Never Eat Crow - Part II

When the dove flew back onto the ark, wasn't it carrying an olive branch? I don't remember anything about a finger. And I still seem to have all of mine.

So Twig was back. Now what?

We resigned ourselves to more bird poop inspired masterpieces everywhere.

The backyard chicken coop was still housing a couple of tired out old hens. We decided they might enjoy a fine retirement out at my mom and step-dad's place. They only laid an egg every month or so, the hens not the folks, and mom liked watching them peck around. Red Feathers and Chicken Little would be happy there and that would open up the hen house for a pigeon to live in.

It was hard for Bo to say good-bye to Chicken Little. Daughter and hen shared a special bond. Bo had stepped on Chicken Little's leg when Little was just a peep and the bone had snapped in two. We popsicle-sticked it into a cast and Bo carried the baby invalid around so long, C.L. would lay on her back in Bo's arms and stick her feet straight up in the air every time she was picked up.

We hated to see them leave, too, and tried to make it work with all three, but the hens had a flapping fit every time Twig came into the hen house. Somebody had to move out and Twig had already proven he was not taking part in the Pigeon Relocation Program.

The move was made and, with hardly a ruffled feather, the hens settled in to their new country home. Twig now had the joint to himself. We would open the door to the coop and give him a little fly around during the day. He was never hard to lure back in. All it took was food. He was a man pigeon. What can I say.

During one particular week he was gone - a lot. We began to think he'd broadened his horizons and might be moving on. But then he was back, with luggage. We noticed a little red haired girl pigeon our Charlie Brown was enamored with. She hung out on the periphery and wasn't the least interested in human contact. Twig flew in and out of his cage a hundred times and got down on the ground inside pretending to eat. He pecked and fluffed and cooed and tried, in every way, to convince her the coast was clear. She was not a believer.

Every day the courtship was the same with Twig trying to entice her into his bachelor pad. She would watch him and tip forward, touching her beak to the fence. She looked like a teapot being poured out and that's what we began to call her: Teapot. An unfortunate side-effect to all this was that the Modern Art Bird Poop Museum was growing in its display. What we had tried to eliminate was now expanding. It was in everyone's interest to arrange these nuptials - and fast.

We set out the choicest morsels for the marriage feast. Twig did his part by flying back and forth between Teapot and the supper table. We began to see signs of weakening. She would now fly down to the ground and walk around the outside the coop. We knew our move required cat-like reflexes and a coordinated effort the second she stepped far enough in to slam the gate shut.

For two days she hung around at the threshold and then, as hunger won out, she flew to a perch just inside. The Wild Man seized his opportunity, rushed in, and slammed the door on their future. Teapot went ballistic. Twig was thrilled. Let the honeymoon begin! But an appropriate marriage had to take place first.

You have never seen courtship until you've watched one pigeon applying her lipstick and the other one slickin' down his feathers with hair gel. Pigeons invented the term "Billing and Cooing." There is dancin', yee-hawin', bowing to your partner, and more struttin' than models on a runway. Teapot was a goner and seemed to forget she was now in captivity. She willingly became a slave to love. And her trust wasn't misplaced. Twig attended to her every need.

It wasn't long before she was sitting most of the time. And then I noticed her out pecking and stretching and Twig was sitting. I knew nothing about pigeon parenting but it's very progressive. Their time on the nest was shared equally. And when Twiglet was born (his sibling didn't make it) they tended and fed him together. It turns out pigeons are much like crows. They don't launch their babies until the babies are indistinguishable from the parents in size. It was nearly disgusting to see these poor parents trying to shove food down a bird throat large enough for them to crawl into. It was more reminiscent of "Jaws."

Finally, he ate on his own and Twig and Teapot left for a Bermuda vacation. It didn't pay off, though, because ten minutes later they were sitting again. Two babies were born out of that misspent time-off but they weren't long for this world. JoJo, our Border Collie/McNab was absolutely fascinated with their squawking and flapping and, in a moment of total dog abandon, dug under the edge of the coop and had squab for dinner. There was great dismay and chastisement from the kids and me. (I think Grizzly was cheering for the dog. He couldn't figure out what possible benefit their could be to pigeon replication.) To JoJo's credit, she did her best to look like she felt bad about it. She never really pulled it off.

With just the three birds we decided against adding to the flock and collected eggs when they showed up. And a few years later, before we left for an extended vacation, we relocated them all out to the grandparents' place. The old hens were still kickin' out there but the coop was so huge they barely noticed a few birds flying around. And containment kept Twig from flying home again. He hadn't been free at our house for quite sometime due to his artwork and this coop was big enough to contain a tree. Life was good but Twig passed on eventually and Twiglet married his mother. It became a Greek tragedy.

I told you keeping crows was illegal and now you know why - they turn into demented pigeons. Those Fish and Game people know what they're doing and next time, I'm listening.

Copyright 2009

10,000 A.B. and Other Fascinations

Two months ago I (meaning Bo) added a counter to my blog. It was extremely addictive watching it click and tick. Today it turned over the 10,000 mark! So it is now officially 10,000 A.B. - After Blog (really after blog began minus two months but that whole thing - A.B.B.M.T.M. - would look ridiculous so I'll just use A.B. because it serves the purpose and looks right and capitalizes on the whole history thing and oh, really, nevermind.) Let's just say I'm going with it.

And let's just also say that I find this terribly exciting and loads of fun!

Now, I have also added a "StumbleUpon" feature which I in no way understand but which somehow gives me more visibility in the blog world, hence, may, in theory, bring in more readers. The same is true for "Digg" which I actually do understand a little more. You, my dear readers, can access Digg by clicking on the button and recommeding this site or a post you like and that, in theory, may bring others in to read it and raises my rankings. You do have to write a little comment, I think, which may put some of you off. I don't blame you. Only go there if you really want to.

And I now have lots more people following me on Twitter and most of them I've never heard of so I am completely baffled as to what they like about me or my boring Twitter posts. Twitter example from today: "Am doing Myers Briggs personality tests with both kids and for my husband in his absence. Not sure why husband and I are not both in jail for mutual murder of one another. Wait. How would that work?" I guess this level of analysis is attracting them. It seems one would not be able to proceed in life without this valuable input. I am flattered. But stymied.'

More "Twig" story tomorrow!

A REALLY BIG P.S.

Please keep praying for Stellan (see picture to the right of this post). He is truly in need. You can click on the picture and read the latest. He is being flown to Boston for treatment and the details are available on their site. My mother's heart just aches for him and his parents as they wait and watch. Thank you for your prayers.

Never Eat Crow - A Critter Tale

I think I've had one of every animal pictured here. Maybe two of the polar bears.

I am a collector of all things furry, feathered, flying, creeping, purring, and barking. Taming my urges to acquire all of God's creatures has been hard-earned.

Grizzly used to bring home every stray anything, hand it to me to save, and then gripe endlessly about its existence in our home. Like the time at work he pulled four tiny kittens out of a pipe that was about to be flooded. The progenitor was nowhere to be seen. Naturally, I became the mama to the tottering, eyes barely opening, mewling felines.

"We'll find homes for them," he announced to me, two-year-old Wild Man, and six-year-old Bo. Yeah. That'll work.

Let's see.....we'll all be mamas since there isn't one. And that means we'll hover over them every minute, feed them nearly on the hour, feel them snuggle in the crooks of our necks for warmth while sucking on our ear lobes, and when they're hail and hearty a month from now, off they'll go.

That might have been feasible if he'd brought home hyenas. Not so much with four purring fluff balls.

Names had to be given of course. We were consumed with Beatrix Potter at the time so two of them became "Tom Kitten," and "Jemima Puddle Cat." The others just "Tucker" and "Bess" because we liked the names. Two tabby striped boys, two all white girls.

In our family almost all names get morphed. We can't help it. It might even be a syndrome they haven't named yet. The kids have vacillated between despising us for it and gleefully participating. Recently, they have begun to show signs of irreversible infection.

For instance, "Tom" became "Tommy." No big deal. Then "Tombo Combo" because one of our local hole-in-the-wall hamburger joints had a menu item by that name. (Former owner was named Tom. You don't need to know this so of course I'm telling you anyway.) Then Tommy developed an intestinal problem which rendered him sulphuric and socially unacceptable. Consequently, we dubbed him "Tombo Combo Dropped a Little Bomb-bo." And on and on it went.

"Jemima Puddle Cat" became "Jemima" which became "Mime-urs" but is spelled "Mimers." Which looks like it should be pronounced Mimm-ers. Nothing makes much sense. I just call her "Stewy." Yes, there's an explanation for that, too, but it can wait.

Bess and Tucker, strangely enough, managed to hang on to their original monikers most of the time. JoJo, however, who entered the fray at roughly the same time, developed approximately 35 names. I'm telling you, it's a strange condition and we probably need medication.

But this story wasn't about cats or dogs, believe it or not, or our odd naming affliction. This story was supposed to be about birds. I have no idea what happened.

I meant to tell you about the day Grizzly brought me a baby crow.

He was the biggest, most helpless looking baby. And such a dark gray he was nearly black.

I had always wanted a crow. You rarely see babies because the parents are so intensely protective, the fledglings don't leave the nest until they are nearly grown. And you can teach crows to talk. Technically, you're not supposed to keep them as pets. But if one flies right into your arms, what are you supposed to do? I know what I did, having rehabilitated more than my share of wild critters. I checked the Internet for what to feed him and how best to get him to eat. I even made a mock crow head out of plastic tweezers and a glove and poked food down his throat. He thrived. He grew. He made strange noises.

Every day I gave him flying lessons by holding onto his feet and making him flap. He loved it. He was the UGLIEST thing I have nearly ever seen. And he STANK. Our is it stunk? He smelled bad. But he was ours. I hoped to set him free and find that he wanted to live around our yard. I envisioned him calling out words to us much as a previous rescue, "Hope," the mocking bird, learned to imitate the toads and would croak from the tree tops. I envisioned him swooping in for visits. What I didn't envision was his transformation into a pigeon.

I looked at him one day and wondered why he wasn't black anymore. He was getting lighter and his beak was looking decidedly freakish for a crow. Stripes started forming down his wings. I don't know when it dawned on me but I do remember staring at him one day and saying, "That's no crow." It was Bo who piped up and said, "He looks like a pigeon."

"A PIGEON?" I exclaimed, protesting. Surely, in all of God's green earth I wasn't raising a pigeon and thinking it was a crow.

"Yeah, Mommy. That's a pigeon! Isn't he beautiful?"

"Well, maybe, for a pigeon," I replied, "but he's a pretty ugly crow."


It dawned on me I'd been feeding him the wrong diet. He couldn't have cared less. He was huge.

Since there was nothing to be done but finish his ground school pilot's work, I kept up the lessons. My goal was to teach him to fly......AWAY. One pigeon turns into a herd of pigeons, or a grove, or a quorum. Something.

Fully feathered out and completely ready to launch, he was actually beautiful. We had grown quite attached to him and dubbed him "Twig." He knew his name and began to make lovely sounds when he landed. He was making regular tours around the backyard now and we expected to find that he had gone for good nearly any day, off in search of a flock of his own. But instead, he seemed quite content to stay with us and perch on any surface where he could land. And the closer to the back door the better. If we left it open he would walk right in.

In case you were ever in doubt about this, pigeons poop. A LOT. Soon our ladder, patio table, garden fence, etc. were being christened in lovely white splashes reminiscent of grotesque modern art paintings and equally as welcome. We attempted to shoo him out past our yard. He was undeterred. He belonged to us even though we had at least 300 other pigeons he could have joined at anytime, living a mere 1/4 mile away in an old, abandoned winery tower. Life was good with us. And so we felt his relocation might need a boost. Perhaps he should live somewhere farther away where he could still have human contact.

The perfect place dawned on us. A huge park fifteen miles north with lakes and trees and, best of all, people who came regularly to feed ducks, geese, and pigeons. He would be in his element. He would find a wife. He would go on to create a family tree. With more twigs on it.

With sadness, but a sense of anticipation, we dropped Twig into a cardboard box and closed the lid lightly. We had to stop at the bank on the way and, not wanting to leave him in a hot car, took him into the bank with us. The Wild Man, being six-years-old and not yet known for his judgment, began to worry that Twig couldn't breathe well. So he opened the box. In the bank. Twig popped up his head to decide which teller should receive his deposit. He spread his wings for flight just at the moment we all noticed him. We forced him to make an emergency landing and returned him to the terminal. Disaster averted. On to the park.

As we approached a little lake surrounded by trees we decided this was our spot. We stroked his soft feathers one last time. We assured him birds were thriving all around him. We told him about his romantic possibilities. But the kids cried anyway. They worried he wouldn't know what to do. They were sure he'd starve.

We set him down on the ground. He made no attempt to fly away and merely walked around dejectedly. Bo burst into tears. And then, all at once, he flew to the top of the highest tree and simply sat there, looking lost. This wasn't the comforting parting I had planned. I wiped faces and noses and said the reassuring things mommies say. There was no happy way out of this but I tried to reassure them Twig would adjust.

I headed toward home with a heavy heart. Would he adjust? Had I condemned him to starvation, deprivation, annihilation? I tried to put it out of my mind, distract the kids, and get our errands done.

By the time we got home I sat said children at the schoolroom desk and set their work out before them. The day was beautiful and I threw open the windows and doors. It seemed a little quiet in the backyard not hearing Twig's fluttering coos as he flew about and my heart accused me with a tight pang. I hoped the kids weren't feeling the same way but I figured they were. We had grown so used to his sounds.

Suddenly, I heard a familiar whoosh and coo. I stopped in my tracks and snapped my head toward the back door. Of course, there could be no way it was Twig. I hoped the kids hadn't heard it. Girzzly had already threatened to relocate Twig to Pismo Beach, 150 miles away, and I had laughed him off quite sure 15 miles was enough. But maybe Twig had spread the word before he left and now another pigeon was discovering the gravy train. I rushed to the back door. So did the kids. Yep, they'd heard it.

"Is that Twig?!" they shouted.

I looked to the patio table. And sure enough, sitting there plump, pretty, and pleased with himself was Twig. "Made it!," he seemed to say. "Where's my ladder? I really gotta go."

The kids were elated, naturally. This meant Twig simply had to live with us because in his God-given bird brain, this was home, and he'd proven he could find it from anywhere. The place he knew and the place he loved. There had to be another answer. We would discover it. But in the meantime, what could we do but say, "Welcome home, Twig! You're amazing! How in the heck did you DO that?" and, oh yeah, "Dad's gonna kill us!"


To Be Continued....


Copyright 2009

Meet the Dog Mother and Maker of the Cake!

Look at our Kaylee Bean! She is mother to "Molly," my four-legged fan and the baker extraordinaire of Bo's birthday cake! Just look at this beauty! And notice the cake, too, while you're at it.

There you go, Tatersmama. Someone in the vicinity of the cake had a brain, even if it wasn't me. :-)

Four Legged Followers - Are YOU one of us?

If one of your followers has four legs, can't you count that as TWO followers?

This is Molly. She is the exhuberant, goofy puppy owned by my dear friends, the McCrackens. More specificially, she is their daughter, Kaylee's, puppy. And she wants to do everything Kaylee does. And one thing Kaylee does regularly is read my posting and visit my blog. Kaylee says this:

"Molly loves your blog, too. :-)

She always jumps onto my lap if she's let inside and I'm on the computer.

This time, I was looking at your blog and when she saw what I was looking at she was enamored. :-) She.....couldn't take her eyes of it. :-p (so to speak)

I love you Auntie Robynn <3"

And in case you can't tell, Molly has her nose pressed up right against my profile picture. Now THAT's an adoring fan. Just how many of you press YOUR nose right up against my picture each time you log on? I'll bet thirty or LESS. So there you go.

Don't you think Molly deserves to have a little picture of her own and become a full follower with all rights? I'm voting yes. I'd like to have your picture up there too, Molly, so I can press MY nose against it.

And to the McCrackens (who are not only our dear long-term friends, but Tim is our pastor as well) may I say a public THANK YOU for having my orphan daughter and me into your home yesterday for Easter.

Our guys hit the mountains for camping and weren't back by birthday/Easter Sunday. So poor pitiful Bo and I felt appropriately sorry for ourselves and intended to go for full wallowing in said pity, but the McCrackens wouldn't let us. They invited us over, fed us a delicious dinner, and Kaylee even made the most BEAUTIFUL vintage cake with softly draped frosting and tiny baby tea roses. You couldn't have ordered a cake more whimsical and delightful from the best confectioner. We felt LOVED. And then we looked at photos - for twelve minutes - (an inside joke) and laughed at the most ludicrous stories until I thought I would collapse on the floor in a puddle of jello. What's the old saying? "We like those we talk with but we LOVE those we laugh with." Or something like that. But it is true.

What a fun, and loving, day. Another VERY happy memory for my happy memory Easter file!

And speaking of pressing your nose against the computer screen, are you following me by any chance and I'm the only one who doesn't know it? If so, would you consider clicking the little "Follow" button above the photos entitled "The Crazy People Who Like Me" and become an official part of the gang around here? I promise I won't make you comment but it will be far easier to do so, should you have something you want to say. You know I'm always pushing onward and upward and would love to hit 150. Can it be done? Let's see!

I have a contest coming up, too. Come join the reindeer games and don't allow yourself to be marginalized for another minute.

Copyright 2009

Easter, I LOVE You. Your Friend, Robynn

Tomorrow is Easter. And it always brings memories flooding in. Happy ones. I don't remember anything bad ever happening on Easter.

Our home was broken and not in a way marked simply by divorce. There was so much wrong it would never be righted. But there were also moments when the gears of life clicked into place with a steady, smooth sound; the kind of sound you hear when a roller coaster climbs its ascents and you get to lean back, catch your breath, and listen to the rhythmic ticking before the next plummeting rush.

Easter was always an ascent day. And our little white clapboard Baptist church was the anchor that held me fast. It was a constant for me in a teetering world. Most of the people who showed up on Sunday, or for special events, weren't the same people living life in the world the rest of the week. They put on their Sunday best. And I loved to lose myself in the perfection of it. I was unable to discern duplicity. It would be years before I would watch many of the congregants go down in flames, devastate the innocent, or walk away from the faith. I knew little, acknowledged less, and was happy for it while I was there.

Children have a marvelous way of compartmentalizing. And life got locked outside the big double doors of the church. MIne was a world of tight bodices and full, calico skirts filled with the perfume of being freshly dried in the sun. Safe skirts. Skirts I could hide behind when people spoke to me; a bastion to peer around and retreat into.

And on Easter, our hands were afforded the luxury of silky smooth cotton gloves, stitched with delicious raised seams that followed each finger. I don't remember a defining word spoken from the pulpit but my finger would follow the road map of those seams while the preacher delivered. And when I clapped my hands together it gave a sound like very distant muffled thunder. The crisp report my hands usually provided was gone and I was left with this enticingly muted percussion.

Most Sundays I occupied myself with careful examination of my mother's fingernails during the sermon. I occasionally grew too twitchy and fidgety. That would be followed by the brisk walk of shame down the center aisle and past the watching faces, as my mother hauled me behind the church for a sound spanking. She worried very much that people would think she was a bad mother for having children who did not sit still or were uncontrolled. The irony of trying to sit still on a stinging bottom occupied my ponderings. But I never got a spanking on Easter.

Our mornings always began in the dark, reaching for Easter baskets set out the night before. It was positively magical to think you could set this empty receptacle beside your bed and then wake up to find it filled with candy, and maybe that coveted box containing a hollow, chocolate rabbit. The childish holy grail. We would dress quickly in warm clothing and pile into the car, three children clutching Easter baskets in a death grip, and drive through the darkness many miles to a river.

Grandma Miller, as the whole congregation called her, lived on bottom land near the banks of the San Joaquin river, in a little ramshackle house accessed by a long winding, dirt road. Age-weary and sagging barbed wire fences flanked both sides as we motored slowly down, car lights piercing the dust the cars kicked up. On Easter Sundays she offered up her land and her grove of Eucalyptus trees at the river's edge as a backdrop for our Sunrise Service. We could count on doughnuts and hot chocolate to fortify and warm us after the preaching. Until then we blew warm breath into our cupped hands and stamped our feet. An old wooden picnic table that claimed its permanent residence among the towering forest, guarded our food and Easter baskets as we piled them on top of it. These had to come along for shared excitement with other lucky souls.

As we gathered by the river, a quiet hymn or two would usher in the early light. Rocks and bushes and fine details on the leaves would slowly creep into view. The quiet traveling of the water and the occasional snap of a twig lulled me in the reverent morning air. The preacher would tell the story, once again, of finding the empty tomb where they had laid the body of Jesus and about his victory over death. I would rock on my heels and try to focus. The sun would peek over the edge of the horizon and send a million glittering crystals dancing down the river on top of the water. That cocoon of beauty and wonder would stay with me for life and be inextricably woven in with the Resurrection.

When we headed for home the outfitting would begin. New dresses, frilly socks (for me), gloves and hats, white patent leather shoes. Some attempt would be made to comb my wild and unruly hair and force it into submission, if only for a few hours. Curly, wispy hair always framed my face and drove my mother to distraction. My hair made her insane. (Well, there were a few other contributing factors.) But I loved all the pomp and circumstance and felt oh-so-beautiful for a day. One Easter, when I was eight, my mother even made us all matching dresses. (My brother opted out.) I was so excited I refused to go to bed the night before Easter when she was still sewing at the dining room table. Dinner was understandably late and I gave up and fell asleep with my face in my empty plate. I slept great and loved looking like everything was perfect the next day.

In reality, the two years before had been filled with a remarriage and annulment (he was a homosexual seeking cover), more violence, a fourteen-year-old brother sent to juvenile hall, a desperately troubled sister, three more moves, three changes of schools, loss of pets and friends, and more sexual abuse. But this was a space between those things and there were other spaces like this, and they were magnificent. And I lived for them.

And somehow the truth and beauty of what was real in the meaning of Easter permeated my heart. And it removed me and saved me from the craziness of my world. I developed some pretty strange ideas about God and I had been taught to be afraid of him. But through it all the truth burrowed itself into my being, and clung to me, and refused to be uprooted by the evidence of distortion around me. Years later it would reveal itself to me having shed the cocoon of twistedness. And I spread my wings and soared with it.

And at Easter I am once again reminded of the gladness and hope this day always brought me as a child. I keep it like a treasure and am grateful beyond description for the hope it offered, for my rebirth in Christ, for children to love, nurture and learn from, and for a heart of joy.

Happy Easter, my dear friends. May you be filled with wonder and blessings afresh when the sun peeks over your horizon tomorrow morning and brings you the promise of Easter.

With Love,

Robynn

This isn't me but the period is the same, except for the short, straight hair we look identical, and the photo just captured a certain feel I loved.

Copyright 2009

"Goddess" for a Day!

Remember this photo?

Well, guess what it earned me? A "Goddess" designation. That's right. You are looking at an "Apron Goddess." You may now be appropriately awed. I am disproportionately odd. But I'm still the feature of the day at The Apron Goddesses.

This is a site I have greatly enjoyed. It's usually about very talented people who wear and make the cutest aprons in the world. I have no talent. So I wondered why I was hanging out there. I have been known to throw away whole patterns still firmly pinned to scattered pieces of fabric. A dear seamstress friend, Crystal, told me it was okay to do this (as a last ditch measure and in an attempt to free myself from sewing guilt) if things went horribly south and the project couldn't be saved. Uh, well, that's all I needed to hear.

Sewing machines become possessed in my presence.

Do you realize there is a device on a modern sewing machine that allows you to adjust the tension? It doesn't make any difference. I turn it all the way down and I'm still a nervous wreck. My bobbins leap out of their holders. I've broken more needles than I ever actually sewed with. The thread pile in one square inch of material, when I'm done attempting a straight line of stitching, is large enough for a small bird to live in, give birth, and raise a family.

I did manage to turn out a few sleeveless dresses for Bo when she was around two. Small successes frequently cause me brain damage. Consequently, I got this horrible idea I could make mySELF a dress. Naturally, with "Bingo Wings," as Ladybird World Mother calls them, it wasn't gonna be sleeveless. Yes, Virginia, I truly believed with my giftedness at the sewing machine, I could actually make a dress with arm coverings. How is it you can cut out a sleeve (which is supposed to attach to the body of a dress) but it is several feet larger around than the hole it's supposed to fit into? After several attempts to marry this mismatch, I gave the whole ratty pile a proper burial in the garbage bin and kicked it to the curb. Then I put my feet up, grabbed a latte, and I might have switched on Martha Stewart just to swear at her. I'd like to think I didn't. I prefer to believe only the best about myself and am rarely influenced by facts.

But the lovely folks over at The Apron Goddesses are not given to these fits of temper and irrationality. They actually LIKE to sew. And they are always making the cutest things. All I do is buy well. And I BOUGHT my oh-so-cute plastic apron. And it is highly functional, required no sewing on my part and, therefore, keeps me from swearing. If I ever did. Which I'm SURE is unlikely being the sweet, gentle, demure darling I am.

Please go have a look. People over there sell, too, if you're looking for something in particular. You can also find where I bought my apron. Don't mention any of my bad qualities, please. They might not let me hang out with them anymore.

Copyright 2009