them as well as I usually do. They just haven't been very restful. And at least two of them have involved blood. In one of them, a blood vessel burst in my eye, but instead of making that rather alarming red patch that such things cause, it burst externally, so that my eye was actually slowly oozing blood. I could see with it and everything, but it was pretty annoying having to continually wipe blood out of my eye. It was even more annoying that everybody around me in the dream was so grossed out by it that none of them would help. Everyone kept saying, "You really need to go to the doctor. You really need to get that checked out." But apparently I was incapable of getting to the doctor on my own, or else other more grave things kept happening to other people who we had to help more urgently or something, and no one was willing to bring me to the doctor themselves.
The other dream was just two nights ago. A lot of things happened in it, but one of the things was that someone kicked or punched me in the mouth or something, and loosened my teeth. We (whoever "we" were) decided to just leave it and hope that they'd firm up again, but shortly before I woke up, one of the teeth loosened instead, and blood started oozing from around it, too.
So now I'm wondering. What's going on in my head? And what's this blood stuff? And is there some kind of connexion between the fact that one dream was about an eye and one was about a tooth, and "an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth"? I don't think I'm feeling particularly vengeful toward anyone . . .
Oh. Except maybe Sleepy's. Which is a little ironic, really . . .
The Dance of Joy
Yesterday I had a whole lot of work and health related driving around to do, and I couldn't really take Oscar with me, but I didn't want to leave him stuck in his crate at home for 10 hours, so I brought him to the Milk Guy's. He loves those other dogs. He was certainly happy to be dropped off there, and, separation anxiety notwithstanding, it was a relief to leave him somewhere that I knew he'd be happy and I could be free to do all the running around I needed.
Keep in mind, though--I left him at the house at 7.30 in the morning. And I didn't pick him up until 5. When I got there the Milk Guy's two dogs were doing their usual jumping and dancing and barking, and there was Oscar. He wasn't barking. Jumping and dancing, though? He stood up on his hind feet, spun around in a 180-degree pirouette . . . and fell over. He wasn't hurt, and it was hilarious and adorable. I only wish someone else had been there to see it . . . besides the other two dogs, I mean.
Tonight Pastor Steve and Pastor Val came over for dinner, and then I took Oscar outside for his nightly "walk." Usually he kennels up right after that, but I had a pile of dishes to do, so I let him stay in the kitchen with me, outside of his crate. He almost went into it, and then evidently decided that I had made an error by not making him go in there, but he wasn't going to fight it, so he retreated with his one toy that he likes to the end of the hallway. He kept one eye on me, though. Which was fine, because I was keeping one eye on him. I was nearly done with the dishes when he tentatively walked over to the sink area. "No, really though?" his eyes seemed to say, "Didn't you mean to put me to bed?"
Of course as soon as I told him to go in there, he wandered off back down the hallway. A little treat (he eats treats now!) soon rectified that, however. Such a good dog.
Keep in mind, though--I left him at the house at 7.30 in the morning. And I didn't pick him up until 5. When I got there the Milk Guy's two dogs were doing their usual jumping and dancing and barking, and there was Oscar. He wasn't barking. Jumping and dancing, though? He stood up on his hind feet, spun around in a 180-degree pirouette . . . and fell over. He wasn't hurt, and it was hilarious and adorable. I only wish someone else had been there to see it . . . besides the other two dogs, I mean.
Tonight Pastor Steve and Pastor Val came over for dinner, and then I took Oscar outside for his nightly "walk." Usually he kennels up right after that, but I had a pile of dishes to do, so I let him stay in the kitchen with me, outside of his crate. He almost went into it, and then evidently decided that I had made an error by not making him go in there, but he wasn't going to fight it, so he retreated with his one toy that he likes to the end of the hallway. He kept one eye on me, though. Which was fine, because I was keeping one eye on him. I was nearly done with the dishes when he tentatively walked over to the sink area. "No, really though?" his eyes seemed to say, "Didn't you mean to put me to bed?"
Of course as soon as I told him to go in there, he wandered off back down the hallway. A little treat (he eats treats now!) soon rectified that, however. Such a good dog.
Tuesday, July 07, 2009
Separation Anxiety
Legend has it that when Cousin Mary Anne was about to go into Kindergarten, she got the opportunity to try out the bus ahead of time, and when she got on, her mother cried . . . even though all the bus did was circumnavigate the parking lot.
I think I kind of know how Auntie Shelley felt.
The International Council of Community Churches, to which my church belongs, has an annual conference. This year it's in St. Louis, and I'm going, and what's more, I'm bringing three of the youth with me. I've only been through St. Louis, never to it, and the three girls who are coming along are great girls, and we're staying in a Hilton, so I'm really looking forward to it. Turns out that this Hilton even allows pets, but I didn't know that when I booked our rooms or our airline tickets, so Oscar has to stay home.
The Milk Guy has very kindly offered to "kennel" him for me. "Two dogs, three dogs," he says, "What does it matter?" He already knows about Oscar's random-bladder issues, and Oscar knows him and gets along with his dogs, so it's all great.
But Oscar is really attached to me. He follows me around the house (even now that he isn't perpetually leashed) and he whines if I go upstairs for a minute and keep him shut in the kitchen and he doesn't readily go to strangers . . . although it's true the Milk Guy isn't a stranger. It's just that it's one thing to leave him at the Milk Guy's for most of a day, and another thing to leave him there for seven.
I know in reality he'll be fine. He'll pick up bad doggy habits (the Milk Guy is threatening to turn him into a beggar, but I don't actually mind) and sleep on the bed and stuff, but won't he miss me? Or won't I miss him? Or will he even remember me when I get back, or want to come home with me . . . ?
I think I kind of know how Auntie Shelley felt.
The International Council of Community Churches, to which my church belongs, has an annual conference. This year it's in St. Louis, and I'm going, and what's more, I'm bringing three of the youth with me. I've only been through St. Louis, never to it, and the three girls who are coming along are great girls, and we're staying in a Hilton, so I'm really looking forward to it. Turns out that this Hilton even allows pets, but I didn't know that when I booked our rooms or our airline tickets, so Oscar has to stay home.
The Milk Guy has very kindly offered to "kennel" him for me. "Two dogs, three dogs," he says, "What does it matter?" He already knows about Oscar's random-bladder issues, and Oscar knows him and gets along with his dogs, so it's all great.
But Oscar is really attached to me. He follows me around the house (even now that he isn't perpetually leashed) and he whines if I go upstairs for a minute and keep him shut in the kitchen and he doesn't readily go to strangers . . . although it's true the Milk Guy isn't a stranger. It's just that it's one thing to leave him at the Milk Guy's for most of a day, and another thing to leave him there for seven.
I know in reality he'll be fine. He'll pick up bad doggy habits (the Milk Guy is threatening to turn him into a beggar, but I don't actually mind) and sleep on the bed and stuff, but won't he miss me? Or won't I miss him? Or will he even remember me when I get back, or want to come home with me . . . ?
Wednesday, July 01, 2009
The Eccentric
I'm not sure how much I want to be thought of as eccentric, but I might want to be eccentric, just a little bit . . .
Yesterday an Electrician Guy came to the church to check out the lights or something, and one of the trustees had him take a look at my office. He was afraid to step over the baby gate into the section where Oscar and I were because apparently he went to some house one time and "Cujo was up there. I'm lucky I got out alive." This was pretty hilarious--comparing Oscar with Cujo--since the one time I heard Oscar bark (at the distorted reflection of himself in the glass front of the woodstove), I think he scared himself so badly he may well never do it again. It's a shame, actually. He has quite a nice voice.
Anyway, the Electrician Guy came in and looked around and I'm not sure what he figured out, but he seemed satisfied as he stepped back over the baby gate.
"By the way," I said, conversationally, "I don't know if you know what would make this happen, but this morning when I plugged my laptop in here, the light got brighter."
The Electrician Guy looked at me as if I had just asked him did he know that in Korea school children buy silkworm larvae during recess and eat them for snacks.
"Um," I said, trying to play off the "brighter light" thing, "I don't know if that's even possible."
"Yeah . . . " he said, in a distancing sort of voice. "Maybe you can just enjoy the extra light?" He backed out of the room with a distinctly alarmed look on his face, as if I were about to turn into Cujo at any minute.
After he left, I thought about it though, and decided his reaction was not unreasonable. He had just entered an office with babygate across half of it, as well as a watercolour of Revelation 12 (woman wearing the sun . . . baby . . . seven-headed dragon) and an enormous banner from Voice of the Martyrs reading, "This Message is Illegal in 52 Countries" and Romans 1.16 on it, on the walls. The occupants of the office were a dog who doesn't bark and a youngish woman in jeans and a long grey sweater who, at the moment he entered, had been on all fours on the floor making a display board with pencils and markers for Camp Selah.
It really is sometimes surprising, even to me, that this church hired me.
But you know? I wasn't wrong about the lights getting brighter. The same exact thing happened again this morning.
Yesterday an Electrician Guy came to the church to check out the lights or something, and one of the trustees had him take a look at my office. He was afraid to step over the baby gate into the section where Oscar and I were because apparently he went to some house one time and "Cujo was up there. I'm lucky I got out alive." This was pretty hilarious--comparing Oscar with Cujo--since the one time I heard Oscar bark (at the distorted reflection of himself in the glass front of the woodstove), I think he scared himself so badly he may well never do it again. It's a shame, actually. He has quite a nice voice.
Anyway, the Electrician Guy came in and looked around and I'm not sure what he figured out, but he seemed satisfied as he stepped back over the baby gate.
"By the way," I said, conversationally, "I don't know if you know what would make this happen, but this morning when I plugged my laptop in here, the light got brighter."
The Electrician Guy looked at me as if I had just asked him did he know that in Korea school children buy silkworm larvae during recess and eat them for snacks.
"Um," I said, trying to play off the "brighter light" thing, "I don't know if that's even possible."
"Yeah . . . " he said, in a distancing sort of voice. "Maybe you can just enjoy the extra light?" He backed out of the room with a distinctly alarmed look on his face, as if I were about to turn into Cujo at any minute.
After he left, I thought about it though, and decided his reaction was not unreasonable. He had just entered an office with babygate across half of it, as well as a watercolour of Revelation 12 (woman wearing the sun . . . baby . . . seven-headed dragon) and an enormous banner from Voice of the Martyrs reading, "This Message is Illegal in 52 Countries" and Romans 1.16 on it, on the walls. The occupants of the office were a dog who doesn't bark and a youngish woman in jeans and a long grey sweater who, at the moment he entered, had been on all fours on the floor making a display board with pencils and markers for Camp Selah.
It really is sometimes surprising, even to me, that this church hired me.
But you know? I wasn't wrong about the lights getting brighter. The same exact thing happened again this morning.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Leadership in a Cup of Coffee
The other morning (what other morning? I'm not really sure) I had a thought, as I sometimes do, and it went like this:
"Huh? I'm leading a training weekend for a day camp. I'm a 'director' of something. I really don't think I could have done any of this if I hadn't been a shift supervisor at Starbucks."
Actually, I probably needed to be a shift supervisor at Starbucks for a long time--as I was--to have acquired any of these skills at all. It took me about a year in that position to feel remotely confident to tell other people (especially people older or with more experience than I had) what to do on a shift, and just as long to figure out how to assign tasks and make sure everything that was supposed to happen, actually did.
Even though I was really nervous about Saturday, and even though I did need to get some help from Back-up Liz (the person who did a lot of this stuff before me and backs me up and bails me out fairly frequently) in organising the schedule, I put together the staff assignments, and I knew what components of the camp day I wanted to run through, and I actually led an entire group of people through an entire day . . .
Okay, sure, it wasn't like military boot camp or anything. I'm not that organised or that directive, and I doubt I ever will be, but I'm just saying. I think I did my job and I think I did pretty well at it, and I think a lot of that has to do with being a shift supervisor at Starbucks.
All that to say, if you're an employer and someone applies for a job at your company and the most significant adult work experience they have is being a shift supervisor at Starbucks? They might not be the one for you. But then again . . . they might. Just don't write them off.
"Huh? I'm leading a training weekend for a day camp. I'm a 'director' of something. I really don't think I could have done any of this if I hadn't been a shift supervisor at Starbucks."
Actually, I probably needed to be a shift supervisor at Starbucks for a long time--as I was--to have acquired any of these skills at all. It took me about a year in that position to feel remotely confident to tell other people (especially people older or with more experience than I had) what to do on a shift, and just as long to figure out how to assign tasks and make sure everything that was supposed to happen, actually did.
Even though I was really nervous about Saturday, and even though I did need to get some help from Back-up Liz (the person who did a lot of this stuff before me and backs me up and bails me out fairly frequently) in organising the schedule, I put together the staff assignments, and I knew what components of the camp day I wanted to run through, and I actually led an entire group of people through an entire day . . .
Okay, sure, it wasn't like military boot camp or anything. I'm not that organised or that directive, and I doubt I ever will be, but I'm just saying. I think I did my job and I think I did pretty well at it, and I think a lot of that has to do with being a shift supervisor at Starbucks.
All that to say, if you're an employer and someone applies for a job at your company and the most significant adult work experience they have is being a shift supervisor at Starbucks? They might not be the one for you. But then again . . . they might. Just don't write them off.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Oh. Except . . .
. . . you know that thing I promised not to mention again for a very long time? Oscar just disappointed me on that front again. Bleah.
The Mascot
This weekend I held a training session for the Camp Selah staff volunteers. This comprised everyone as young as 13 to as old as . . . I suppose it's just as well I don't know how "old as." Anyway, it was a pretty mixed group, with the younger ones by and large having more Camp Selah experience than the older ones, and the older ones having more life experience than the younger ones. I'm excited about this group. It's not necessarily the same mix of people that they/we have had in past years, but I think it is a good mix, and I'm excited to see what new things can come out of this new combination.
The night before, I was so nervous about this training thing that I woke up at 3 and never really fully went back to sleep . . . except for long enough to dream some dream about Oscar escaping and me getting pulled over by a cop. Also, another group from church was planning on using the camp this weekend, too, and, as we've only seen about one sunny day for every 12 so far this summer, I was, I feel, understandably worried that it was going to rain and we were all going to end up crammed into the Lodge at once and all my trainees were going to look at me like, "What the heck was the point of this? Great idea, Jenn!"
Then the sun came out. It actually came out! And it stayed out. Not in my Hometown. Not in the City. It poured in those places later in the day. But over Camp Selah the skies were blue and the air was warm and we spent most of the time outdoors. Also, the other group ended up being late, so there was scarcely any overlap at all. The teens and two other adults and I all stayed overnight, too, and it was great to see the teens having a chance to bond before the camp season started, so that when it does, they can jump right in as a team and rely on each other.
Also, I brought Oscar. Oscar's such a shy little dog. This is the dog who crawled under my desk at work when Pastor Ron came in to say hi to him. Yesterday, he had to ride on the lap of a teenage boys on the hour-ride to camp. He isn't a huge fan of car-rides and I wasn't convinced how any of this was going to go over--either with the teenage boys, or with the dog. He did shift laps a couple of times, but the guys handled him well, and one of them even eventually got him to settle down.
He spent most of the day being leashed up near wherever we happened to be doing activities, and every so often someone would approach him politely and pat him and let him smell their hands, and he didn't turn away. In fact, he actually started going to people volitionally. Everyone seemed to love him because he was responsive but he doesn't jump or bark. A couple of the teens called him the camp mascot.
By this morning before we cleaned up and left, he was trotting around the Lodge without his leash, in a business-like manner, looking as if he were trying to keep everyone tidy and in line. This is a really boring, "what I did on my summer vacation" kind of ending, but seriously, it was a banner day. I could not have hoped for better on any front. It's nice to have a day like that every once in a while.
Photos: Mascot-Oscar. jennw2ns 2009
All Fun and Game. jennw2ns 2009
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