Friday, September 29, 2006

Second Glance? No, It Was Actually Three...

Okay so here's the deal, I broke up with M. last night and I'm too emotionally exhausted to rehash it here. I'm trying my darndest to get through the rest of my day and do stunningly spectacular work on my new assignments for my architecture classes. Everything else is going on the back burner till I'm done.

But I did want to share this little nugget of my day because (other than the weepy phone call to my best friend this morning where he held my hand through the phone) this made me feel a whole lot better about myself:

After two excruciatingly long calls dealing with various work related issues, I had to take a breather and go release some anger and frustration before I blew up at the next customer to have the unfortunate luck to get me on the phone. I walked around the building and up the back stairs. As I walked down the long hallway, two men came out of one of the other offices ahead of me. They appeared to be delivery men as they were both dressed in the same casual uniform. One of the men looked my way as they moved in front of me. I didn't think anything of it. As they got to the end of the hallway (about 10 steps ahead of me) and needed to turn right into the elevator lobby, he turned and looked again at me with a much longer glance, I might add. It made me smile like a Cheshire cat as soon as he was out of sight. And I thought that was the end, but no. In fact as I rounded the same turn into the elevator lobby, he and his partner were waiting for the elevator and he looked at me yet again as he was stepping inside. This was a full on stare. Like the bug-eyed stare you see in cartoons. Yeah, that kinda stare! I held his gaze confidently, smiled slightly and looked down. I had to pass by the elevator to get to my office and I didn’t want him to see my face, (as the bloodshot eyes and potentially snot-crusted nose from crying are just not all that sexy), but he was actually holding the elevator door open for me. OMG. That just totally blew my mind in addition to making me feel like a freaking beauty queen.

So I didn't really question as to whether I'd be okay after this breakup or whether I would fall apart all over again. Instinctively I know I'll be just fine because I am more resilient (that which does not kill us...) than ever before. Things don’t bounce off of me, but that’s okay. I’m learning better ways to deal with my setbacks and obstacles. But today’s interaction is just one more sign that I will be just fine. Mmm-hmm. Apparently when I’m ready to date again, I will have lots and lots of options.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Yes, That Effect Was Intentional

© 2006 Punkin Dunkin Productions

Monday, September 25, 2006

Sometimes You're the Bug, Sometimes You're the Windshield...

Today, the windshield kicked my sorry invertebrated ass. If I go home and dream of towering windshield wipers and bloody spike covered grills, I'm going to be very upset. Monday's usually suck but with the return of school today, it was a double whammy and I feel it in every single stinkin' muscle. I think my hair hurts! LOL! Is that even possible?

It was a rough first day back at school and I mistakenly thought I was all prepared for this jarring event! Since it happens three times a year, you'd think that one would get used to it by now, but no, it seems as if every year just gets more and more hectic. I got plenty of sleep last night, a good breakfast, my backpack filled with the essentials- lip gloss, hairspray, and a compact mirror. :) No, it was actually filled with the usual back to school items. I also had my schedule, my parking permit application, and my financial aid documents. I was all set. I was ready for a brand new term of all architecture classes (high five, cause I love me some architecture all the time).

I only had one class today (which looks to be superb). But it was the administrative issues that got me frazzled. There was a slight snafu with my financial aid and I spent 45 minutes sorting it out at the office (of which, 40 minutes and 36 seconds were spent waiting in line, of course). Then, because my aid isn't dispersed for two weeks, I asked for a short term loan. But first I had to make sure I was eligible. After speaking to counselor #2, I was then sent to another department to get the loan. But counselor #3 doesn't actually disperse the cash, so it was on to counselor #4 before the sweaty green stuff was placed in my outstretched and begging hands. Then I made the mistake of deciding to get books with that money. Is there a sexy plus size outfit and smashing shoes somewhere crying alone tonight because I didn't get them instead, I wonder?

The bookstore had the usual first day back look about it- hot and sweaty bodies bumping into each other, freshman dragging their 3 feet high book piles along the floor to the cashiers, everyone grumbling about the inflated prices of the texts and trying to discern the difference between last year's edition and this year's without ripping off the sacred (you think I’m joking but I’m really not) plastic wrap, coupons being handed out for 20% off in the bookstore with the adorable 8 pt. text warning of: Sorry students, offer not valid on textbooks! Seriously, who can I give the middle finger to now?

But the assault on the senses was not over yet. Not even close folks. Stepped outside in the glaring sunlight (fall was here last week and now this week it's bikini weather, what the hell??) and I had to move quickly if I wanted to get past the 3, yes 3, newspaper vendors trying to get me to subscribe to their paper. I've never had the Register-Guard guy single me out, but I swear if he ever does, I will be ready with a couple of answers to why I don't read that republican slanted piece of trash. When you don't acknowledge gay and lesbian wedding or birth announcements, you are not a paper that I would even use to line the kitty litter box with!! Then there are the merry band of musicians playing for cash and the homeless wandering in and out of the crowds asking for spare change. In addition, there are the canvassers (Are you registered to vote? Would you like to make a difference in student politics? Do you need some exciting and flashy cigarette coupons?)

By the time I made it to my car, which was on the other side of campus incidentally, I had blisters on both feet from the brand new shoes that looked positively adorable on the department store shelf, a splitting headache and some sort of acid reflux thing going on. I was late to work so I pampered myself (cause really, what’s five more minutes if you’re that late?) and bought a small milkshake from Dairy Queen for a late addition to my lunch (milk is supposed to help soothe a tummy, right?). I strolled into work, trying to stay alert for the remaining 5 1/2 hours of my shift. I started the day at freaking 7am! My eyes are bloodshot. My new syllabi are screaming for review, I need to practice violin tonight, and alls I want now is a hot bath, a relaxing massage, and a week off.


Are finals here, yet?

Friday, September 22, 2006

Look Out, He's a Jumper!

© 2006 Punkin Dunkin Productions

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

Like It's 72 Degrees In My Head...All...The...Time!

Cisco: Okay, I was driving around last night in my sixty-two thousand dollar car. And I was trying to think of a name for the drug, then it hit me.

Don Roritor: The name?

Cisco: No a bird, it hit my windshield. When that happened, I got depressed.

Natalie: Not you, Cisco!

Cisco: Yeah, even me. But as soon as I got depressed, I got undepressed. 'Cause as I was cleaning the gleaming guts of that bird off my car, I thought of a name for the drug - Gleemonex. The slogan - Gleemonex makes it feel like it seventy-two degrees in your head... all... the... time!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------




Yes, I have officially gone down the medicating route. And thanks to Kids in the Hall, I can poke fun at it. I decided I needed as much help as possible to get through the school year without a major backslide or relapse (Relapse? Does that mean you're not depressed anymore?) Well, no, I guess I'm not. I've been feeling better now for almost a month. I feel more calm and resilient than any other time this year. I feel capable of handling my issues. But returning to school next week is a little frightening. I need to do well and I can't afford any more bad semesters. I want to be able to concentrate on the task at hand (get that freakin' degree) and move on to the next phase of my life. I'm desperate enough to try anything I can to feel better and stay that way.

I'm not really a fan of medication but I have seen how it has helped other family members and the rational side of my brain understands the imbalance that's going on. The happy serotonin and attention grabbing norepinephrine chemicals are not getting to their destinations in my sad little brain. They need a little boost to connect over. I get that. I just need to make the other irrational side understand that the pills are not making ME different, they are helping me get back to the original state I should be in. It's tough remembering that when things are going well again and I think I have everything under control so the pills are pitched because they don't seem to be factor in my improvement. I don't want this long term. I am accepting that I may need this for awhile but it's not forever. I won't always need this kind of help. Just right now.

72 degrees... here I come!

Monday, September 18, 2006

Coins

© 2006 Punkin Dunkin Productions


Yes, I did take this one on the sly. What was I gonna do? Ask the woman if I could take a picture of her behind??

Sunday, September 17, 2006

Willamette Pass in September. What Year, I'm Not Entirely Sure.


© 2006 Punkin Dunkin Productions

Saturday, September 09, 2006

A Totally Real Conversation With The Right Foot at 8:30 This Morning:

Right Foot: “I refuse to wear heels today. I just simply refuse! You practically killed me yesterday with those damn tan Candies!”

Me: “Calm down. It’s Saturday. We don’t need to look so formal. Although, I do have that hair appointment at the hoity-toity salon later today with those blond Barbie dolls hair stylists that like to judge anyone who walks through the door…” My eyes dart to the long line of shoes on the floor along my bedroom wall.

Right Foot: “Don’t even think about it! We were practically limping to the car outside of Costco last night! Don’t you remember the pain? See here.” She lifts up her middle toe to me. “See, I have a blister! Ouchie!” She wails and rubs her toes against the left pant leg.

Left Foot, shoving right foot off her leg: “I feel great! I don’t know what her problem is! Bring on the baddest heel you got, baby!” She flexes and wiggles her toes one at a time and then again all together.

Me, thinking for a moment: “Tell you what, we’ll wear the black Chinese wedges today so we don’t look like a total slob at the salon and then the rest of the weekend is either barefoot or soft sandals. Is it a deal?”

Right Foot mumbles something softly.

Me: "I didn’t hear that. You need to buck up and be a team player today, missy!”

Right Foot: “Yeah, fine. Whatever. Geez, you lose 70 pounds and then you think you can fit into anything- including smaller shoes! I'd rather pig out and go back to the ballet flats then teeter on these damn heels all the time! Just be sure to burn those Candies. I don’t ever want to get my toes stuck in them again!”

Me: “Whatever you say.”

Thank goodness she couldn’t see behind our back. My fingers had crossed themselves in solidarity with me. They understand the importance of a fashionable shoe. Of course, they don’t wear anything but good fitting jewelry so they really can’t sympathize.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Does The Enchilada I Had Before Bedtime Have Anything To Do With This?

Another strange dream last night: I seemed to have an out of body experience while I was dreaming. I was in two places at once, watching myself act out the things I was writing down in a short story. During the dream, I suddenly woke up in a big white bed in a bedroom that looked like something out of those hipster catalogs (that yuppies always buy from and congratulate each other when they agree on some plastic table made in Sweden that they both thought was useful and some inane expression of postmodern crappy art) with white sheets, black furniture and eggshell paint on the walls. I could see a colorful outdoor scene through the large picture window overlooking the side yard of the house (the window was so large that the world beyond looked like one of those cheesy full wall wallpapers you could buy 25 years ago at home improvement stores. You could order any number of tropical scenes, woodland scenes, and winter wonderland views. The sight out my window looked so fake and so larger than life that I almost wondered if I could peel it off the wall!). It was a misty fall morning and there was a thin layer of fog in the air. But the oak trees on the property were turning their seasonal colors and dropping their leaves all over the green grass. The vivid colors were in stark and strange contrast to the crisp whiteness of the room.

For some reason, I woke up in the dream frightened and sure that something bad had happened but I couldn’t quite remember what. My memory was terribly foggy and only an impression remained that I had of a bad accident or tragedy that occurred recently. The memory sat somewhere in my mind’s peripheral vision- just off center- and I struggled to remember what occurred. I rolled over and went to touch my husband, seeing him sleeping soundly albeit with a scowl on his face. I reached out to smooth his wrinkled forehead but I found myself stopping just short of touching him. I suddenly remembered we were fighting about something- what it was, again I couldn’t recall- and he was in the middle of giving me the silent treatment for a few days so I turned my back to him and sighed. I then immediately remembered the newborn across the hall. I listened for her light sounds from the baby monitor before relaxing again. Everyone was still asleep and all was well, or good enough for the moment, so I drifted back into sleep surrounded by a huge white down comforter. Meanwhile, the other me was watching this scene end as she typed away at her word processor.

Later on, I woke up around midday to an empty bed and an empty feeling in the house. The fog had burned off and the sun was shining down on the neighborhood. I could see all sorts of activity through the massive picture window- the paperboy delivering the early afternoon paper, some senior neighbors taking their dogs for walks, several joggers, and lawn maintenance workers buzzing about blowing the leaves into neat little rows along the curb. Outside, everything seemed normal. But inside the house, there seemed to be something hanging in the air, threatening to puncture my perfect life at any moment. I found that I couldn’t breathe for if I did, I wouldn’t be sucking in air because there wasn’t any around me. It was as if I was sitting in my bed, in my home, in my life but it was all contained in a vacuum where time stood still and nothing moved. It felt as if layers and layers of minutes and hours were accumulating in the room with me, weighing everything down. Yet I couldn't remember anything more than the few minutes I was awake in the early morning and this afternoon.

I realized I couldn’t hear the baby and I tried to hurry and rise out of bed as well as release myself from the fog I had carried over from my dreamless and feverish sleep of the day. My body ached immensely. I assumed at first that it was due to recently giving birth but the pain was immense. Every step radiated sparks of fire up my legs through my large belly and to my chest where my heart struggled to keep beating. Several times my heart seemed to skip a few beats and it left me struggling to gasp for air. I made it to the master bedroom door after several minutes of single step walking. My other half, writing the story from somewhere outside the room but still able to see the action as if above my head from a thought bubble, described the slow movements as similar to the moonwalks that astronauts take. I was slow, shaky and I took rather giant goofy steps to get through the pain and the vacuum feeling in the room.

For some reason, once I made it to doorway, I forgot about the baby. The air here had been restored somewhat and I could breathe much easier. Unfortunately, my memory had not returned. I turned and went into the bathroom, sensing something wasn’t quite right. The room was decorated the way I remembered- lots of yellows and blues in the happy curtains and the fluffy toilet seat cover. Bright towels and knickknacks sat on the vanity. But my personal effects were all missing. I yanked open the drawers and vanity mirror to find only my husband’s toiletries staring back at me. My toothbrush and toothpaste (he hates the taste of mint in the morning so I get mint and he gets cinnamon), hairbrushes and curlers, all my makeup... it was all gone! I freaked out and started yelling. It was then that I noticed the toilet seat up and I glanced down at the bowl. There at the bottom sat several of my items. The shiny medal from the tweezers and the scissors glinted in the light as if to wink at me like inanimate objects do in Disney movies or those dippy romantic comedies where the heroine learns a valuable lesson but still gets her man in the end. “Hi! We’re down here!” they seemed to say, “And we know a secret you don’t know!” CHING! I became enraged at the sight of those things glinting up at me and I plunged my hand in the toilet to retrieve them (um, can we say yuck?!?). Before I had a chance to wrap my fingers around any of the items, I heard the baby cry again. The task at hand suddenly seemed insignificant and I ran off to find the baby.

The baby’s room was dark and quiet. I was instantly soothed as I entered but the moment didn’t last for the baby let out a howl and I rushed to her crib. Unfortunately the new nanny (that I didn’t remember hiring or even agreeing to hire in the first place!) brushed past me and scooped up my daughter before I had a chance to touch her. She quickly moved out of range for me to touch my child, gripping my daughter tightly in her arms and all I was left with was the sweet scent of my baby’s skin lingering around the crib. I ran after the nanny, yelling at her for interfering and she coolly shot back at me “This is what I was hired to do, ma’am.” She placed the baby in a bassinet and went to prepare a bottle.

I looked down at my little girl, happy to finally have her right in front of me, and I attempted to catch her attention as she glanced wide-eyed around the room with her big eyes. She paid me no attention. In fact, she seemed to look right through me. “Is this normal for newborns to ignore the faces of other adults?” I asked the nanny. “Oh, perhaps she is still adjusting to everything, ma’am.” I was a little disappointed so I bent forward, intending to pick up my daughter, but my attention was instead directed towards the rush of blood to my head and my rapid heart beat, threatening to cause me to faint to the floor. The nanny noticed this and stepped between me and my daughter. “You need to go lay down.” She motioned with a flick of her wrist. “Shoo! Shoo!” And with that, she turned and grabbed my daughter from her bassinet and waltzed into the kitchen, perfectly capable of taking care of the baby that I couldn’t even manage to pick up. I went back to bed and cried myself to sleep. My other self watched the scene unfold and typed away as the light faded from the scene.

Five o’clock rolled around and with it the shadows on the wall in the bedroom from the streetlights signaled an early nightfall. Winter would be here before I knew it. I had spent all afternoon in bed, sleeping without dreaming (or remembering my dreams). I lay in bed, too depressed to get up. I was living a life where I was not needed, where I could barely move from room to room, it hardly seemed worth it to even sit up in bed and pretend that I was alert. Suddenly I heard my husband’s car pull into the garage and I snapped out of the fog I wallowed in. He was home. He would be sympathetic, apologetic and he would make it all better!

I forced myself out of bed, fighting through the excruciating pains and I made my way to the bedroom door. I actually had to wave my hands in front of me, trying to force the heavy air out of my way. It had thickened considerably since the morning. I called out to my husband and got no answer back. Once outside of the bedroom, I again moved more quickly, as if time speeded back up to normal, and I hurried to the kitchen where I could hear him having dinner with the nanny and our daughter. I rounded the corner and found him sitting on one side of the baby and the nanny on the other. They looked as if they belonged that way. I also noticed no plate had been set out for me and no extra chair was available. At that point, my mood turned sour. I asked my husband angrily why he did not come see how I was doing when he first got home. He ignored me. I asked him again, this time louder, and waved my hand in front of his face. He gave no indication that he’d seen me or heard me. I became irate and yelled at the top of my lungs, “What is your problem? Why are you ignoring me?!? Is this have to do with our fight or what??!” Everyone at the table continued eating and chatting away as if everything was normal. I looked at the nanny and she was trying her best to ignore me but I caught her in the act of starting right at me and blinking repeatedly as if to say “you don’t exist and I’ll prove it!

I slammed my hand on the table. Instantly I felt the sheer pain in my wrist and elbow. My heartbeat sped up again and I could hear a roar, a rush of noise, growing in my ears. But no one reacted to the blow on the table, no dishes shook, and no sound echoed back at me. My husband got up and cleared the table, but not after patting the baby on the head and thanking the nanny for dinner. She waited until he was out of ear shot and then she turned and stared at me.

“What is going on here?” I cried.

“Don’t you remember anything?” She asked, getting up from the table and coming around to my side.

“No! No! I don’t know!” I sputtered.

“Think! Think back!” She whispered in my ear. “Where were you yesterday? What were you doing?”

I tried to focus on her words but they started to melt away as soon as she got them out of her mouth. All I could hear was the roar of blood rushing to my brain and a loud whistle-like sound in my ears. “Where…are…you…supposed…to…be…?” Everything was slowing down and her words made less and less sense to me. The other me, (watching from below?) was engrossed in her typing, her fingers flying faster and faster and the scene began to disintegrate before me. It took everything I had to try and focus on remembering. What was I doing here? Why did I feel like I didn’t belong?

The nanny blew into my ear "Remember!" She whispered quietly.

And suddenly I did.

I was dead. I had died weeks ago just after my daughter was born. I never got the chance to hold her. She never got to feel my warmth because they whisked her out of the room just as I lost consciousness. My husband, distraught with grief, hired this nanny to take care of the baby who would never know her mother. But this was no ordinary nanny and she didn’t happen upon his want ad by chance. She sought our family out because she could still sense my confused spirit around. She was there to help the family but more importantly to help me move on.

All of this came rushing to me as my ear drums burst. The life I thought I was leading was melting away before my very eyes. The dishes on the table cracked and melted into the wood, the painting on the wall dripped down as if the oils had been painted directly onto the surface, the floor gave way to darkness and I tried to cling to the floorboards as I found myself sucked out from where I had been standing.

As the dream quickly faded and the real me started to wake up, all I could hear was one word repeated again and again.

“Emily”

The other me, writing her novel, chose that word to be the title.

And then I woke up.
---------------------------------------------

(Some thoughts: this dream, as many dreams so often do, seemed to happen only in a matter of seconds. But I found myself spending quite a while today trying to recall it all and remember it accurately.

This dream seems to be a combination of the movie "The Others" and a short story by Stephen King called "That Feeling You Can Only Say in French What it is". Both stories had elements that found their way into my dream.

I found the toilet scene to be quite funny once I reflected on it. Everything was going down the crapper.

Oh yeah, I had just fallen asleep after another fight with Mr. Big. And that's exactly how I felt. It was all being flushed down the toilet. The whole relationship.

I really did have an Amy’s Enchilada for dinner. But I ate late and went to bed early. I think that combination was partly to blame for this crazy dream. Because the Amy’s organic line of foods has always been good to me before, I can’t and don’t want to really blame the dream on my food. I love Amy’s too much to stop eating it.

But maybe I’ll try and eat at least a few hours before bedtime tonight! )

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Tell Me Why Again?

(There haven’t been a whole lot of photographs or any meaty updates. I’ve found myself putting out fires that burn in the relationship every few days and I’m just emotionally exhausted)

So anyone who has spoken to me in the last three months knows that since starting to date Mr. Big, I have had some very rocky moments. Some of these moments have to do with my depression (which is improving btw) but some of these moments have to do with Mr. Big’s and my clashing of personalities and our failures of communication (yes, I have other choice words for these episodes but since everyone visits here, I will spare you from the more hateful speech).

The last couple of therapy meetings I have had have centered on fights that happen in my relationship. Everything else is moving along slow and mostly smooth. I am working on a lot of issues- learning to keep my house clean, my stress level low, my sanity intact, etc.. But the one area where I feel like I am constantly failing is in my relationship with Mr. Big. The therapist says that it’s interesting sometimes when we choose the people we chose and why we do so. She asks me if I think there is a reason for picking him at this point in my life. She points out all the things that I’ve had to face since our first date:

-the fact that a “catch” on campus would ask someone like me out and what that says about me or what that may say about him
-my body issues (although this is something that comes up with every relationship)
-speaking up for myself and learning to be assertive when the person I am relating to doesn’t know how to yield to me- EVER.
-communication issues (utilizing those blasted “I” statements and trying not to place blame when that’s really what I want to do in the first place)
-dealing with childish behavior that is unwarranted and sometimes unrelenting
-learning to recognize my own behaviors and trying to change the negative responses that I have
-trying to find the middle ground instead of demanding to always be validated for being right
-assessing my needs appropriately and asking for what I want or need
-trying to be an influence of change rather than demanding it


It all adds up to some heavy stuff. And so often I am overwhelmed and tired by the drama that pops up around every corner. I can’t seem to get through and get to some honest and sincere communication. I told my therapist that I feel like he is the rock and I am the jello and even though I am trying to change and evolve myself, I can’t do that when I constantly feel like I’m being squished and crushed under the weight that he exerts. It’s extremely frustrating and it leaves me crying myself to sleep, pulling my hair out, and alternatively laughing like a madman at the sheer insanity of it all.

I am in no way blameless. Not even close. Anyone who has ever lived with me or spent some serious time around me knows how nutty I can be. I hate being wrong and even more so I hate admitting it. I can be childish and play the “If you don’t know what’s wrong then I’m not going to tell you game” along with the best (or in this case, worst) of them. I can pout pretty well and get my way when I really want it. Not only did I go through the terrible two’s but they spilled over into the threes, ten’s, fifteen’s and I suspect next year will be known as the “terrible thirty’s” as well. ;)

Mr. Big and I seem to be in a power struggle. We both want to be right. We both want the other to give in to us. We both turn a little childish when we don’t get what we want. Take today for instance. He wanted me to leave a key for him to come over and check the net in the afternoon and I was going to do it if I got to spend time with him. He didn’t respond to my request and I ended up going into work without dropping off the key. He got mad, I got madder at him and it escalated from there. He tells me he’ll never ever ask me for another favor and that he can’t depend on me. I tell him now he knows how I feel when he won’t set up dates with me or clue me into his plans. He tells me over and over that he won’t ask me again for anything else and I feel worse and worse as the texting conversation continues. But I took my therapist’s advice and decided not to get completely caught up in the fight. I told him that he was making me feel bad and I needed time off from being made to feel like the bad guy for not completing one request. I’ve stopped responding to his texts and I’m just going to breathe deep and go back to what I was doing.

But tell me again, why do I continue to love someone who can make it so difficult to be lovable? When things are good between us, man oh man are they spectacular. But when things are bad, they are absolutely horrid. I just can’t take the extremes. I don’t want to live in extremes. They give me ulcers and headaches and they leave me emotionally drained. I can’t figure out why I continue to go back time and time again. I’m not normally a person who considers herself unworthy enough to put up with abuse of any kind. So why do I feel so bruised here, and more importantly, why have I not said enough is enough?

I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. And I’m having a hard time finding the answer.

Studies of Dew Drops on a Coastal Mountain Range






© 2006 Punkin Dunkin Productions

Friday, September 01, 2006

3M WOJ8 Seen in the Rear View Mirror Spells Hilarious!

The Smoking Gun has a series of customer complaint letters to the NY DMV (titled URPL8SUX) about vanity plates that spell vulgar and offensive items. I think it’s kind of strange that many of these got thru with no objection. My favorite one that gave me pause (and a giggle) was this one. Classic, just classic. Was I offended? No, just thought it was ingenious. The guy gets bonus points for bravery and for slipping one by.


Too bad I can't get a plate that says BITEMEBUSH.

Let Your Inner Kindergartner Go Wild!

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