Sunday, September 23, 2012

Everyone poops, even Godzilla


We all have our own poop stories. There I said it, threw it out there for the majority of you to judge and criticize. But the rest of you, you know who you are, you are actually recollecting about you last good poop tale, wishing you had a blog so you could write about it. You also know what it is to iPoop, what it means to drop your kids off "at the pool" and still spit milk through your nose over a good fart joke.

But one thing that we all have in common, both story tellers and "little miss prissy" is that NO ONE likes to poop at the beach. That poop fact is listed somewhere between #5 Fear of sitting on an airplane toilet and #45 something about counting the leaves before wiping in the woods. However, sometimes you have to make exceptions to the rule because one's intestines can only take so much Orion beer, cheesy pizza washed down with a gallon water jug filled with red wine for dessert. Your wine soaked gut don't give a shit about your poop rules.

So this particular day, after an internal battle between wishing it away and making some hard choices, I politely excused myself from the beach and head towards the 90 degree, public restroom, which may as well been the powder room of Hades himself. Surely you didn't think I went in the water did you?

Side note: The Japanese are very creative with their small spaces. Most inside space is comprised of different levels, for this reason you may step down into a bathroom or up into a toilet stall. This was the case on this wickedly hot Saturday afternoon.

So I lock myself into the 3 ft by 9 foot standing coffin, I mean stall, and sit upon my porcelain "musical" throne and get to business. After five minutes I begin to wrap up and I hear the giggling of little Japanese children. They are playing in the cool sink water, washing their hands and having a great time out of the sun, into the shade and now in my kingdom. I think to myself, surely, I can wait them out, and become immediately frustrated that I didn't take advantage of the anonymity given to me just one minute earlier. But they don't leave and now I hear adults. Three minutes or sixty-five pass and now I am covered in sweat and slowly working myself into a mild panic.

I had to get out now and fast, forget time was of the essence. If I didn't get out and soon, I saw a premonition of me fast forward ten minutes slumped over a singing Japanese toilet in a public restroom with my swim skirt to my knees and my ridiculously huge sunhat dangling partway in the throne. I couldn't wait any longer.

So I "rupture" out of the stall and took one giant leap/ or trip towards the floor (remember the step). The children first see me, and then unfortunately smell me. I swear they froze in terror, mid-wash, with soap on their little hands. Can you imagine...giant blonde women falling out of what they thought was an empty stall, red faced with bug-like sunglasses, obnoxious straw hat and smelling of sweat and last night's Orion.

I didn't know whether to say hello or to ROAR.

Monday, August 20, 2012

I have fallen off the wagon... (repost from February 2010)

As I try to get my shit in gear with school starting, P90X (yes I am going there) and a couple of new jobs. I am bringing back some old posts because that is what the "pro" bloggers, right? Right! Enjoy.

Is it good thing to "fall off the wagon", I never know, because being on the wagon seems pretty smart, I mean it is the fastest way right? I also have trouble when someone says something fell through. Is that good or bad. If your plans fell through does that mean that they are happening or not. I guess it is bad, like if your dog fell through the ice that would pretty much suck. So maybe it is bad that plans fell through. Oh, never mind.

Life has been pretty busy, which is a good thing. My vanilla life is starting to get some colored sprinkles, not enough for a "mix-in" but enough for a child's sundae. But with the sprinkles, I start to neglect the ole' blogo. Which is why I fell off the wagon, or on the wagon, see it all comes full circle. So today I have a segment called having fun with flappers.

Some background...my girlfriends and I had a conversation once about what era would be suit our body type. My friend has a tiny waste so we always said she would be a good "fit" for the fifties, in her cinched waste and poodle skirt glory. Me, on the other hand, I seem to carry my weight in the middle but I have thin legs...so the seventies would be my era, complete with babydoll short dresses, think Goldie Hawn on Laugh In. However, I totally forgot about the 20s and while the 70s would be groovy, I think being a flapper would be the Cat's Meow. The flapper was an icon, challenging notions about gender roles and demanding the same social freedoms as men. Drinking, smoking, bootlegging they always looked like they were having a ball. Not to mention the too cute fringe short dresses, nothing masks a belly than some black fringe. Of course, this would have only been cool until 1928, I then would have to get the hell out of dodge because after that things pretty much went into the crapper.

So today I share some photos (found on the Internet) these are not my photos. But check out how much fun these ladies were having. And since we don't know what they are saying I have captioned each picture with some of my recent email conversations with my girls, sorry bitches some things are too funny not to share.

"They are like a size 2 or 4 and have fake ta-ta's, so they look amazing, I wish I had the balls for fake ones. Damn all my plastic phobias!"

Those bitches (oops I mean ladies) better not give me shit. I am not happy on this low carb shit and I may tell them all to go suck it. No more whining, they either step up or I will tell how it is. I swear, who gives that much crap about Bunco, for the love of Pete, get a life.

"Is there such a thing as "too tacky" at a chili cook-off? I guess I could just black out a tooth, but I think the tequila shots would just wash it off."

"And you know what I could do with that extra $20.53 I'd rake in! Woo-hoo, Dollar General baby, here I come...they sell Boones Farm right?"

"So now they are shitting their pants because they don't know what to do with all the hookers. And they weren't young hot hookers, they were older worn out hookers."

"I think passing it off as a fart is your best bet and avoid the incline sit-ups in the future! If it makes you feel any better I sharted on Saturday while driving the fam around...I'm not joking at all...actual had to throw the panties away shart...It was pretty humiliating, but after eating healthy, that is what BK onion rings did to me."

"OK girls, Plan B, we may want to get a jump on developing those Leopard Printed Depends...it looks like we all may need them earlier than later."

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Water for Elephants



I am on a roll... three days, three posts; can I get a hoo hoo? Wait that totally does not translate in text. That is what we call our girlie parts. So no, not a hoo hoo, how bout..."Can I get a woo hoo?" Hmmm, ok, moment is gone.

I would love to contribute my enthusiasm in writing again to my three PM mocha choco latte(s). But embarrassingly I hate to admit that a part of my brain has been awaken or maybe "aroused" after reading the 50 Shades Trilogy last week, wait, yes, that is my subconscious is leaning over her bifocals and she has agreed. Don't worry I am not posting again about 50 Shades again but if you missed it, you can find it here.

Anyhoo... hoo hoo, ha never mind. Elephants!

Elephants! I have told this version of the story to a couple of my close friends. Because when an acquaintance asks you, how was your Thailand trip? Did I hear you rode elephants? You don't reply, "Yes, it was a once in a lifetime experience, especially the part when I got very "personal" with the elephants.

Let me back track. It was two or so years ago, husband was hunting with the TV remote and we landed on the Travel Channel. They were featuring Thailand and in Thailand, the Four Seasons Tented Camp/ Elephant Sanctuary in Chang Mai. By day you ride the elephants bareback, bathe them, basically mono and mono- you and the wild beast sharing a afternoon (cue music montage here). Then by night you are whisked away to the tree tops of Chang Mai, where you sleep in beautiful white canopy tents, on plush king size pillow top beds, being hand fed lobster thermidor by your man-servant in a heated personal jacuzzi. Mentally, I made a spot for this on my "Top five places I would like to go before I die list" which was wedged between my list of "Top five celebrities I am allowed to cheat with" and "last dinner request" should I ever have to make one.

Two years later, I find myself in Thailand, southern Thailand, so unfortunately Four Seasons Tented Camp is but a distance dream. But spending the day with the elephants is a reality. At the retired Elephant Camp our guide asks halfway through the day, "who wants to bathe the elephants?" My hand goes up faster than green grass goes through a goose. (or bamboo through an elephant)

This-is-freakin-gonna-happen!!

Up I go, I am sitting, now riding bareback...legs straddled around the elephant's thick neck and her little stubby hairs are poking into my thighs. The mahout (trainer) is seated behind me. I am in shorts and barefoot, "you may get your feet wet," they say. She is a giant of a girl and once she starts gradually moving forward I instantly realize that if she starts running for the hills I shit-out-of-luck. BUT I keep repeating to myself, "once in a lifetime." She is gentle as she galumphs towards the water, which from my vantage point looks to be an average sized green pond. There are six of us "bathing." As it reaches our turn to enter, my girl hesitates for a brief minute before heading down the clay slope. Once in she glides gracefully through the water and my toes dangle alongside her neck, the water is luke warm, this is nice.

I enjoy the journey for about thirty seconds before I first hear, then see them Ba-loomp...ba-loomp...ba-loomp, ba-loomp, ba-loomp. Oh...my...gawd, I am completely surrounded by floating, basketball sized elephant dung balls from the other elephants. If you add the mahouts (one per elephant, the riders and elephants) we are outnumbered three to one by the amount of floating shit in this... what I first thought was medium pond is now a very small toilet. They have formed a small army I am sure if I listen closely I can hear one of the dung leaders playing a tiny trumpet, CHARGE!!

"Once in a lifetime, I murmur quietly, and anyway it is just my toes, no harm." Karma followed me into the lake that day, because right after I said that, what I thought was the elephant tripping was really the elephant DIVING. Hold on, I- got- a- swimmer!!! I look down and her entire head is UNDER THE WATER, only her trunk is out to breathe and I am now boob deep "GLIDING GRACEFULLY" THROUGH AN ARMY OF BASKETBALL SIZED ELEPHANT SHIT...if she goes any further under I will have to doggie paddle out of this son of a bitch. I think to myself I would much rather be stranded in the jungles of Thailand on the back of a rogue elephant surviving on grub worms and sugar cane...I turn to look for my mahout? He is standing on the elephant's back, laughing. This guy lives in a mud-house with three walls, downwind from elephant farm and shares a bed with his chickens, but even he will not get into the poop infested parasitic waters.

"Once in a lifetime, I say this time much louder."

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Ticket to China, a Chinese Chicken...

My very favorite shots taken these last couple of months while living abroad. Brought to you by retro camera and the Far East...sponsored by the letters U.S.A.F



Shanghai, China


Bangkok, Thailand


Sunable Seawall, Okinawa Japan


Spice Market, Bangkok, Thailand


Hotel Avila, Okinawa Japan

Tiger Temple, Kanchanburi, Thailand

Renaissance Okinawa


Okuma Beach, Japan

Monday, June 4, 2012

You're Not Eating Bon-Bons Again...?


What to do, what to do? As I await the impending typhoon, I seem to have some time to kill. Hills and valleys man, hills and valleys. So don't judge, it is not like I am walled up in my castle eating bon-bons while my maid-servants work diligently around me, well not this week at least. As I write this as I am consuming may fair share of water as both the washer and the dishwasher are running...so put your pants on the chores are getting done.

But I am left with some idle time, so I can:

1. Drive over to the Grand Mer Hotel and ride the elevator, learn how to say "did you hear that" in Japanese as I travel up and down in-between floors.

2. Stand on the intersection of five corners and make the beeping bird sound indicating to others that it is safe to cross the street.

3. Start chorography for a planned flash mob.

4. Buy a shit-ton of legos and make a life-size C3-PO

5. Create a profile for Christian Grey in FaceBook and have him stalk me.

6. Purchase a piano online and have it shipped.

7. Create a new alphabet.

8. Hide in the dressing rooms at the closest store and record people having conversations with their selves. You know you do this.

9. Make a video of my "Aha" moment and send it to Oprah.

10. Purchase all of the equipment to start my own haberdashery.

11. Speak in Shakespeare sonnets for 24 hours.

12. Make enough food to fill a bakery: beautiful cupcakes, scrumptious cookies, giant cakes, fluffy breads...take pictures of it then throw it all away (well except the cupcakes)

13. Eat all white food for one whole day. Or all green.

14. Purchase the deal of the day on HSN, no.. matter.. what.. it.. is.

15. Pick a fight with someone at the Post Office.


Seriously Why Can't I?

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Erotic Connections...

(Picture Source: kellyvictoriakucher)

"Christian! Please!"

Those two words will go down in history as the erotic groan heard across the world in 2012. Well, more likely whispered in coffee shops over fat-free lattes and murmured in frozen food aisles among women wearing stilettos AND those wearing sensible shoes.

Who would have thought that America's bestselling "Erotic Fiction" 50 Shades of Grey would be able to bring so many different shades of women together. Young and old, classy and garish, kinky and prudish...we all definitely love our jean wearing, helicopter flying, messy hair Dom, Christian Grey.

Sure we realize our hunky CEO is a fictional character and he is right now playing a game of Texas Hold 'Em bare-chested with Edward Cullen, Mr. D'Arcy, Jaime Frazier (Outlander) and Noah Calhoun (The Notebook), laughing at us all. But that doesn't stop us, we keep reading and when we are finished with all three books after five days of ignored children, burnt dinners and pouting husbands, we try to push them onto someone else. But not before conducting a thorough Google search to see who is rumored to be cast in the movie; we want to see the eyes of the man that is going to swing the flogger. We have tasted the rain in Seattle for five wonderful days feeling naïve, embarrassed, aroused, and at times confused (thank you Wikipedia).

So kudos to you E.L James, not only for the burnt dinners...but for adding some spice in the bedrooms of America, for the increased awareness of the different uses of a necktie, the resurgence of Wikipedia and personally being able to have something in common with a woman who wears sensible shoes.

Monday, May 21, 2012

Do You See Happy?




How often do you stop, think and say out loud, "I am happy."

Just a random, life is great moment that sidles up quietly and tap, tap, taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. It can happen in your car, standing at the ATM, or enjoying a cold corona and lime on your back porch. Always unexpected but truly appreciated, and all you want to do with that moment is tell someone about it without sounding like a pompous ass or like you have been drinking wine secretly in your diet coke can.

I seem to be having those moments more and more. (Disclaimer: Karma if you are reading, please move on, I am sure you have more important points to make).

Does appreciation for the small things come with age? Does it rear its head only when there is enough free time to receive it and recognize it? Or does it come with comfort? Good health? Money? Good friends?

Enquiring minds want to know...

Thursday, March 15, 2012

A Japanese Pen Pal



It was my goal when I moved to Japan to not only meet but interact and maybe even become pen pals after I am gone with some local Okinawans.

I always regretted that with the exception of a couple of pub owners who knew me by "The girl that orders Snakebites" I never really MET any Brits while being stationed in England for three years. It was time to make some repercussions...this assignment I was going to do it right. So armed with some YEN and a map I joined the Okinawa Women's Club in September.

Fast forward a couple of months, and I am having one of those "holy shit" moments. Friday afternoon, I look around MY house, I am surrounded by 15 Japanese women aged 25-65 yrs. (speaking little English) all crammed in my dining room dancing to a Zumba video while Beto (founder of Zumba) grinds and shakes what his mama gave him for all to see and offend. They laugh I blush, they drink coffee from my Keurig finding it fascinating and give great bear hugs when the day is over.

Now if I can only learn how to write in Japanese.

Seriously, Why Can't I?

Best Friend's Advice...



My best girl told me today that extraordinary things just don’t happen in my life...
instead I have an extraordinary way I look at ordinary things.

Well said, my friend well said.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

A Warrior



I had the privilege of attending a Warrior's Banquet this past weekend. Dressed in my best camo and armed with a cold draft beer it didn't take long to realize that we were not at "just another party." As I looked around the wonderfully decorated hanger, team spirit oozing from it's steel walls, it hit me...these people, my friends, my husbands' colleagues and their troops, wives and families, they were responsible for more than my freedom, but they were responsible for protecting my life and the lives of my kids. And while I like to say that I never forget what the military stands for, living on a military base it is apparent everywhere you turn from the ID checks to the AFN commercials, I couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of pride. I can only describe it as the pride a mother would have for her child. I also felt great honor, maybe the honor that a sister would feel for her sibling. But more than anything else, I felt sad. Sure we cheered and jeered for those warriors that won awards that night. People blew their horns and shook their noise makers, it was quite obnoxious (ear plug were provided for the weak), but still you couldn't help but notice the heavy hearts weighing about the room. Not only sadness for those that have paid the ultimate price for our freedom and our protection but for those who did return and are now standing in the buffet line, seated at my table, or laughing by the keg. I couldn't help but think, as I make some great memories here on our new base in our new town, overseas...what memories are these "warriors" going home with, what did they bring back from combat? Memories they will never forget. Let us never forget.

Grieve the Warrior, You
By Earl Davis


Every decision made is the result of a choice, sometimes mine, sometimes yours. It was my choice to join. It was your choice what I was to be. God did not make the Warrior, man did. In the life we live, the Warrior is a necessity. It is the responsibility of the Warrior to protect and defend the freedom of others, no matter how high the cost. The color of freedom is red.
Grieve the Warrior, You.

Once a Warrior is made, there is no going back. He is forever changed. It is up to you to honor and respect the Warrior in his transformations. A Warrior has wisdom you will never know, let alone understand. Among Indian tribes of old, only a Warrior could become Chief, and only a Chief could advance to Sage.
Grieve the Warrior, You.

There is a Wall filled with bygone heroes, honored and respected. A virtual Wall exists with four times the names, fallen Warriors that shouldn't be, but driven there by dishonor and disrespect. There are many, many more who are alive, but dead at the same time. You have chosen to put it all behind you. It is past now, so let us forget it, like it never happened. Warriors can't put it down, can't forget because it is still happening to their minds.
Grieve the Warrior, You.

Whatever you think of them, or not think of them, doesn't change a thing. You have made them Warriors and Warrior forever they will be. You see I am a Warrior. No one ever says, "I was" or "I will be", but "I am." I am the price of your freedom. Your world exists because of mine, and mine exist because of yours. Your visions are many and varied, of bright and beautiful things to come. The visions of a Warrior are contained in one _____ A thousand-yard stare.
Never mind, the Warrior will grieve You.

Sunday, February 12, 2012

They Finally Grow Up...

One minute they are throwing a temper tantrum, body hanging half way out the sliding glass door while you have a house full of friends. Blood slowly drains from her tiny fingers and she grabs her hardest to either side of the door jam, head on the lineolum floor inside and legs kicking and sprawled out on the cement outside, she would much rather play outside than come in for dinner.

A blink of an eye- fast forward 8 years and I am on hands and knees helping her to shave her legs in the shower.

How did this happen??? While it is all to easy to make this about me, and fact that I have a daughter old enough to shave, I am barely a grown-up myself. This IS really about my adolescent child, running full speed towards puberty, legs moving in circles like a Scooby Doo cartoon, body still frozen, horrified look on her face. Unfortunately, the body will catch up to those legs and my sweet little Mac will need me to guide her through this akward, self-loathing, self-centered, bossy, hateful, alien stage of life which starts with shaving her legs and ends somewhere around age 18. Some things I will stand firm on others I will give in to. But I could sure use a SchoolHouse Rock video about now..."Lolly, Lolly, Lolly get your puberty here..."

I am sure things will turn out ok, but if you happen to live in the Okinawa area and you see a woman in a FULL BLOWN TEMPER TANTRUM running about, braless and spilling coffee every, screaming at her 11 year old from across her front yard as her daughter crosses the street on her way to school, please tread lightly.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Out and about...

I took these pictures today at the Nikko Avilia Resort here on the island. Who needs a camera when you have a retro camera app on your smartphone?


This chapel was gorgeous as it sat right on the beach, floor to ceiling windows along the back. I would consider renewing my vows in a church like that.


If you work up a thirst while in the fields, never worry, a vending machine is less than 20 feet away. But to find a trash can, nearly impossible.


Up close and personal with a palm.


I thought the colors here on the beach were beautiful. When the sun is out I will definitely go back.


Cherry blossom season. I could dedicate and entire blog to cherry blossoms, love them.


More cherry blossoms.


Dim Sum anyone?


I loved this Greek Goddess, in a Spanish hotel in Okianwa Japan.


A candid moment with his girls.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Underestimated...



Being underestimated... is that the idea of being of less value than you perceive yourself to be or it is being valued less by others than what the market price is for someone like you. I may be a bargain shopper but some things are worth the extra money.

Saturday, January 21, 2012

Wrestling with My Past...



And one night you are on the 5th floor of a 10 story building on the busy Kokusai Street in downtown Naha, Japan standing 20 feet from the squared circle of a wrestling ring, sweating drinking a Cherry Chu-Hi. Wondering, how in the hell did I get here? And who is this Habu Man you speak of?

First, let me explain, I am a fan. 7:05pm Sunday, channel TBS, you could catch me on any given Sunday night from 1981-1985 watching the WWF on the tube with my Dad. We would dine on my favorite meal of fish sticks and apple dumplings (cooked in the convention oven) while we would get lost in the pivotal relationships of good guys: Ted Dibiase and the Junk Yard Dog, versus the fire haired Fabulous Freebirds and their fearless toe head Ric Flair. I would watch with baited breath, because back in the 1980's you know it was real ya'll. Gordon Solie was king and the piledriver could send someone to the hospital. Really, the H-O-S-P-I-T-A-L.

Over the last 30 years (yikes) my love of wrestling may have waned but here I am again in 2012, Okinawa Japan, 7:05pm on a Saturday night, enjoying flying drop kicks and slingshot catapults. I am standing in the sixth row (the last row) of the Okinawa Pro Wrestling stadium screaming in Japanese, for Habu Man (who I get the feeling has been watching lost Freebird tapes) as he whips his opponent with the snake tail that shoots from the top of his mask and hangs down to his knees. Mongoose man's chest is bright red from the markings of the Habu's tail and all I keep thinking to myself is, first what do these guys look like under their masks (are they even Japanese?, I swear I heard someone speaking in with an Aussie accent). And how long will it take for Habu Man to get the three count, because he is definitely NOT going to lose his MWF Nacho Libre belt tonight, we could not be so lucky. My knowledge of wrestling...no matter how many back flips the Mongoose Man served up, that belt was going back to Habu Man--whatever he looked like under his mask.

Life is crazy, you never know where it is going to take you. Things just don't happen, if you want something marvelous you've got to make something marvelous. My marvelous was not only reliving a part of my past but embracing my future and its randomness. Before I left the arena I walked up to Habu Man (someone had brought him an Orion Beer) as he rested I cheered him with my Chu-Hi,
"Kampai."

Seriously, Why Can't I?

Friday, January 13, 2012

When in Rome...

This morning I slowly scuffed my way to the kitchen, trying to fight my self-induced Nyquil hangover, and turned on my Keurig for a cup of hot joe. I open the silverware drawer to grab a spoon...

To find that we now have a SEPARATE slot in our cutlery organizer for...


CHOPSTICKS???

When did this happen? How long was I out? Yes, sure chopsticks, we use them sporadically for our Ramen, Sushi and Cheese uses them for her cereal every now and again (don't ask). But have they really reached their highest potential in our household after only being in Japan for six months, thus earning them their own coveted slot? I'll have to say, they are going up along the likes of some weighty competitors. I mean, I personally would really be pissed if I was a hors d oeuvres fork, or a finely sharpened steak knife. They have been waiting patiently to get out of the "catch all" slot along with the garlic crusher, numerous salad fork/spoon sets and the random wooden spoon that drops in every now and again.
But since I no longer empty the dishwasher, WINNING!!! I guess I can't hate the player.

Or the game, "So When in Rome..."

Monday, January 9, 2012

Live in the Moment

Do not dwell in the past, do not dream of the future, concentrate the mind on the present moment. Buddha

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Because I Try...



So I am going on week two of feeling mis-er-able. Let's just say that Cholraseptic is my bitch and I am seriously considering constructing a pleather leopard tool belt/ medicine holder /fanny pack to wear about my waist, because, fuck it, why bother anyway. Hey there is nothing more convenient a roll of toilet paper secured to your waist. And it just-keeps-getting-better because when I woke up this morning and my left eye was glued shut. If that doesn't buy me a one-way ticket to Snotville, USA than I don't know what does. I am DONE!

So as you can see this weekend was a bust as was last week and I am going on day eight of a "wouldn't wish this on my worse enemy sickness." And although I tried to get out of the house, sporting the "mind over matter" mantra in my head, the overwhelming urge to sit on my couch and watch the same episode of Housewives of Beverly Hills again and again takes over.

At about 4 o'clock on Sunday after a completely busted weekend, Cheese comes to me and asks for a bike ride, the same bike ride I have promised all week, the one where we ride down to Starbucks and share a hot chocolate maybe a piece of cheesecake. Of course, a bike ride being one of the last things I want to do, I ask what her second best thing she could do today would be. She says she would like to go to the store and buy some canned spray cheese.

So I do what any sick, lazy and overly guilty mom would do on a Sunday afternoon, I take her to buy cheese in a can along with a rotisserie chicken for dinner and my third bottle of Nyquil.

Anyway, on our way to the car after purchasing the loot, Cheese skipping the entire time (I swear you would have thought I bought her a new kitten) she opens the can and proceeds to shoots a three inch glob of processed cheese all over my Coach purse.

Cheese-1 Mom-0