Gelati Farms's profileGelati FarmsPhotosBlogListsMore  |  Tools Help |
|
July 06 Just Because it was Unconscionably Rude To Just Leave Like That...I mean, really. I was raised better than that, truly I was.
Somehow, somewhere, I lost the desire to write here. No explanations, no excuses...and who really cares, after all...but there it is.
Life at Gelati Farms is rolling along as it always does. Everybody is a bit different now...taller, tanner, itchier (it is mosquito and black fly season here...which is the season that comes between winter and, well, winter...) and busier. My schedule at work is like Fort Knox and Hotel California in reverse...there is just no getting in. Even my Friday morning appointments which are usually the last to fill are filled until August some time. This is nice for the pocketbook, of course, and makes me feel pretty good about myself professionally, but it is hell on the camping plans. And the garden plans, and the sitting and sweating in the backyard plans, and the iced tea on the patio plans, but there it is. One must be a grown-up sometime, I suppose.
The girls are so excited to be together all day, every day...minute by minute, second by second, millisecond by millisecond...Oh My God...when does school start again?! Yesterday, while I was setting up the bike trailer to take a ride to the park, Soph and Calla were having a knock-down-kicking-screeching-scratching-spitting fight about something. At first I was too absorbed in my own version of the same type of fight with my bike trailer and missed what all the noise was about. Once Soph grabbed on to Calla's hair and swung like a chimp for all she was worth...well, there was no ignoring that racket. When I poked my nose in to the fight, finally, I discovered that it was over imaginary lipstick. Imaginary lipstick that Calla was hoarding in her imaginary purse that was tucked away in her Princess bicycle basket. Calla was not sharing her imaginary lipstick and...even more heinous...was keeping Soph's imaginary lipstick from Soph.
Generally speaking, I have a fuse that goes from decently-long (good days) to so-short-as -to-be-inconsequential (most days) and today, my fuse had been reduced to cinders during my struggles with the bike trailer. Had you been anywhere near our block, you would have heard me screeching right along with the girls..."Soph, for the love of GOD...can't you just imagine yourself some of your own lipstick? Imagine yourself 15 tubes of imaginary lipstick...IT'S JUST PRETEND LIPSTICK!! And Calla...stealing all the pretend lipstick for yourself is not really a very kind thing to do. How would you like it if Soph did that to you?!"
It was a moment.
Right now, at this very moment, Soph is talking to her wall (have taken away all her Webkinz so that she has nothing to keep her awake when she should be sleeping...but we just don't know what to do about the fact that her wall is just as much fun as her toys...) instead of sleeping and I have a sink full of dishes that need doing. As I live in a one hundred year old house, any insulation is negligible and I refuse to install air-conditioning. This means that I am hot and sweaty and not anxious to spend 25 minutes with my hands in hot soapy water. Calla is snoozing away and Dean has taken a 45 minute drive (one way) to pick up Calla's bike that I forgot at a friend's house today. Anybody who still comes by to read will recognize this as situation normal for Gelati Farms. Should this be my last post here (indecisive as usual), just trust that life will be rolling along in just this way here...as it always has.
Should I decide to continue writing, here or elsewhere, I will post that here. Anybody who is interested is welcome to come and visit.
In the meantime, much joy and laughter and the odd bit of challenge is wished your way...
Alison March 30 A Bit of an Explanation for the Strange Things That May Come Up During Christian Living Class. Just in Case Calla's Teacher Reads My Blog...Just a note that has nothing whatsoever to do with the following blog...somehow, in my mini-Spaces vacation, I failed to notice that I was up there on what used to be "What's Your Story" and is now something different that I can't remember, even though I just checked three seconds ago. Ugh. Here I was, caught with my pants down, no new blog in WEEKS and this sitting in my drafts folder awaiting proof-reading. Lazy lazy lazy. How long has my Space been up there, anyways? Holy? You know all. You can bet I will be sending you and e-mail with this very question. Ugh. Or did I just say that?
Dear Mrs. T...
Just thought I would send along a note to explain anything odd that Calla might say over the next few days.
Every night we say Grace before dinner. Sometimes it is a formal Grace, complete with a very solemn sign of the Cross and sometimes it is more of a free-for-all of giving thanks for everything from being blessed with good food and loved ones to a really fun game of What Am I Thinking? that we played just prior to dinner. The other night, Calla gave thanks for so many things that we had to reheat our meatloaf before we could eat it. And then we had to give thanks all over again. We finished by being very thankful that we could finally eat.
Tonight Calla mentioned that she wanted each of us to send up a prayer of Intention instead of our regular Grace. Because it has been so many years since I was Catholic I had to ask Calla to demonstrate. She told us that in class today, her prayer of intention was for the cats that used to pee in our house and her Grandpa that died.
Dean caught on really quick and his prayer of intention was for all the people in the world who weren't as lucky as we were to have healthy food (to which Calla said "blah blah blah Daddy...you say that every night..." shouldn't she be more respectful of other people's prayers??)
Sophia said a prayer of intention for the game of I Spy (?) followed by an exclamation of "Holy Sh** the soup is hot!" (a habit I hope to break her of before she comes to you in Grade One...)
My prayer of intention was for all the loved ones we are missing, and I added prayer of gratitude for my family and friends and the delicious-looking sushi that Dean had made and that I could not wait to eat when we were finished praying.
Finally, when everybody had picked up their spoons to tuck into the lentil soup and dumplings that I had made for dinner, I looked down at my bowl and saw that gelatinous glob of floating, soggy dough and sent up a prayer of intention for all the Diddle Diddle Dumplings that had to die so that we could have dumplings in our soup. I then took a vow of Dumplitarianism and gave my dumpling to Calla.
For a while, we happily sipped soup, slurped sushi and crunched on our salads and then Calla piped up with this stunner..."You know, Jesus died on the cross for our sins. He was pinned there. Actually, why would someone pin somebody on a cross? And really, what does it mean that he died for our sins?" I have to tell you Mrs T, that as Dean and I sat there with our soup spoons halfway to our gaping mouths, each of us was hoping the other was going to come up with something brilliant to say in response to her. When I heard Dean take a deep breath to speak, I sent up a silent thank you and let my spoon finish it's journey to my mouth. Only to spit lentils clear across the table when I heard "Well, Calla, your Mommy, whose idea it was to send you to the Catholic school, probably has the answer to that."
Mrs T, the thing is, I wanted Calla to go to the Catholic school because the system is a better system than the public system, and the teachers (especially YOU, Mrs T...) are better. Confession time though, and I can't imagine what my penance is going to be for this biggie...I wanted Calla to understand the structure of the Catholic Faith as part of her heritage even though she is being raised in a home that has sort of taken a different road in the faith journey. I must say, I am a bit concerned that a six year old child would come home, having been told that Jesus was 'pinned' to a cross and died for our sins and then rose from the dead three days later (raising all sorts of interesting questions about whether her Grandpa is going to rise from the dead, thank you very much...) and yet have no concept of what this all means.
So...I told Calla the truth. That I really had no idea what it all meant. That I was still trying to figure it out. I suggested that maybe the most important thing to remember about a person is what their life was about, the wonderful things they did while they were alive. Maybe she could focus on that instead. She asked..."Well, what did Jesus do that was wonderful?" I figured that the best thing about Jesus was that he loved everybody, no matter who they were or what they did. In the world we live in now, could there even be a better message than that?
Calla looked very satisfied at that. I felt pretty good about things...a good lesson about Jesus...a wonderful message that was true and important whether we choose to be practising Catholics/Christians or not. I exhaled and took another bite of soup. Calla took a bite of sushi. Dean was amazed and, unless I miss my guess, pretty jealous at my clever response. Soph was chasing her dumpling around her soup bowl with her spoon pretending the spoon was a horse. Life was good.
Until...
"What about pirates, Mommy?"
"Hubba-wha Calla?!?!"
"Did he love pirates, too?"
"Yup," Dean said, "Pirates were a special favourite of Jesus'"
"And bandits, too"
"Yes," I said, "both bandits and their Spanish counterparts, the banditos were equally loved by Jesus. Pass the wasabi, please..."
So, Mrs. T...if Calla mentions Jesus, pins, pirates and banditos during Christian Living class next week...at least you will be prepared.
Yours Most Sincerely, and In All Seriousness...
Alison (and Dean, even though he took the coward's way out...)
A religion that is small enough for our understanding would not be large enough for our needs. Arthur James Balfour March 04 The Mark of a Life...Ten days ago, everything came together. The weather was just cold enough and just warm enough. It was snowing, and each flake was like a fluff of feather down, so the ground looked as comforting as a feather bed. And then there was that silence...that gorgeous, cozy silence that is less absence of sound and more just the...absorption of noise.
I was standing in the front field of Dean's parent's farm, trying to capture the three brothers on camera...but with that silence and that heavy snow, I could not find them through my lens. Behind me I heard a commotion as my sister-in-law stood in the open doorway of the house, calling to my niece and daughter to come inside and get their winter clothes on...I guess they, too, wanted to catch a glimpse of the spectacle and in their excitement had run out of the house without boots, jackets, hats, mitts or snow pants. Finally, the three of us and my camera caught sight of the boys...Luke was driving the tractor and Dean and Todd were riding behind ...being towed on GT Racers. Every thirty seconds or so, either Todd or Dean was tossed high in the air when Luke took a corner too fast. Maybe Luke would stop the tractor until they caught up again, or maybe he would make his brothers run full tilt to catch up with their toboggans. Being the baby of the family by eight years, and having been the brunt of his much older brothers' many pranks, he mostly made them work for it.
I think, in the years to come, this will be my most vivid memory of the hours and days after the death of my father-in-law...watching his three boys playing together...finding creative ways to enjoy the gift of a beautiful snowy day...every once in a while catching the sound of their laughter through the snow-silence. And later, when Bill's much-beloved four granddaughters were finally suited up properly, their fathers and their Uncle Luke spent the rest of the afternoon finding new and wonderful ways to make them smile...taking their father's gifts of love, gentleness and play and paying them forward.
I suppose that if Bill had been standing beside me that afternoon, watching his boys playing with his tractor, he would have been smiling and shaking his head, or maybe he would have had one of his Eeyore moments and just have settled for shaking his head. I wonder if he would have recognized the bits of himself in those moments? Because even though we were all walking through those days with a Bill shaped hole in our lives, we were all still able to find a bit of play here, a sense of adventure there and a whisper of gentleness everywhere. That was the mark he left on our hearts.
Our death is not an end if we can live on in our children and the younger generation. For they are us, our bodies are only wilted leaves on the tree of life. ~Albert Einstein February 26 To Everything, There is a Season...Hey all. Just to let you know that we have had a death in the family and are dealing with all that comes with that.
Until things settle down here, I won't be around much.
I have been sitting here staring at the blinking cursor for the last 10 minutes, not knowing what else to write, so I guess that means that there is nothing else to say!
I am sure that soon I will be back to write something deep and philosophical about life and death, but until then I am going to take advantage of a few hours of quiet to deal with the wreckage that is my house.
I hope that things are sailing smoothly for you all... February 11 Just Because...This morning I woke up slowly. Normally my mornings start with a bang...a shout from Sophia, a blast from the alarm clock, a request from Calla for something to eat. This morning I woke up when I realized I was smiling.
Miss Calla had come to bed with us at some point during the night...she was running a fever and feeling rotten. At some point I must have rolled over onto my stomach and what was making me smile was a small hand rubbing back and forth over my shoulders and upper back.
Both of my girls have become used to touch and massage...probably because of my profession, but also because both Dean and I are touchers. Sophia's favourite way to be put to bed is to have me sing 'Dream a Little Dream' or 'Hush Little Baby' while I play with her hair and stroke her forehead, cheeks, nose and chin. Calla likes to have her legs and scalp massaged and then always asks me to finish up by rubbing my hands together (so that my palms become really warm) and then placing my cupped hands over her eyes. The last two nights, because Calla was feeling punky, I rubbed her back so that she could relax. She closed her eyes and smiled, told me that it felt really nice and that she loved me.
This morning, Calla was awake before Dean and I even considered opening our eyes and starting the day. Calla's fever-warm hand rubbing my back woke me before 7am and the first words I heard as I opened my eyes and ears to the day was Calla saying 'Doesn't that feel good Mommy? This is just how it feels when you rub my back. Don't you love it?' Then she rubbed her hands together really fast and placed them over my eyes for a few seconds before she dropped a kiss on my nose.
Really. If a Sunday morning must start before 7am, this is the way it should begin. I have had a smile on my face almost every moment since... February 04 It's Forty Below, I Don't Give a &*%#, There's a Heater in My Truck and I'm Off to the Rodeo...It's Not Just a Song, It's a Day In the Life at Gelati Farms...
Now, if you have never heard this song, well, I am certainly not going to play it here. It is playing on my media player right now...on a repeat loop because it makes me laugh every time. Actually, this song brings back clear memories of sitting in my in-law's truck with my brother-in-law. Luke is 12 years younger than me and for a time we shared a love for old country classics. Devil Went Down To Georgia, The Gambler and most anything by Ian Tyson come to mind, but mostly I remember the day Luke introduced me to the Rodeo Song. Will you all think me hopelessly vulgar if I tell you that instead of being shocked by the language in this song and setting a mature example for Luke, I sat beside him on that bench seat and giggled helplessly until tears ran down my cheeks? There's just something about that song...
It's Forty Below...
Well, it is. Mostly. If I wanted to be completely, perfectly exact, with the windchill it is actually only -39*C (-38.2*F for those of you Imperialists...), but I believe that once it hits -39*C...who's going to quibble about one degree? Anyone wishing to take this up with me is welcome to. Just, you know, bring your down coat and your Rated -100* Sorels and wear a scarf because we hit the 'snot-and-tears-freeze-at' temperature twenty degrees ago. Oh...and we will be holding our debate outside because I LOVE this weather.
This afternoon, I donned my full length down coat, my black fleece pants with my snow pants over, my new pink, plaid Sorels, a hat with ear flaps and my new mitts and took a walk along the water front. I also took my new Fuji with me to see if I could capture the violently cold temperatures on digital film. There is something so pure and brittle about colour and sound when the temperatures dip this low. I don't know if I can describe it...but there is a hollowness to sound and a shallowness to colour. Walking along the boardwalk, with each step of my boot, in a cold this deep, the wooden planks made the sound of a flinch. Can you hear it? And colour...in the summer it just saturates everything: the grass is dripping green, the sky is soaked with blue and the garden flowers are heavy with colour. In weather this cold, colour is just a veneer...sharp and almost translucent...sort of like a holographic image of the object left behind when the real thing left for more friendly climes.
...I Don't Give a...
I believe I mentioned above that, despite the vulgarity of the Rodeo Song, I just giggle my fool head off every time I hear it. Truth be told, swearing and cursing don't bother me that much. (with the exception of the C-word, natch, and the Wh-word which is technically not a swear but, to me, the single most obnoxious word in the English language. Don't get me started, but it is because of the complete hypocrisy of a society that creates an individual and then denigrates that individual for what they have become.) I do not enjoy listening to conversation peppered with the f-word, but when it is used, I don't get twitchy...after all, I have been known to have a bit of a potty mouth when sufficiently riled.
All bad habits come back to bite you on the ass...this was taught to me one summer when Calla gave my in-laws a tour of my garden..."These are my mom's fricking dahlias, these are her fricking peonies, those are her fricking peas, and these are her fricking Calla Lilies. They are named after me." I about died. Today, Sophia helped me make a belated New Year's resolution. While I was in KFC picking up some Chicken of Death, she gave Dean and Calla a language clinic. They were quietly listening to Stuart McLean's stories from the Vinyl Cafe when, out the clear blue, Soph pulled her thumb out of her mouth to say "Holy F***, I gotta boo-boo bum!" Thirty seconds later, when I spilled into the car saying "Holy Fuuhhhh (I try not to finish the word, just the first two sounds are usually enough to convey my frustration...) when I dropped that bottle of Pepsi, it bounced three times! We'll let your mom open it, 'kay Dean?" Dean just looked at me while Calla was convulsed in fits of scandalized laughter and said, "Well, it's no mystery where she gets it from..." Note to self...stop swearing.
There's a Heater in My Truck...
Well, actually, it's a Volvo, but for the purposes of this blog...
I believe I made mention of the heated seats (which, by the way, are a blessing and a curse in this weather. While it is nice to have seats that heat up...especially leather seats which get verrrry chilly...it makes leaving the car that much harder. It is not unlike the chill one gets upon stepping out of a warm shower and having the chill air hit warm, wet skin...except it is a fully clothed backside that is nice and toasty and the chill chases it right to the door.) but did I mention the separate climate control for the driver and passenger? This means that today, when Dean was cold because he had chosen to wear only a fleece and I was sweltering because I had sensibly chosen a turtleneck sweater, fleece pants, one of my two down coats, and a woolen scarf and mitt set, I just turned my thermostat down so that I didn't arrive at our destination as a puddle. It is important to note here that while I just made Dean sound totally irresponsible, we always have a box in the back of the car with extra winter clothes, boots and blankets. Like good Northerners.
...And I'm Off to the Rodeo!
Life has been a rodeo lately! In the last two weeks, we have seen a loved one through major surgery and sat anxiously by while he struggled to recover, a dear friend of Dean's had a heart attack at the exact same time and Miss Calla, Queen of Timing finally got the chicken pox. As of right now, everything is fine...both men are home and recovering (actually, the Chicken of Death was for the recent surgery patient! He lay in bed for two weeks at the hospital and cultivated a powerful craving for KFC. We all figured that with everything he had been through, far be it from us to begrudge him a little of the Colonel's best.)
Calla has only the memories of the Chicken Pox...the odd scab here and there, and she was so wonderful during the whole thing. Two nights she lay in my bed, crying because she was so itchy but did not want to scratch. For hours and hours, I gently rubbed her back while both of us wished for sleep. One night, she had a midnight oatmeal bath and, soothed by the warm water for a few moments, she mugged for some really lovely b&w head shots.
As I type this, I can hear Soph over the monitor...she is having a restless sleep due to a bit of a fever. I would not be surprised if, in the next few days, we start to see some spots on Sophia. As someone who had chicken pox twice...once when I was very young and a really terrible case again when I was twelve...I am hoping that Sophia has it over and done with now. Poor babies, but it is almost a rite of passage...
So, that was a little musical tour through my life lately. It is good. The Rodeo Song is off repeat and now I am listening to the Firebird Suite by Stravinsky, with Shostakovich and Vivaldi on the cue. That I can have the Rodeo Song and three of my favourite composers nestled up nice and close on my playlist is beautiful thing, and makes me so grateful for Windows Media Player. Mostly I am glad that it was the Rodeo Song playing when I started this blog...it would have been quite the thing to apply my life to Shostakovich's Piano Concerto No. 2... January 30 Laryngitis of the Soul...How much value is placed on what we choose to do with our lives?
I have started this entry about six times now...each time with a completely different opening that never went beyond three sentences. After I deleted the last group of thoughts that went nowhere, I sat for a moment and realized that I am seriously cheesed off. I had started to write some...crap (sorry, but it was)...about feeling like I have lost my voice. If I really think about my inability to write here lately (and let's be liberal with the application of lately as a description of time, ok? Because if I am honest with myself, lately means from about April on...) it has nothing to do with voice and everything to do with wondering how what I choose to write will be received by whoever stops by to read. This is what cheesed me off. The fact that I am in my thirties, have a fulfilling relationship with my husband, two magical little girls, a successful practice, many good friends and a mind that can bend and weave and flow on it's way to truth and understanding; and yet still I worry about whether who I am will be valued.
(...it also chaps me that I have these huge gaps in my grasp of grammar. Taking high school English while still in Grade 8 did wonders for geekifying me but it did nothing for my future as a grammatical genius. Somehow I went through three years of school and managed to miss the two of the three high school English teachers who placed any value on grammar. Sure...creative writing and the extra Shakespeare we did was wonderful at the time, but shrugging off grammar is like putting toe shoes on an infant who just learned to crawl and cuing the orchestra to begin the overture for Swan Lake. All I am saying is...did that semi-colon belong after understanding up there? And is there something really wrong with me that I really like to start sentences with And? What about parentheses? Do commas belong before, inside or after them? No question on where I caught the parenthetical disease though. This wonderful virus has a name and she is called Natalie.)
Hmmm. You have no idea how many sentences I have just erased. I have started this paragraph almost as many times as I started the first paragraph. See?! Worried. Grrrr. I realized that I have not made myself clear at all...I want to be able to do it without whining, so let's see if this works. Mommy blogs are often criticized with people saying things like "If I have to read again about Junior's poopy diaper or Juniorette's inability to have a tea party without dumping pretend tea all over her guests in fits of temper, I might lose my mind!"
(as a side note, I cannot stop listening to Fix You by Cold Play. Sometimes a song lodges itself in my mind and soul and I listen to it so often that even my stereo speakers start to revolt when they hear the opening bars.)
I suppose I started to feel that I needed to be writing a different sort of blog all together. I needed to sound smarter, take on bigger issues, write poetically about the state of the world. But then I discovered Holy Schmidt and realized that, well, schmidt, someone is already doing that. And doing it well. And with nary a sentence beginning with And. Or But.
What it comes down to is this: After months of starting and stopping, of blogs that began and never completed, of thoughts considered and discarded, I have come to realize that this is my space. I only need to please myself here and it may be one of the last places where I can do that. Let me use bullets to illustrate what I mean by this...(I
 bullets)
So...this is pleasing myself, writing about whatever comes to mind whether it be weighty thoughts, minor frustrations or that overwhelming feeling of love I get when I walk behind Soph in her footy jammies, with her fuzzy bedhead, her thumb in her mouth and her blankie dragging behind her. I could write about the difference I have made in the world by raising a child like Calla who has so much love in her heart and, even at a young age, such a strong sense of her self and consequence. Pah. You would think that at my age I would learn that we are all our worst critics and that there is no value if we don't place it there first ourselves. We don't lose our voices, we censor them, or train them to toe the party line and then fail to recognize them when they are speaking to us. At this moment, my Fuji is telling my voice to just shut up. That the girls are dressed in their party dresses and dancing to the Twelve Dancing Princesses. It is telling my voice to stop gagging at all things Barbie and suck it up...to record this moment for posterity. My Fuji speaks with a loud voice and carries a big stick. I believe it is prudent to listen.
January 15 Sometimes It's Less Turning Over a New Leaf and More Just Letting The Other Side See the Sun For A While...I mentioned in my last post that I have been blogging for a year now. When I realized this, I looked back and re-read some of the stuff I had written. Back then I was writing daily and I always had a story to tell and something to say. I also noticed that I seemed to be a lot less cranky then than I am now...I had more fun with the exploits of my girls, and less stress about them. Somewhere along the way I seem to have lost my sense of humour about raising children...and with that loss has come the loss of my writing voice. I grieve these losses as I would grieve the loss of a loved one...indeed, it is a beloved part of myself that I am missing. Lord knows Dean and the girls are missing it too!!
Being a firm believer in intent and the importance of outlook, I have decided to just...decide...to change things. Both girls are home today...we were away for the weekend and are all completely bagged. I fibbed to Calla and told her that there was no school today. We are, the three of us, going to curl up into little hibernating balls and sleep the afternoon away. Upon waking we are going to bundle up into so many layers that we can barely move and maybe head to the park so that we can slide down the slide into a waiting snowbank. When we are completely frozen through, we will come home for some hot chocolate.
See...part of the change in things is going to be that I am going to take the time to enjoy my girls and our time together. Soon enough they will be older...no longer wanting to play in the snow or snuggle in my lap for a story or make believe that we are mermaids and villains. If I don't make space for them in my life now, I may find that there is no place for me to squeeze into theirs in the future.
What else...? Oh yes...something I heard on Rex Murphy's Cross Country Check-Up (Canadians may know his CBC radio show...a call in show on Sunday afternoons and one of my favourite things to do for two hours each week...) Anyways, yesterday the topic was Technology...a boon or a hindrance? A Massage Therapist from Whitby called in and gave her opinion that the increasing numbers of people she sees with stress and panic and anxiety disorders can be attributed, in part, to the increasing amount of time we spend focused on technology...computers, televisions, gadgets...you name it. She felt that we spend so much time focused on screens that we no longer take quiet moments to listen to our own bodies. We have become detached from our-selves. It was a very interesting comment and one that I am going to be considering. We know that technology can distract us from our relationships with the people around us...but what about our relationship with our own selves? Hmmmm...food for thought.
So...now I have my afternoon plans to oversee. Sophia will cuddle up in her own bed with a humidifier on to soothe her nasty cough. She has ever loved to sleep in her own bed and save her cuddling for awake times. Calla, on the other hand, would much rather be squooshed up to somebody warm...her hand resting on Mommy's cheek and her chilly feet tucked between mine. She is six now, so I fully intend to savour this as it probably won't last for much longer. Calla and I will tuck in under my feather duvet and smile ourselves to sleep.
I hope your afternoon is half as comfy as mine will be. January 03 Until I Am Myself Again (An explanation, but also a really great song by Blue Rodeo...)Hey All...
Just letting you know that my holiday was marvellous. I have so much to write about but it will have to wait until this sinus infection clears up...my head and face have been screaming for days and it is hard to push anything creative or even sensical past all that...gross stuff...that is making me so cranky right now.
I hope everybody had a wonderful holiday...can't wait to spend a (hopefully snowy) afternoon reading all of your stories.
By the way...I think it has been about a year since I started blogging. Would have to check back for an exact date...but I know it was right after New Year's. Happy Anniversary to me!
When I first started blogging I had no idea that meeting all of you was even possible. Not because I couldn't imagine getting so lucky, but because I really didn't know that it was possible. I thought only my mom and a couple of friends could even access it and read it. Techno-whiz I am not. When I realized that there was so many other people out there and that anybody could read this stuff, I shut down my original site (which had too much personal information on it) and started this one. I imported some of my blogs, but not all.
Anyways, it has been a blast.
Happy New Year's to anybody stopping by to read...
p.s. here is one of my first entries. I remember this day. We still laugh about it...
On Cats and CornstarchThere was some serious excitement here yesterday morning and for once, I am glad to have been outside the the eye of the hurricane. Hurricane Soph that is! I was off at my Bodytalk appointment being told that I need to live less cautiously, embrace change and dream big dreams...become my ostentatious self again...and lo and behold, Sophia was living the HOW-TO manual on that very subject.
Soph has had big dreams about cornstarch. She loves it. I have suspected this for a while now because anytime she manages to get past the kiddie-proof door to the back porch, she heads straight for the baking shelf. We have had a few minor incidents involving Sophia and cornstarch. A little sprinkle here, a handful tossed incautiously there, nothing a broom and damp paper towel couldn't handle. We did not know that Soph had bigger dreams, grander dreams. Dreams that involved not only cornstarch, but also the kitchen & dining room floor, our loveseat and ostentatiously, our two cats.
Dean heard the siren call of freshly fallen snow on our driveway and headed out to shovel (I believe I mentioned his obsession regarding shovelling...?) Soph was standing in the window watching Daddy clear the driveway. One moment she was there and the next she was gone, Dean said. He had an inkling of doom, he really did. When he came in the house, big sister Calla had an empty box of cornstarch in hand and a look of grim resignation on her face...she knew what was about to hit the fan.
If white stuff in the driveway is hard for Dean to look at, imagine his reaction to a cornstarch wonderland in his house. Apparently, the starch dust was still floating gently in the air above the cat bed where Soph had cornered the cats and doused them with cornstarch. Sophia was giddy with having finally lived her big dream, Calla was feeling terrible for not having stopped this in time (pure, misplaced, oldest-sibling sense of responsiblity), and Ditty and Mermaid the cats were overwhelmed by the self-grooming task ahead of them. Dean knew that this...the floors, the loveseat, THE CATS...was a job for the central vac.
When I walked in the house 3o mins later, I wondered briefly why Soph was in new clothes but that was quickly replaced by pleased surprise at the clean floor. Dean had vacuumed, I was thrilled!!
Overall, I was very glad to have been away from the house that morning...I mean, yes I want my children to acheive their dreams, but I don't necessarily want to have to do the clean up afterwards. And while I have many good qualities, patience is not truly one of them and that would have REALLY tried my patience! Mostly though, I am glad that it wasn't up to me to de-starch the cats...my first reaction would have been to dump them in the tub for a bath. Oh Lord...can you say Cat Gravy?!?!
December 20 As it Turns Out, The Following is Just a Bunch of Paragraphs About Nothing Much At All...First off, I would like to say thanks to everyone who commented on my previous blog. Probably most especially Barb who made me feel better by saying that she may have become one of those creatures who eats their young had she ever had children of her own. I can honestly say that I have never wanted to consume either of my girls, so that made me feel better. However, in the interest of strictest honesty, I must add that sometimes it's because it would require just too much closeness and intimacy...there are times when a distance of two rooms is too close. Kind of hard to nibble when you can't reach your food.
Seriously though...things are fine here at Gelati Farms. Me and the girls are getting geared right up for the holidays...the tree is up and decorated, the three collector's singing snowmen from Hallmark are put to frequent and repetitive use daily (thanks heaps Godparents...), presents are wrapped, baking is almost finished...check check check check. Nobody is sleeping...check check check check. Dean is pretending to be Scrooge...check. (getting that he truly is faking it and is as big a sucker for the holiday...check) Father-in-law drops my Fuji on the concrete barn floor less than one week before Christmas and breaks it beyond repair...check. Three people we know have been struck down by a virulent stomach flu...taking into consideration the incubation period of about three days...that leaves us right in line to all come down with it in T minus three days...just in time for Christmas Eve...check. Situation Christmas normal.
Dean picked up our new car yesterday and shee-ooot is it nice. It is a 98 Volvo wagon that we bought off E-bay for a completely disgustingly fabulously ridiculously low price. So far...it is wonderful. Can you say bum warmers? Dean turned them on today without telling me and it was a very...interesting...sensation to experience when you are unaware that your seats have this capability. Mostly we are happy that Dean doesn't have to sit on the floor of the passenger seat of our Dodge pick-up whenever we go out as a family together, and that I don't ever have to try to park that bad boy anymore. I don't quite know why, but I can drive and park that thing...(and I am NOT talking about pull throughs...I can back that trailer in almost completely lickety-split...) with a 30-foot fifth wheel attached to it but cannot, for the life of me, park it in a city parking space...sans trailer. Huh.
Work should be interesting over the next three weeks. I have had several requests to 'squeeze' people in. I am booked up solid into the third week of January and haven't decided if I want to try to accommodate those that weren't forward thinking enough to book in advance. I have made concessions for some of my MVA clients...I don't want to interrupt their treatment plans so that I can have a week off...but people who just want to get in for relaxation? I don't know. Maybe they can do what I will have to do which is rub the parts you can get to and submerge in a tub of hot water and Epsom salts to soothe the places you can't.
Speaking of work, I have a full slate tonight and should be off to get ready. While I would dearly love to go in my comfy jeans, I really should spiff up a bit. *sigh* On Saturday I went in on my day off for an MVA client. I figured that since it was my morning off, I should at least be able to be comfortable. I wore my most lovely Joe Boxer black yoga pants and a long shirt from Old Navy. They are my lounging clothes and while it was nice to be comfortable, my mind had a hard time remembering that I was there to work, not relax. Tonight I will wear my Old Navy khakis that are just slightly tight around the waist...it will keep me alert. it is hard to relax when you have to suck in your belly.
Well that was five paragraphs of drivel. I had intended this to be about something else but...maybe another time.
Merry Christmas to you all...
Happy Holidays...
December 13 WARNING: The Following Blog Written On a Day When Sally Homemaker Was Hunted Down and Tackled to the Ground By a Seriously Twitchy Woman...The whole stay-at-home mom thing is a complete racket. I want a full time job.
My panic attacks in the last two weeks have been off the charts. Things had been going so well for so long and then...whammo...every second night I am up trying to convince myself that it is really just a panic attack and that it can't kill me. Sometimes it works and others...not so well. I see a woman who is teaching me techniques to live with this truckload of anxiety...her job is to give me the proper tools to deal with this part of myself. The other day when I went to see her, she listened while I told her of the truly crappy two weeks I have had. Her suggestion? Eat better and get some exercise. Right. Yes. I know. Even though it sounds like 'take two aspirin and call me in the morning' advice, it really is a helpful suggestion. When the body is well fueled and active, all those feel-good endorphins make you feel...well...good.
Every morning for the last ten days, I have gotten up in time to get Calla fed, groomed and out the door for school... with all the requisite shouting and cajoling to get her to the crossing guard before the bell rings. I have sat at the table with them and choked down hot cereal with fresh berries, I have made and enjoyed breakfast shakes, and tried to avoid the coffee-maker...with varying degrees of success, alas. In the interest of having a structured and organized morning, I have tidied up the post-getting-ready-for-school-and-breakfast-preparation aftermath before I do anything else. (this particular chore is better carried out when Sophia is still buckled into her booster seat, at the table, watching a movie. When she is on the loose, she is busily and efficiently engaged in undoing every chore I have just completed.) When all this is finished, it is time to suit up for our morning walk, and it is here that things get really interesting...
Last week, we had snow and freezing temperatures. Getting ready for our walk entailed Sophia and I donning four layers of clothing and outfitting the Chariot or wagon with blankets and heated rice-bags to keep inactive tootsies toasty. I dressed in my full-length down coat and pink-plaid Sorels and Soph was stylishly attired in her grey one-piece MEC snowsuit and Cougar boots that are rated for -50*C. When in the Chariot, Soph is protected from the wind and blowing snow by two layers of screen and plastic. With her hot air and the heated rice-bag, the inside of that stroller is steamy and warm. When in the wagon, she is covered by three blankets.
So...we set out. I walk to the end of the block and notice that Sophia has taken off her mitts to suck her thumb. I cross the first street and Soph asks for a foobar (which translates to 'fruit bar' and is a Fruit to Go). As I round the corner of the next block, Soph is beginning to whine for hot chocolate. Meanwhile, I am having to stop each time she calls me because when she is all snugged into the Chariot, I have to unsnap the screening and plastic to hear what she is saying. Mitts have to come off, the plastic is frozen and therefore stiff and unworkable, I have to find Soph under all those blankets to read her lips as the wind is blowing too hard to actually understand her. So far, despite all this, I am enjoying my walk. I like the cold. I am happy to be out and actively doing something to help prevent my panic attacks.
This entry has been sitting in my drafts folder now for almost a week. The day that I started it, I had just returned from one of our freezing walks. I had taken Soph out in the wagon that day because she spent most of the time in the Chariot crying and yelling...I thought that maybe she just wanted to be more involved in the walk. That day, we headed for home and I pulled the wagon behind me through the snow. We had been walking for five minutes when I came to a friend's house. This woman works part-time with a home-based business selling kitchen products. Her daughter Faith is the exact same age as Sophia and is in a daycare down the street. That morning, I stood outside her window on the sidewalk and yodelled her name until she came to the front door in her bare feet and popped her head out to say hi. Despite the tempting invitation to come in for coffee, I decided to continue on in my walk...it just felt so good to be outside. On we walked.
Within minutes we were at the intersection that is on the way to the bridge that Sophia and I like to visit in the summer. It is from this bridge that we ooh and ahh over the ducklings and goslings and then watch in fascination as they grow and swim single file behind their mommies. (honestly, most of the fascination is on my part because those mommy birds manage to keep complete control over anywhere from six to twelve birds and I have a heck of a time with one and no luck at all with two...children, not birds...) Now that winter has hit and the river has iced over and the birds have flown to cheerier climes, I thought it would be cool to show Soph the changes winter brings. I thought it would be cool. Soph thought it was torture...and she had no problem testifying...loudly and pathetically, to anyone passing by...her everlasting and all-consuming despair. As I stood on the bridge, looking down at the wailing child who had begun to keen for her daddy, I found myself telling her that I loved her. Over and over. Under my breath, with my teeth clenched...because if I wasn't repeating it like a mantra, I might forget entirely. (this brings to mind my earlier conundrum regarding actions vs. intentions...my action was telling her that I loved her. My intention was 'tell her you love her before you... a.) toss her over the bridge, or b.) tie her to the leg of a migrating goose and wave happily as she flies south with her pink blankie waving in the wind.')
Finally, neither of us could stand it any longer. I tossed a blanket over Soph's head and stomped off the bridge, pulling a sobbing child behind me in a red, all-wheel drive wagon. On the way home we passed by Faith's daycare. She was outside, playing gleefully with her friends...laughing and rolling in the snow. A few steps more and we passed by my friend's house again. I know that she was curled up on her couch in her bare feet and comfy pants, sipping coffee and enjoying the quiet of her day. Meanwhile, Soph had started to scream for her daddy and I was yelling back at her that her daddy was at work. Alone. Warm. And probably smiling. Under my breath, I was muttering that this was doing wonders for my anxiety...I could feel the stress just melting off of me. We passed three old ladies, all of whom commented that someone wasn't very happy. The last lady who mentioned it got a snarl and a growl from me and was told that, no...someone wasn't very happy, and that my child was pretty grumpy too. God, I hope she doesn't recognize me without my fifteen winter layers next spring.
During the last twelve steps before I reached my back door, I thought about my grandmother who brags to all her friends of her granddaughter who has chosen to stay home with her children, cook them three meals a day (NB...Dean does share in the cooking and cleaning...but, for the sake of making myself out to be a martyr, I thought it sounded better to insinuate that I did everything...just play along...) and generally do a fine impression of Sally Homemaker. I thought of my friend and her daughter Faith. At the same moment that Sophia was throwing tantrums in her wagon and I was feeling a stroke coming on, they were both happily doing their own thing. Keyword being happily. Yes, I am home with my girls almost 24/7. I am, however, up three nights out of seven with panic attacks. Absolutely I get to spend quality time with my girls that I would miss if I had to be at work full-time, but I am also aware that a good percentage of that quality time involves some quality yelling and some really quality flying off the handle.
That morning, after The Walk, when I had gotten us out of our outside clothes and I sat down at the computer to write and Soph sat on the couch and we both sat and pretended the other person wasn't in the room, I wondered...really...who was benefiting from me being home? I am turning into a basket case and into someone I no longer recognize. There are days that, if I were my girls, I would pitch fits at the thought of having to spend a whole day with me. I find myself rubbing headaches away from my temples, and everything I say is said with a sibilant hiss as that is the only sound that escapes from a clenched jaw. Four days ago, my right eyelid started twitching. I don't know why, but I noticed yesterday that the moment that I started calling after Sophia as she ran away from me in the mall, that the twitching started in earnest. Last night, after the girls were in bed and I was talking with my mother, I told her that I felt like Scrat...the twitchy squirrel from Ice Age. Really, the only differences between me and Scrat is that I don't need any more nuts...I feel that I am nuts enough, thanks...unless the nut represents my lost sanity. That I want back.
So. There we are. I still walk everyday, but I have retired the wagon and will only take the Chariot now. It is more sound-proof and I find I can barely hear Sophia if she starts her wailing. Sometimes I feel guilty that I am dragging this child out in the cold when she hates it so much, but then I assure myself of a couple of things: Firstly, it isn't cold enough to get hypothermia...so, with all the layers and heating pads and whatnot, she isn't going to die from a bit of cold, and secondly, if I don't walk and get some fresh air and exercise so that I can sleep at night, one or both of us might die from causes other than hypothermia.
Now, I am off to take my daily constitutional. Screaming child, twitching eye and all. Think of me. And wish me luck in finding my nut.
November 30 Deck the Halls...Not Your SpouseBrrrrr...the temperature has dropped and even so, last night Dean, the girls and I put the Christmas lights up outside. It was very merry...Gelati Farms style.
Every year, in about October, before it gets cold, I gently suggest to Dean that he might want to put the lights and greenery up. He agrees and then, somewhere near the beginning of December, I sulkily notice, out loud, that I guess it will be a Christmas without outdoor lights and decorations. Dean then huffs and puffs a bit and then digs the lights et al out of the basement storage room. He bundles up in sweaters, jackets, hats...it is, of course, not October anymore so the temperature is nasty...and he always brings gloves out. Within three minutes he realizes that you cannot string lights and fasten greenery with gloved hands, so the gloves go flying...chased to the end of the driveway by a blue streak of curses. He loves this stuff.
Now that we have the girls, we make the whole process a huge event. Usually the girls come out with us and frolic in the snow and slide down the snow banks. I stand around and direct Dean...which he loves! (What would he do without my thoughts on the matter?) Then, when the girls have had enough and are beginning to fuss over the snow in their boots and down their pants, I hustle them in for cocoa and Dean continues all on his own. This is when things get really interesting at the front of the house on Gelati Farms. One year the greenery on the bay windows looked like Groucho Marx eyebrows. Another year, the big tree out front got wrapped with whatever strings of lights were left over...with complete abandon (read...without any consideration of colour and finesse.) Last year Dean found one of those light up reindeer and perched him atop the five foot snowbank at the end of the driveway. We quickly found out why he was going so cheap at that yard sale...bloody thing could not stand, even on four legs, and spent most of it's holidays lying drunkenly on it's side.
Now, come to think of it, that reindeer did visit the neighbours one night. At first we were convinced that our neighbour was engaging, daily, in the sport of reindeer tipping. Finally, one cold night, we had returned home late and there was the drunken lout (the reindeer, not the neighbour) lying prostrate in the snow bank. Dean picked it up and carried it over to the neighbours. He located their extension cord and electrical receptacle and plugged that thing in, placing it on their porch right in front of their big dining room window. We all hid behind our car and waited. Our neighbours tore open their shutters, threw up their sash and then spilled out onto their porch with looks on their faces reminiscent of the Three Wise-men upon spying the Star of Bethlehem. Oh...it was a moment.
This year, knowing firstly how much Dean hates the job of lighting up the house and mostly how much I hate it when he gets too creative out there, I decided to help out with actions and not just words. I put the lights in the cedar tree. I put the greenery on the porch railings. I was about to consider the big tree also, but Dean pulled up. He had headed out to Canadian Tire because, after we argued about whether or not the greenery for the railings was stored with the lights on or off (I said on...just like every year...he said off because he decided to switch things up last year.), we eventually decided that the lights had disappeared and that Dean should go buy new ones.
When Dean pulled up, he saw what I had done. I was so puffed up with pride and waiting for the moment when I could say..."Oh, Honey, it's nothing. I know how much you hate this chore and thought to make things easier for you this year." Instead, Dean started biting his tongue...apparently I had stepped on some holiday toes. It wasn't done quite precisely, exactly properly...I had wound through the railing instead of following along the top hand rail. So, alright...it's good that he is picky about this...it balances my pickiness about folding hand towels. (and don't for a moment think that I won't store this information in the vault and trot it out next time he makes fun of my obsessive compulsiveness) Unwilling to admit that he really wanted to undo all my work, he stood there looking at it, trying his very best to like it. I took that moment to mention again that I thought the real outside greenery must still be stored inside...with the lights. Just to prove me wrong and shut me up, Dean went back in the house, stomped down the stairs, rummaged around in the storage room a bit and...well, came back outside with a box full of Christmas greenery...strung with lights. Folks...I did not even say 'I told you so'...I wasn't even thinking it...but only because Dean can divine those kind of thoughts the very minute they cross my mind.
Meanwhile, the girls had grown tired of playing with the six chunks of ice/snow that had managed to survive after a day of sunshine and were starting to look longingly at the back door. The three of us went inside and got supper prepared. Dean finished the lights and greenery...in the cold, all by himself, while I cooked supper...just like every one of the last nine years.
It is the very first in our line-up of favourite Christmas traditions. November 22 I Had a Piece of Peach Pie For Breakfast...And Other Tales of a Housewife...I really did. And it was yummy. I am thinking apple pie for lunch.
The parade was fun...Soph was a perfect angel (Holy...I typed angle at first and almost left it...) and Calla as well. Calla's horse, Pumpkin, pulled a cart and so all the little girls took turns and got to ride in the cart pulled by the stocky, pregnant, wide-as-she-is-tall Pumpkin. The show wagon was pulled by my in-laws' Clydes...Spike and Charlie and we actually spent most of the time riding on the wagon and waving at people. It felt wonderfully Royal...at the very least it felt slightly Papal...and Soph yelled "Mooeee Kisstmas" to people as we drove by. She only tried to dive off the wagon a dozen times, but was easily distracted by the hot cocoa and granola bars I brought along and the cookies that a friend from the sidelines ran up and gave to us. It really is all about the food for Soph.
Being in the parade as opposed to watching it, we did miss the other floats which was a bit of a bummer. Near the end of the parade, the girls and I saw my parents off to the side, waving, and so we hopped out of formation and stood with them. Pulling up the rear of the parade was, of course, Santa and Mrs. Claus and we were all pretty excited to see that float. Soph doesn't actually remember the whole Santa deal and so, to get her all excitied, I immediately began yelling "Santa...we love you!" and carrying on just to make my girls laugh. (sort of the same performance I gave at my U2 concert when I yelled myself hoarse
 ) That was followed with things like "Oh my GOD...it's Santa...Soph...Oh My GOD...do you see him?! I am soooo excited that we got to see somebody famous!!" Calla and Soph thought it was great and my dad rolled his eyes and reminded me that I was the grown-up. Whatever. What has being a grown up ever really gotten anybody? Other than, you know, gout and wrinkles and mortgages and phone calls from credit card companies who want to increase your debt load? The secret, of course, is to age, take on responsibilities, learn to scrub a toilet and a floor in under 15 minutes and yet still believe in magic and play and falling in love with life each morning. For the record, the peach pie was yesterday morning. This morning, I ate oatmeal porridge with organic blueberries and maple syrup, accompanied by a beautiful cup of East Timor Organic Free Trade Dark Roast coffee, roasted locally and sweetened with Organic Turbinado sugar. I kid you not. Sounds like something out of a Living Well magazine, doesn't it? Well, I will let you in on a little secret....oatmeal makes me gag. The first ten bites are delish and I feel good and healthy eating it. At some predestined point, though, and when I am least expecting it, a spoonful of the oatmeal hits my gag reflex in a not-too-pleasant fashion and it is all I can do to swallow it. From that point on, I focus on picking the organic blueberries, raspberries or whatever other fruit is in there, out. When the girls aren't looking, I scoop my bowl off the table and scrape the remainder into the garbage, all the while cheering them on while they gobble their 'white soup' up. I have to tell you...peach pie has never tried to gag me.
The weather at Gelati Farms is a bit worrisome. Today, tomorrow and for the rest of the week, sunshine and temperatures of 8-10* C are fore-casted. I just want to know...WHERE'S MY SNOW?! We thought it was amusing when we sailed through Halloween without a snow storm, but it is now the end of November and not a flake. It is almost Christmas!! I still see grass in my backyard. Dean made a turkey breast and the works for dinner the other night and seasoned it with fresh herbs from my herb garden! It was scrumptious, but that's not the point. By this time of year, fresh herbs should be naught but a summer-sweet memory. I know that freezing temperatures are just around the corner and the thought of all that cold with none of the white stuff is seriously distressing. What happens when January hits and it is -40*C and the kids have cabin fever? Do I send them outside to frolic on the brown, frozen ground? It is definitely time for a Snow Dance. I am unsure of the ceremony, but am reasonably sure it should involve my full length down coat and my pink plaid Sorels...
I think this is the perfect time for me to eulogize Summer and Autumn. Maybe if I say a proper good-bye, Old Man Winter will get the point...
Ahhhh...spring. Dandelions, Irises, worms, planting the garden...I do love spring.
Summer. Those dog days. (what does that mean, anyways?) The garden is
Up here at Gelati Farms, we have to make the very most of our short summer months because we know that
Summer is boats and camp with family, swimming in lakes with endless sandbars and sharing ice cream with friends.
Those lakes would sure be nice for skating and snowshoeing on, and we are completely prepared to trade the ice cream for hot cocoa on those snowy, December days...
Oh...we hung out at the beach so many days this summer. The sun was hot, the sand was
I would be amiss if I did not mention...CAMPING...the very best part of our summers. Almost every weekend we hitch up the fifth wheel (you didn't think I meant real camping did you?) and head out to greener parts.
I know that I have said, many times, that autumn is my favourite time of year...and it is. The colours, that snap
It is just this time that the furnace wars start around Gelati Farms. I wake up in the chill air and turn the
Autumn is about feasting with family...Thanksgiving at the Provincial Park. Then...a few short weeks later, it's time to dress up and visit the neighbours...hoping they remembered to buy treats for your Halloween sacks. It's time to stand around in the cold while the wonderful lady down the street tries to guess what Calla and Soph are supposed to be under their parkas and scarves and hats and mitts. It's the end of October and it's Halloween and it reminds me...WHERE'S MY SNOW?! It didn't snow on Halloween. It is now the tail end of November and there has been nary a flake.
This has been my Eulogy to Summer and Fall. Please take this as a sign that we are ready
November 17 It's Four AM...Do You Know Where Mr. Sandman Is...?Because it is 4am and I am awake, and because it has been mumble mumble mumble days since I have blogged, I thought now the perfect opportunity to say that warm milk and honey doesn't have the same soporific effect that it did when I was six.
Let's do a bullet blog, shall we? I have to be at work in a few hours, so I need to make this quick and paragraphs just take to bloody long...
November 07 Dithering...My quote at the top of the page. It has me a'wondering. I put down my initial thought in my "So...I was just thinking..." box at the top of my page, but I am still dithering.
This is what it is like to be me and my brain. Something so simple, that I initially found tickling, now will occupy my thoughts all day as I try to sort out how I REALLY feel.
So, what do you think? Are actions more important than intentions? |
Gelati FarmsTruth is the shattered mirror strewen in myriad bits; while each believes his little bit the whole to own. ~Richard Francis Burton~
|
|||
Send a private message
Subscribe to RSS feed
Tell a friend
Add to My MSN
Add to your network
Sign up for alerts
|
|
