"You have other friends beside me, right?"

I had just moved back to Toronto after a few years abroad. I'd never had very many friends, and the few I had left were moving away just as I had moved back. I was unemployed, friendless and very much down in the dumps when one of my best friends - we'll call her T - told me she was moving back as well.

I was elated. T and I had been friends for a long time, and I couldn't wait to hang out with her again. We could go shopping - window shopping in my case - and just talk. One of the things you lose in a long-distance friendship is that sense of immediacy and nearness and I couldn't wait to have that again.

So, she moved back, and we met up. I was effusive - this was so great! we could hang out all the time now! it would be just like college! - and she... wasn't. Unlike me, she had a great career, plenty of friends and if she was down in the dumps, she certainly didn't share it. She listened to me babble on about mutual friend A who was now living abroad, mutual friend B who'd moved away for work, and finally she asked, "You have other friends beside me, right?"

To this day, I'm not sure if she meant it in a joking manner or not. Does it matter? Faced with the prospect of a clingy college friend wanting to reestablish what was, to her, an old connection, she was naturally wary. Who can blame her for wanting to establish that I would not be sticking exclusively to her, limpet-like?

I laughed - I think. Of course I had other friends, I reassured her. I doubt she believed me. We kept chatting after that, but I have no recollection of what, because I was in shock. You might always suspect that your friend values your friendship less than you do, but to have it brought home to you in such a way was jarring to say the least.

The evening ground on, and it was time to say good night. "We should do this again!" she chirped, "Now that we're in the same city!" to which i mumbled something along the lines of sure, yes, we should. I did not hear from her again for more than six months - and when I did, it was because I had reached out.

In fact, every time we've interacted has been because I've reached out. She always sounds effusive and enthusiastic, "Why don't we do this more often?" and I can barely stop myself from replying, "well, what's stopping you?"

Unnecessary Rudeness

Now Playing: Snow Patrol – The Weight of Love

I was at a dinner recently at a restaurant that looked as though it had just opened. Around 50 people occupied 3 long tables, so the wait staff were definitely kept busy. I forgot to give the waiter my drink order when he came around, and then when everyone else had a glass of water in front of them, I felt insanely thirsty. Five minutes later, when I noticed a waiter was at the table next to us, I got his attention quietly and asked for a glass of water. A woman seated further down the table, wearing a pair of giant rhinestone-studded dangling earrings and an otherwise unremarkable outfit, had the same problem as me but a rather different way of solving the problem. 

“EXCUSE ME!” she bellowed. “MY FRIENDS AND I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR WATER FOR SO LONG NOW! WHEN ARE YOU GOING TO BRING IT?”

“So sorry,” said the nearest waiter, “I’ll bring some right away.” 

As he walked towards our table with a glass of water, Giant Earrings said, loudly, “AND NOW HE’S COMING WITH ONLY ONE GLASS! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?”

The rest of the party was, I think, rather taken aback by this woman and her incredibly awful behaviour. Even her friends who wanted water looked embarrassed, though she didn’t. The rest of the dinner proceeded without further outburst from Giant Earrings, thankfully. 

The incident stuck with me, and it got me wondering, “Why are some people deliberately assholes?” I mean, we all have bad days, but I’ve never inflicted my frustration on a random third party. I’m not saying this as some super-calm, zen person;  a lot of the time, but especially when I’m PMSing, I am often at a Red Lantern level of rage. It’s not that I don’t have the urge to strike out blindly, I just don’t see why I should inflict my temper on strangers. The world is a difficult place, and I don’t see why you would want to add to the general hostility by being deliberately unpleasant. 

TL;DR – as Wil Wheaton says, don’t be a dick.

Amor Fati

Author's Note: The following story has real-life elements, but still, mostly fiction. Enjoy, and constructive criticism is always welcome!

“ELEANOR!”

The trouble with attending the wedding of an old classmate was that one ran into other old classmates, Eleanor Button mused. She’d already dodged several so far. Perhaps she could pretend she hadn’t heard and make her escape?

“ELEANOR! It is you, isn’t it?”

The voice sounded older – fifty-something, not twenty-something –and regrettably it was close enough that a graceful escape would be impossible. “This is what comes of dilly-dallying over dessert, Eleanor Button,” said an inner voice, which sounded disagreeably like her Auntie Florence. “And what were you doing at the dessert table, anyway? Aren’t you supposed to be on a diet?”

Better the unknown voice than Auntie-Florence-In-Her-Head.

“ELEANOR!”

It – rather, she - was right behind her now. Eleanor turned, and was faced with –

“It’s Mrs Harefield! You were in my grade 12 English class, Eleanor… Don’t you remember me?”

How could anyone forget Old Harey? Swathed in multicoloured scarves, well-thumbed copy of War and Peace in her hand, Old Harey had established herself as the intellectual authority of Monsignor Ryan High School. She had taught English Literature and History, and considered herself an expert in the performing arts as well, which had led to many highly entertaining confrontations with the drama teacher, Mr Carton. Eleanor had been one of her favourite students.

“Of course, Mrs Harefield. How are you? Still teaching?”

“Oh wonderful, my dear… You know, I so enjoy working with young minds... They come to me as unformed masses of clay, and I give them definition!”

Eleanor supposed that any definition that happened to Old Harey’s pubescent charges was due to the uncomfortable process of growing up, but she kept that thought to herself.

“But of course you, Eleanor, were different! How you loved to read! If only your classmates had followed your example – but of course teenagers are teenagers, no matter how much you highlight a good path to follow, they insist on doing as they please!”

Eleanor barely suppressed a grimace. Old Harey had been assiduous in her highlighting of Eleanor’s good example.

“How many of you have done the reading? None? Eleanor, what about you? My dear, is that a twitch or a nod? God did not give us the gift of speech so that you could twitch, child. Now speak up, have you done the reading? Yes? Now why can’t the rest of you be like Eleanor?”

In hindsight, Eleanor knew she never really had a chance of being popular in high school. She’d always enjoyed being a geek too much to ever hide it. But there was still a small part of her that thought, “If only Harey would have shut up about what a paragon I was, perhaps more people would have liked me.” Given that this was the same part of her brain that thought tequila should be an integral part of a healthy diet, Eleanor tried her best to ignore the thought.

Old Harey was still speaking, “Nevertheless, so many of my former students are doing terribly well for themselves… Denver Choi appeared in an off-Broadway play last year, Jeremy O’Leary is doing something financial in New York, Sarah Black is a surgery resident…”

Eleanor was nonplussed. “But I haven’t seen any of them tonight?”

“Oh no, they’re not here… facebook, my dear! I mean, of course it’s deplorable, centuries of letter-writing tradition to be replaced with pokes and lols and what have you, but still, I can’t argue, it’s a remarkably effective way to keep in touch. Which reminds me, we must – what is the expression – friend each other as well! But my dear, I’m being stunningly rude. I haven’t asked about you at all! What are you doing?”

“Well, I temp mostly.”

Old Harey’s expression froze. “Temp? But – but, Eleanor, you went to Columbia!”

“I dropped out. I figured college was just a practice run for the bigger rat race, and I decided that’s not what I want to do with my life. So I temp here and there, and when I have enough money, I travel.”

Judging from Old Harey’s face, she’d have been less appalled if Eleanor had told her she made sculptures from elephant dung.

“My dear, you had so much potential…”

Eleanor didn’t quite know what to say to that, so she shrugged.

“Anyway, I’ll catch up with you later, child. Must circulate, you know!” Old Harey fled. Eleanor looked after her, looked down at her dyed satin wedding shoes and sighed.

Two months later, Eleanor had still not received a friend request from Old Harey. She could live with that.

Silence at the dinner table is highly underrated.

Now Playing: Agnes Obel - Riverside

"Oh, she eats with her left hand?"

I'm used to getting that question from Indian aunties and uncles, usually in a disapproving voice, so when someone asked my mother that over dinner, I said, "yes, she does" in a tone of voice that most reasonable people might take as a sign to retreat.

"You know how you can fix that?"

"Uncle, I don't want to fix it!"

Mum intervened, "We never felt it was necessary to force her to use her right hand. What's the point, really?"

Uncle still didn't take the hint. "But you know, if you wanted to change, how to do it?"

I looked at Mum. Clearly Uncle was going to have his say, regardless of our feelings. "How?"

"You take a knife - oh don't worry, a very small one will do - and you cut the... what are they called, ligaments? tendons? Well whatever it is, you cut the ones on your left hand, and you'll wind up having to use your right hand by default! Ha!"

We stared.

Thankfully, there was no knife in the vicinity - very small or otherwise - or somebody would've gotten hurt real bad.

"Ma, they broke my hair!"

Now Playing: Ellie Goulding - Lights 

As a rule, curly hair is invariably appreciated more by those who are not burdened with it. 

People often ask me, "Is that your real hair?" "Oh no," I feel like replying, "this is just the result of a perm gone horribly wrong. But no need to worry! I'm suing the hairstylist responsible!"

Personally, I doubt anyone would put up with hair like mine - a higgledy-piggledy mess - unless they had to, or perhaps were paid handsomely to do so. I only put up with it because I'm too lazy to go through the bother of straightening it every other day, but most curly-haired people of my acquaintance have, as it were, crossed the Berlin Wall, leaving me to languish in East Berlin as Stasi agents watch my every move. A few months ago though, I was forcibly dragged into West Germany, not so much kicking and screaming as dazed and confused. 

The facts were these: I was minding my own business and wandering about Scarborough Town Centre, when suddenly I was accosted by a straightener-wielding female. 

"Do you have a minute to spare?" she asked. 

"Um, actually, I'm on my way somewhere - " 

"Not an issue, this will only take a minute! Have a seat, set your bag down here, did you have a nice day shopping?"

"Yes, but - wait, please don't undo my braid - "

At this point, her supervisor steps in, dripping hair gel and confidence, and launches into his patter: "You don't straighten your hair very often, do you? No, of course not. Do you own a straightener? You do? Wait, let me guess, it's probably a ConAir, right? Takes forever to use? Well, the new infrared straightener that my colleague is using on your hair - no, don't get up - is super fast, and won't burn your hair. Don't you get bored of your hair always having the same look? Of course, it's natural for women to want to look their best! And this product makes it so easy! It's only been seven minutes, and my assistant has straightened a good third of your hair! How long would it take to do the same thing with your old straightener? And it doesn't damage your hair. Super-fast and safe to use, and it only costs $200! So what do you think?"

"It's a brilliant job, but as I said, I never straighten my hair and I'm really not looking to buy a hair straightener today."

"Well. If that's what you want. Jane*, give the lady back her scrunchie. You have a nice day, now."

So, I have to make my way home with a chunk of my hair Avril Lavigne straight, and the rest the usual mess, providing, I am sure, ample conversation fodder for any or all of the people I pass on the way: "Oh. My God. Did you see her hair? Did she seriously leave the house with her hair only partially straightened? WHAT is wrong with her?"

I finally get home, wash the curl back into my hair, kick back and let it dry. Back to normal at last! Except... one lock of hair suddenly seems longer than the rest; which, what? I extricate it from the rest, and the reason becomes clear - while the rest of my straightened hair has gone back to ringlet-y curls, this laggard hank of hair is just wavy. 

Huh. Have I not rinsed my hair out right? Alright, I figure it'll be back to normal the next time I wash it - except, it isn't. That stubborn length of hair persists in its delusions of waviness for more than two weeks, during which time I look as though I've cut my hair myself and done a really sloppy job of it too. On the positive side, I've learnt a valuable lesson: NEVER let random vendors come near your hair with heated implements; no good can possibly arise thereof. 

So, as messy as curly hair generally is, I believe I've finally accustomed myself to it; having seen life on the other side of the wall, I'm happy to be back in East Berlin in my little Plattenbau flat, with my curly-wurly, higgledy-piggledy hair.

*not her real name

This Is Not The Sci-Fi You Are Looking For

My father and I were discussing Star Trek. As you do. 

Me: So you have The Original Series, right?
Dad: Right...
Me: And then you have The Next Generation.
Dad: ...
Me: The one with Patrick Stewart?
Dad: Right.
Me: And then you have Deep Space Nine, and then comes Voyager, and THEN you have Enterprise, which is set before TOS, so it's a prequel to all the other shows.
Dad: Then where does that other show fit in?
Me: Which other show?
Dad: You know, that show you used to watch?
Me: (thinking) What Sci-Fi show did I watch that my father knows I watched? He can't mean... (aloud) BATTLESTAR GALACTICA?!
Dad: Oh yeah, that one! Where does that fit in?
Me: They have nothing to do with one another! The two are set in completely different universes!
Dad: But they both have to do with galaxies or something...
Me: ... You are aware Star Trek and Star Wars are completely different too, right?
Dad: Oh, that I know.

I am convinced he thinks that all Sci-Fi that lacks lightsabers is automatically Star Trek.

Vegetarian Hormone Soup

It is quite easy to feel put-upon when you're the lone vegetarian in a house of carnivores. One begins to feel proprietary towards the fruits and veggies. "Keep your hands off my spinach, you already have chicken curry!" I would say, to which my brother, not unreasonably, would usually reply, "Just because you're a vegetarian doesn't mean you're the only person who gets to eat plant matter!" It was a moot point, because my mother is in the habit of cooking quantities that would feed a platoon of hungry rugby players, so usually we'd grumble a bit more, formulate some choice insults and mutter them sotto voce in case either parent was in hearing range, and then forget all about the whole thing five minutes later. 

Then one month, PMT hits me like a hurricane. Dinnertime: I am looking forward to delicious methi chapatis with mango pickle, I open the fridge and lo and behold, the chapatis, they are gone. My brother strolls by, casually, munching on something. I turn a gimlet eye upon him and yes, rolled up in his hand is a methi chapati. Quite steadily, I ask, "Where are the rest of the chapatis?" He swallows; says, "Oh, I ate them. Did you want some?"

At this point, in my head, there was all that really lame lightning-strike imagery you see in cheesier hindi films at moments of high drama. "You ate them ALL!" I roared, aghast. "WHAT ABOUT ME? I'M THE VEGETARIAN HERE!"  I was, at that moment, the spirit of capslock made flesh, but my brother remained unfazed by all the majuscule melodrama. "Che," he said, in between bites, "you do not have the exclusive right to eat vegetarian stuff just because you're a vegetarian."

It was too much. I burst out sobbing. "YOU PEOPLE HATE ME!" I railed, as my very confused parents came in, "YOU DON'T CARE IF I STARVE TO DEATH!" I flounced to my room, utterly bereft, depressed and lachrymose, there to die a (very, very, very!) slow death from starvation.

Except, half-an-hour later, I wasn't bereft, depressed and lachrymose; I was hungry and perplexed. Had I really thrown a fit over chapatis? I went downstairs to check; three pairs of eyes examined me. "Have you stopped your nonsense now?" asked my mother. 

"Um, yeah." 

"Good. Then go eat. There's dal and brinjal on the stove for you."

"Life's a bitch, now so am I."

(Inspired by Indiequill's post here.)

Why do we bite our tongues? Why, when faced with something or someone annoying, do we swallow down our anger and tell ourselves that there's no need to make a fuss, the irritant will soon be gone?

I recently had the dubious pleasure of meeting, after a very long time, an old acquaintance. Said old acquaintance - let us call him Q - has always been abrasive to the point of rudeness. Case in point: when we were at school together, Q was an agnostic, which was totally fine by me. I don't care if you're a Rastafarian or a Pastafarian; your religious beliefs - or lack thereof - are your own. Also frankly, I was brought up to believe it was rude to question other people's religious beliefs. Q, sadly, suffered no such scruples. "I don't know how you can believe in God," he said, "knowing what we do about science."

Now, ideally, this is the point where I would say, "Back off, jackass - my religious beliefs are none of your beeswax." Instead, what I did do was to smile politely and noncommitally and murmur something to the effect of to each his own. I could have pointed out that if Q was such a proud agnostic, why did he still pretend to be religiously observant at home? Nope, I shut up.

It was to be hoped, therefore, that Q had mellowed over time. Sadly, this was not the case. He still had an opinion for every occasion and the more strident the better. "You live where? I could never live there. Isn't it full of rich Mallus*?" Did I say anything, dear reader? I wish. How I wish I had said something freezing and cutting. Instead I again murmured something polite and noncomittal (You may notice a trend there.) What did I have to lose by saying, "Shut. UP! You don't know half as much as you claim to, and what you do know is iffy, so please hold your tongue regarding things you know nothing about." Instead I shut up, as usual.

It is difficult to shake off the habits of a lifetime, to silence the inner voice that continually says, "be nice, or people won't like you" but I've decided to atleast try, because frankly, I'll like myself better that way. So, word to the wise, people who are going to be rude to me in future - I'll smile politely, catch myself, take a deep breath and tell you to fuck off.

*It's not, by the way.

In Which A Very Questionable Metaphoric Decision Is Made

Now Playing: Lindisfarne - Meet Me On The Corner

"Having curly hair," I mused, "is like being in an abusive relationship."

"What?!?"

"No, really. You know how abusive spouses can be sweet as pie one day, and then the next day they break your nose because you didn't get their coffee right, or whatever?"

"Um, okay?"

"And then, even when women leave their abusive husbands, a lot of times they have trouble getting into new, loving relationships because they've come to expect craziness from their relationships as opposed to normalcy?"

"And how does this have anything to do with curly hair?"

"Are you kidding me? It is exactly like curly hair. One day, your hair curls exactly the way you want it to, the next, it's a giant ball of frizz that's too pathetic to pass off as an afro. On and off, off and on, until you don't know which way is up and you can't take it anymore, so you buy a hair straightener and iron the curl right out of your hair."

"Um..."

"And now you've got straight-ish/wavy hair that is easy to manage and a hairstyle that doesn't change daily depending on the wind, humidity and the caprices of the curl, right? Except now, that's boring. You've come to expect changeable, unpredictable hair. Hair that simply sits on your head and does what you want it to is somehow... bleh. So you trash the straightener, wash out your hair and let the curl do what it will. Just like an abuse victim going back to her abuser."

"You're seriously comparing having messy hair with being the victim of abuse."

"Um, yeah. It's like, I started the metaphor, and then midway I got how awful it sounded - "

"- and you finished it anyway?"

"...yeah."

"Alrighty then."

Christmas/Boxing Day Roundup

Now Playing: Ravel - Une Barque Sur L'Ocean

Look what Santa left under the tree:


A Keurig B30 Mini Coffee Brewer! For all my gourmet-coffee-at-home needs. I can recommend Timothy's Columbian Fair-Trade Dorado, but you can use your own regular coffee blend with a reusable coffee filter. Now, I generally prefer teas or tisanes, but this machine makes a damn fine cup of coffee.

Boxing Day Haul: I picked up these kickin' boots at Scarborough Town. Plus Lush had a buy-3-for-the-price-of-1 deal on their soaps, so I now have Sexy Peel to last me months.

Also saw Sherlock Holmes on Boxing Day. A few quick thoughts:

• Robert Downey Jr, why so fabulous? Also Jude Law, I find myself surprised that I have taken in none of your work since The Talented Mr Ripley.
• Holmes and Watson have an epic bromance. In fact, you don't even have to squint to see it as a straight romance, really - they have a bad breakup, Watson seeks consolation in the arms of Mary Morstan, Holmes sulks.
  
• In terms of their general interaction, though - Holmes is outrageous, Watson is exasperated - they reminded me less of Holmes and Watson 1.0 than House and Wilson - who are obviously a modern, medical take on Holmes and Watson 1.0.
• When they cast RDJr, they must have filled their American cast quota because the two American roles - Irene Adler and Ambassador Standish - are played by Canadians.
  
• I thought it interesting that it was the villain - by Mark Strong - who looked most like the classical Holmes - tall, hair pomaded, the long jacket reminiscent of an Inverness cape.
• Finally, this movie is definitive proof that the rating system is completely ridiculous. It was released in Canada with a PG (Parental Guidance) rating, though it features a close-up of a dead body with maggots, boxing violence, people-being-set-on-fire violence, etc etc. Imagine the hapless parent who doesn't have time to watch trailers, and buys a ticket to watch this movie with his or her family based solely on the film's rating? "Daddy, why is that man so pale? And why are their worms on his face? Why is he sleeping in a coffin?"

too crazy not to be elected dictatress of the universe

Now Playing: Ellie Goulding – Guns & Horses

December last, I finally stopped dithering and asked my brother to pick me up an iPod Classic. Longtime readers (of the imaginary blog updated only in my head) will know that I’ve been in search of a new mp3 player ever since my late, extremely un-lamented creative zen slipped into a coma. FINALLY, after a lot of ipod vs zune deathmatches, I decided to go with the herd and succumb to the apple infection. (Frankly? It was the accessories that sold me. All those pretty, pretty accessories.... )The conversation went thusly:

Me (Imperiously): BROTHER! When comest thou to visit us from yon frigid climes, purchase thou an iPod classic from Beste Buye. And seest thou that it be jet-hued, else will I kick thee severely, VARLET!

Brother: Um, I have exams on right now…

Me: KNAVE! Which be of paramount importance, thine education or mine entertainment?

Brother: Hanging up now…

(fast forward to a week or so later, at Abu Dhabi airport)

Brother: Hey.

Me (in manner of zombie): iPooooooodddddd…

Brother: I think I forgot to pack it.

Me (rabidly): NYARGGGHHHHHHH I KILL YOU NOWWWW –

Brother: Um, here you go. And please don’t talk to me in public from now on – oh my God, are you biting off the packaging?!?

Me: NOM NOM NOM IPOD I LOVE YOU NEVER NEVER LEAVE ME –

Rest of family (Exits rapidly hoping no one connects them with the obviously deranged girl molesting the iPod in the airport Starbucks)

To Be Continued…

Oh Noes

Now Playing: Arkin Allen - Mekseline

Was v disheartened to realize that 95% of my phone conversations (& pretty much all of my msn convos) can be summed up thusly -

Oh noes, indeed.

Update, I must!

Now Playing: Serenity - End Credits

I've had another birthday! Woohoo! Over the penultimate solar sojourn (Steve, I know you'll get this one) I've grown even more decripit and useless! Yay!

*sigh*

I'll just go off into this corner and die, shall I?

Anyway, Linda, Julia, Mimmie, Steph and I met up on a Saturday to jointly celebrate both Linda's birthday and mine. But what was to be done? The cinemas were bereft of quality viewing (NB - this was before Pride and Prejudice opened) and we were at a loss. Bowling? For a lark, I say, "hey, why not karaoke?" and am horrified when they take me seriously (honestly, don't you hate when that happens?) and soon we are on our way to Echo Karaoke in the middle of Chinatown.

Chaos ensued.

By which I mean, we spent six hours at the Karaoke place, screeching our lungs out. :D To be entirely fair, I was the only one screeching; Linda, Julia and Steph were remarkably tuneful, while Mimmie (oh, wise, sage, most august Mimmie!) refused to sing at all. In any case, it was a delightful time, despite my incessant mike-hogging and yowling. We only stopped because the place was closing, and also towards the end, my vocal cords were tap-dancing in an attempt to get me to shut up. Oddly enough, the next day, I was still in possession of my voice, though attempts to sing in Church failed miserably.

Before that, though, the frater and I went to see Serenity. For those five of you who've been living under a rock (heeey! what's it like down there?) Serenity is the movie continuation of Joss Whedon's untimely cancelled TV show, Firefly. The movie is pretty damn awesome and the fact that it did poorly at the boxoffice is, I think, a damning indictment of the tastes of moviegoers in North America today. I mean, you know the universe is fundamentally unfair when the Scooby-doo movie gets a sequel (wtf? seriously, wtf?), and this movie tanked. Anyway, if you get a chance and it's still playing at a theatre near you; you really ought to watch it - it's different, daring and pretty gorram entertaining.

Really, really want to watch Pride & Prejudice, but alack, have no one to see it with me. It's really odd how none of my female friends here have read the book. (Hem, I'm going to assume you have?) I mean, this is quite possibly my favourite book ever, and yet I am surrounded by people who have never read this seminal text! My anthro prof over the summer, Ivan Kalmar, pinpointed this book as the ancestor of all those romance novels in which Guy meets Girl, they hate each other and then fall in love and roll around in haystacks, or whatever it was people did before the internet. Its TV descendants include tropes such as "Will They Won't They" and the niftily named "Slap Slap Kiss." What's particularly funny to me is how guys recoil utterly from the idea of watching this movie. To wit:

Guy: I want to see Pride and Prejudice this weekend.
Me: *goggling in shock*
Guy: It doesn't seem to be playing at any of the big theatres downtown
Me: *even more shock*
Guy: Yeah, my girlfriend wants to see it, not me.
Me: Ah.
Guy: Yeah.
Me: All is made clear.

I don't think there'll be the same paucity of companions when I go to see Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. I was dismayed at first to read that there had been significant cuts to the novel, but my fears have been assuaged - they left the ferret scene in! How awesome is that? The amazing bouncing ferret is in!!!

*ahem*

must be off,

Yours distractedly,

Sharon