Create Your Own Adventure

A few weeks ago I had a weekend free of obligations. No chores, no visits with friends, no meet-up with like-minded writers – simply me and my space. My first reaction was to strip down naked and run around my fledgling apartment bellowing, “WHEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!” The sense of expanding freedom lifted my spirits to where I wanted to flame on and SOAR.

But soar where? Where would I go? What would I do?

Quickly my sense of freedom morphed into a daunting sense of dread. I had to do something, right? I couldn’t have a day free and simply not accomplish anything. Productivity was in order! I needed to embrace that Effort Engine and chug-chug-choo-choo to something wonderful or I’d feel guilty!

Whoa there, Nelly. Who said it had to be productive? Why not just get your ass out of the house?

So I did. For one day I pretended my life was one of those Choose Your Own Adventure books. Want to explore that cave — turn to page 23. Say yes to the handsome man offering you coffee — turn to page 17. Save the dragon from the army horde — turn to page 5. I changed my perspective from Getting Shit Done, to “How many cool experiences can I rack up today?”

I did some journal writing at my favourite coffee shop. I treated myself to an awesome lunch of awesomeness (with bacon!). I walked spontaneously into a salon where they were able to fit me in for a much needed hair cut and then I walked out thirty minutes later lighter on my feet. I knitted in public. When the day was slowly drawing to a close, I found myself at the neighborhood pub having a pint and a devilish dessert (regardless of the fact I didn’t finish my dinner. What would mother think??). Jotting some last thoughts in my journal, a bell went off in my head.

*Ding!*

“Create your own adventure,” I wrote, “don’t wait for someone to offer you one.”

How amazingly simple. So simple, we tend to forget it in this age of RIGHT THE FUCK NOW and TWEET ALL THE THINGS and FB POKE ALL THE FRIENDS. The best way to connect to the World is to disconnect. I had conversations with real people in real reality. I interacted. I watched birds bouncing around for muffin crumbs. I laughed with a nearby toddler. I smiled at the sun. I thanked the Gods for a truly satisfying day and the delicious stout I was drinking.

Lately that has become my motto. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if it’s partly due to one of my best friends dying back in October and then having my 42nd birthday. One could call it a Mid-Life Crisis, but I don’t believe it’s anything that shallow. I’m not dating a younger man or driving suped up classic muscle car. I believe the PTB (Powers That Be) are reminding me how fucking lucky I am to have a body that works, a mind that’s still sharp, a heart that’s strong, and a sense of child-like wonder and play that has not diminished over the years. Lift is too short to simply sit around and wait for someone to offer you an amazing experience. You have the power to create it all on your own.

So go do it.

Spooktacular Bliss

As a child, I wanted Morticia and Gomez Addams to be my parents. How cool would it be to live in such an extraordinary house with your own mad scientist lab, unusual creatures, and live a life where every day was Halloween? Nothing you did could be strange enough. Nothing you tried would ever be considered ridiculous, ludicrous, or unrealistic. You would always be encouraged to go farther, to not hold yourself back, to just go balls-to-wall freaky and be appreciated for it.

*happy sigh*

Don’t get me wrong. I love my parents very much. Yes, they are human beings with issues, but overall they were damn fine parents and I am one of few who can attest I had a happy childhood.

But….as a kid we all fantasized about having a different life. Waking up one day and realizing you’re a princess or your father is Superman or your parents are super-secret agents. My fantasy was that I was an Addams. An Addams that dressed in GAP clothes, collected comic books, wrote horror stories at the age of 11, played with Legos and Barbies, and looked like your average, extra tall girl.

I suppose, to coin a phrase from Seanan McGuire, I am a Pumpkin Girl. One who likes to be pretty and carry a chainsaw. Or in my case, feel pretty and squeal with delight at how cute Alien is. Who doesn’t like Lovecraft, but adores Gaiman. Who dresses in jeans and high heeled boots, but wishes she lived in a Tim Burton movie.

The thought trigger behind this declaration is on the full moon of this month, I experienced a perfect piece of time. You’ve had them. A moment that is so intricate and perfect and naturally choreographed, no one could have been able to orchestrate it any better if they tried. Well, every October on the Labyrinth Moon, a few friends and I have continued a tradition I started years ago, the tradition of pathworking in a corn maze. Very simple, yet very powerful.

We did our customary prayers before entering the maze and with no help from the Hint Cards, we traversed the maze by our intuition and our goddess alone. There have been years of mud, rain, and clear skies. This year was the most amazing ever. There was a thin cloud cover to keep the heat in, but the moon’s rays illuminated the clouds like a low burning candle. The maze was well kept and the corn was very, very high; leaning and stretching like bony fingers from the ground. Next door was the pricier, and more popular, “Haunted Maze” where one could hear the teenage girls scream, the teenage boys guffaw, and the chainsaws….well…..chainsaw. Theme music from movies like “The Omen”, “Jaws” and “Halloween” crept effortlessly over the corn fields like dark silk. A nearby oak tree, massive in its age and wisdom, had thick, webby fog.

My friend and I took in the atmosphere and took our time walking the different paths. Occasionally we would hear an ominous gong sound within the heart of the maze. I put my ear close to the corn, “Do they have speakers in this maze too? I thought it was just the Haunted one?” The gong ricocheted off the mist and the corn and added an extra touch of spookiness.

Finally, after completing half the maze, we turned left, and were greeted with a straight path that led to a completely open area. I sucked in my breath. Before our eyes, mist was swirling around the tops of the corn. Spirals of movement could be seen and for the first time that evening, we witnessed a thinning of the veil. Swirls danced around. “I think I just saw a fae,” muttered my friend. We slowly stepped into the opening and realized it was in the shape of a heart. We were literally in the heart of the maze. In the center of that heart was a Tibetian bell. On that bell was a sign, “This bell represents your dream. Let others hear your dreams.” So we did. We each struck the bell 3-5 times and our dreams rippled out into the corn field and beyond the veil.

I stopped. I took a moment. Turning slowly round (and then twirling like Julie Andrews) I soaked in the mist, the low hanging fog, the eerie oak tree, the corn marking the boundary of this scared space, and the music…..by the gods I was so full of bliss and glee, I could’ve just popped. Or melted. Or both. I felt like I was in the middle of a Tim Burton movie and that the headless horseman was going to come riding out of the corn any second. Knowing me I would wave hello and duck.

It was a perfect piece of time. A spooktacular bliss that I shall cherish and tuck away with my two other perfect moments:

1. Senior year in high school, homecoming game, Halloween night. The moon was full and before half-time, the game was called off due to the impressive fog bank that rolled in. I remember walking back to the school and not being able to see anything beyond a five foot radius. Yet I could hear everyone else; their voices distorted and echoey as the fog warped reality. I loved every minute of it.

2. July 4th a few years ago in Logan, Ohio. I was visiting friends and the custom was to watch the fireworks being lit in the next county. How do we do that? By going to the highest point in town. And where was that? In a small, very old cemetery where an oak tree named Thor resided. Other people brought lawn chairs, but I opted to politely ask a resident if I may please use his headstone as my seat. He didn’t mind at all. So I sat there. On a headstone, in a cemetery, watching the fireworks as the lightening bugs floated about.

Perfect.

What’s your spooktacular bliss?

Getaway. Get. Away.

I was invited to go camping this holiday weekend with my very cool and very eclectic group of friends. As fun as it has been in the past, this time around my body cringed and my spirit rejected the idea. “No thanks,” I said. It was nothing personal (and they know this), but after spending four days at Beltane between rain showers, down pours, sky breaks, and drizzle, I was officially done with feeling cold and damp.

Besides, my taste for large groups has dwindled as of late.

Rather than waste this holiday weekend stuck at home, it was suggested I house-sit at my good friends house while they camped. Brrrrrrrriiiiiilliant, I say! It would ease their minds knowing someone they trusted was around to keep an eye on the furrkids, plus it would give me a much needed getaway to be ALONE. Just me, myself, and my shiny I.

A chance to stretch my wings and EXHALE.

A cozy abode that doesn’t remind me of home, but is still familiar and comforting. A place where I can let go and not be distracted so I can write, journal, process, and meditate. A weekend retreat for my Soul.

Also, the kick-ass entertainment system, Xbox 360, and Playstation 3 doesn’t hurt a geek girl either.

When I walked through the front door, I unloaded my bag and put away the groceries I purchased. But more importantly, I set up “Introspection Station” on their pub square dining room table. On one end is my laptop and going clockwise are my journals / tarot deck, a mini-shrine to my goddess, and my current knitting projects.

This will NOT be a weekend of distractions (that’s what home is for). No, this will be a working weekend of inner construction (watch out for those chakra pot holes!) and outer exhaling.

Time to rise up.

An End of a Decade

The first birthday card of the year arrived in the mail four days early. My first guess as I reached into the cavernous mail box, fingers searching for the small envelope was, “Ah, must be Mom.”

I was mistaken. Ripping it open right there in the driveway, I was pleasantly surprised to be gifted with a lovely homemade card with beaded accents. Within was “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” stamped in a calming teal ink. Hand-written was, “Best Wishes From The Audubon Society.”

How very, very cool. I’ve only been an official member for less than a month and the kind birding fanatics remembered my birthday. Even before my own mother. *chuckles*

It occurred to me this morning, as I poured my very dark, very rich, and very caffeinated coffee into my Cedars mug, that today is the last day of my 30′s. Not simply the last day of a year, but the final day of a decade.

Whoa.

My pre-java-jolted brain wheeled from the significance of just how much time has past. Ten years of learning, stumbling, growing, hurting, loving, and coming into one’s own. I started my 30th year in pure Wonder Woman fashion — literally. Red, blue, white, and yellow streamers decorated my old apartment as Seasons 1 and 2 of the TV show played in the background. One friend brought a specially made WW cake, while another brought his muchly coveted Bennie Berry Juice. The party was filled with friends from all aspects of my life: childhood, dance club, wiccan, and other. I loved introducing them to each other and sitting back to watch the freaky geek sparks fly. The evening eventually ended up at the EMBERS where my dancing friends partied with me until I was the last one standing.

Thirty feels like so long ago. My third decade was when I became an ordained Priestess, loved three men, and watched my father die of prostate cancer. I nourished fledgling friendships and had two of them crash and burn before the decade was out. I made tons of mistakes, but was also gifted with just as many revelations. I wrote first drafts of four novels. I ballroom danced. I got corporately laid off three times and fired once. Now I am curious where my new career will take hold. I learned it was okay to be honest and to say “No”. I learned who my real friends are. I learned that all the rebirths I’ve done from the ashes is not a punishment but what I am meant to do to be who I am. I gained weight and lost it and gained a little of it back. I grew hips on this once stick-straight body and grew my hair long. I reveled in being a redhead and embraced my inner geek. My sass has grown sharper and my heart stronger. I’ve learned I can be tough when the need calls for it, and be compassionate when others won’t. I’ve learned what I am and what I’m not and have accepted both. All of this in just my third decade of life.

Forty will be awesome. There will be burning, there will be flames, there will be a Firebird spreading her wings; soaring over her old shell as she shines vibrantly in all that she is. And there may even be a margarita or three. Whatever this decade brings, I will not shy from it, I will not cower. I will look it proudly in the eyes and say, “Let’s rock.”

The State of Your Friendly Neighborhood Mutant

Life has been a tad stressful, so my daily blogging and daily photos have had to take a backseat.

My job hunting has intensified as my UI benefits slowly dwindle down to zero. I’ve lost count to how many resumes I’ve submitted with nary a response in return. Fortunately, I did attend “Ignite Portland” last week and made a few connections thanks to a friend, as well as, received a few leads as to who is hiring.

Inside the Bagdad Theatre, location of Ignite Portland 8.

Secondly, my adorable furrkid, Jameson, decided now was the opportune time to develop a nasty case of diarrhea. Two vet visits, two prescriptions, and about $400 later we still do not know exactly what is wrong with him. Popular theories are either an Irritable Bowel Disease or a food allergy. As the meds were screwing with his appetite, the vet recommended two days ago I take him off them. I did. And he wouldn’t eat. Finally, this morning, his hunger overwhelming him, Jameson took to a plate of dry prescription cat food (Green Peas and Rabbit) and started eating again. I am thrilled. Nothing is more nerve wracking than a pet that will not eat.

Thirdly, I’ve been in a bit of funk the past two weeks. Nothing specific, just everything and nothing. When I’m in a funk, my creativity takes a dive and my motivation is full of blah. Jameson feeling better has relieved some of the stress, but I will feel more sure and secure once I find that elusive job.

In the meantime, let me share with you some photos I took in February at the Audubon Society’s Wildlife Care Center Open House. My first venue in volunteering will be this month as I help maintain their sanctuary and hiking trails.

Clickenzee to biggenzee.

Aristophanes, Common Raven

Finnegan, Peregrine Falcon

Julio, Great Horned Owl

Hazel, Spotted Owl, sees what you did there.

Syd, Red Tailed Hawk

Lacey Prayer Shawl

Last week was our Knitting Guild’s first meeting of the new year. As is per their custom, it was time to show off projects which encompassed the theme of 2009: Lace. They had two categories for entry — Novice and Experienced.

“Do they mean our knitting skills in general or are they referring to lace experience?,” I whispered to Suz.

“Lace experience,” she answered.

We both submitted our entries into the Novice category and to my surprise, out of the 80-90 members of the guild, only 30 women participated. I assumed there would be more as Lace was quite the popular technique to learn last year.

Once all the entries were on display it was time for the vote. Neither Suz or I won, but we weren’t expecting to as there were some amazingly GORGEOUS lace creations. Some were very intricate, others used bold displays of colour, and the Novice piece which won was a blanket with pineapples on it. The Experienced winner was a luscious brown lace shawl with beadwork. Stunning.

Finally, they also offered a drawing to those who participated. They wanted folks to feel they had a chance to win something. Three drawings, three prizes. Guess who won the third and final prize? Yup! I was beyond stunned as I approached the front of the room to unwrap the last gift. Out of the tissue paper I pulled out a skein of scrumptious sea green mohair yarn and a scarf lace pattern called “Fallen Feathers”. How perfect! *laughs*

My prayer shawl in full length is roughly 5′ – 5′.5″ feet long.

22/365

Close up of the intricacy.

Even closer, and crappier, shot of the draping effect of the shawl.

All that is left to do is attach tassels and it will be ready for a ritual or festival.

The Henna Experiment

Roughly a month ago, I had discovered the hair colour I used for the past few years had been discontinued. L’OREAL Feria’s Bright Red Copper gave me the intensity and radio-activeness I had desired for years. When it was taken off the shelves because it simply didn’t sell as well as their more “mundane” Power Reds, I went on a search for the perfect replacement.

I Googled, I searched, I inquired, and I sought. Like the Holy Grail of hair colours, I was bound and determined to find it again. Most folks may not understand what the big deal is, but for those of you who colour your fine tresses — you get it. Your hairstyle is a definite marker of who you are. It is the first thing people notice (in my opinion) and it’s a representation of the spirit you possess. There’s a reason why so many former blonds, who went brunette, go back to blond — it suits them. Any other colour feels like one is wearing a business suit two sizes too small.

After a few days into my mission, I found a possibility – HENNA. Henna? I tried Henna over a decade ago and it barely made a reddish dent into my stubborn cowlick hair. The site I visited was Mehandi.com. What caught my eye was not only the intensity of the red produced by their henna, which is a translucent dye, but that it was body henna. Apparently henna marketed for hair is not really 100% henna afterall. Huh.

The next two weeks I read through their forum, jotted down notes, and decided to order a few samples. I concocted mixtures of three different kinds of henna to see which had the dye I desired. Results? Punjabi Prime won by a landslide.

Last week I ordered my 500gms of Punjabi Prime and a dozen plastic gloves. I did some samples on my hair: one batch with water/lemon juice/henna, the other apple juice/henna. Henna is an amazing thing. When one first rinses it out of their hair, all they see is ZOMG BRIGHT ORANGE. Fine for me, I’m used to vibrant colour. Yet over the next one to three days, as it oxidizes, it darkens and reddens. Plus, and THIS part I love, it does not fade. The intensity stays so much so, that every six weeks rather than having to redo my whole head to recapture the brilliantness of it, I merely have to do the roots.

Back to the hair samples — turned out the one in lemon juice gave the henna a more orangey, brassy colour. However, the apple juice sample still gave the coppery colour, but it was more rich and intense.

Last night I took the plunge and mixed my 500gms of Punjabi Prime Henna with 6 -8 cups of apple juice into a bowl. I let it sit overnight, roughly 12 hours so the dye could release, and at 10am this morning, I started applying the paste. It was smooth and creamy like whipped mashed potatoes. And after all the hub bub I read about the smell? I didn’t mind it actually. The coolness of the henna against my scalp felt wonderful, like a mud mask. It took me roughly an hour to apply the paste to every inch of hair I could find and then some of the spots I missed. Next I wrapped my locks up into some suran wrap where I looked like an anime alien character and I let it sit for about 5 hours. I’m sure 2 hours would have sufficed, but as this was my first attempt at Henna, I didn’t want to take any chances of it not being long enough and having to re-do.

Next came the part I dreaded. In the Henna For Hair forums, many women warned of how dry henna makes your hair (or more specfically, the acidic compound you use to release the dye: lemon juice, oj, apple juice, etc.) and one would have to use A LOT of conditioner to get it relatively normal. That and getting the henna out took forever. Well, I followed one poster’s advice and let my head soak in the tub for 10 minutes. It was lovely actually, laying there in the warm water as the scent of henna eased my muscles. I started to swish my head back and forth like a washing machine, and I could feel my once plastered hair give way and float in the water. The henna was all out. No clumps. No major mess. No picking any remnants out of my hair. It merely started dissolving and turned the bath water a deep reddish brown.

I flipped on the shower and applied two large helpings of conditioner. Let it sit for two minutes and rinsed. Done. No trauma, no straw-like hair, no extra conditioning.

When I stepped out the tub, the first thing I saw in the mirror was the bright orange roots. “Yes!! I’m back!!” Combing it was a breeze and my hair feels the healthiest it has in years.

Yeah. This henna is damn good stuff.

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Yule Squid is Coming to Town

Last night I had a very interesting experience regarding group mentality. I was invited, via livestream video, into the home of Amanda Fucking Palmer who put on a small concert and chatted with fans while sipping red red wine.

It was an awesome time which I shall blog about tomorrow. What brings me to this post is during her webcast, she floated a plastic squid playfully across the screen. All 1,000 of us fans were laughing pretty hard and saying so in the chat room.

I then remembered a truly rocking piece of artwork by Hwango at DeviantArt.com.

A geeky smile crept across my face and I immediately chatted, “Behold it is the festive YULE SQUID.”

To my utter amazement, within seconds, people started typing YULE SQUID over and over and over again. You see, I am usually one or five steps behind what is considered currently hip. When I find out about something, my uber in-the-know friends were already made aware a few weeks prior. I mean, they introduced me to LOLcats SIX MONTHS after the site went live. But I’ve gotten better, the delay has shrunken considerably.

So when I saw all these chatters chime in with “Yule Squid”, I figured that, oh yes, yet again I was behind on the hipness. They all know about Yule Squid. Imagine my shock this morning when I found out I wasn’t. Google “YULE SQUID” and the first and only link you get is to Hwango’s original artwork. Nothing else. Peoples’ reactions to a fun concept was equivalent to me sitting at the back of the class, mumbling it, and having people next to me raise their hands in eagerness to share with teacher Amanda. I find the lemming reaction utterly fascinating.

Was my quick blurb original? No. It was inspired. Yet to see Amanda Fucking Palmer (for indeed, that is her name) lean towards the webcam, scan the chat room, and chuckle, “Yule Squid. That’s awesome. They’re saying ‘Yule Squid’,” did place a cozy over my geek-filled heart.

And if you wish to spread the holiday message of Yule Squid, the artist has set up a Cafepress shop right here.

I love my mind

For the past few weeks my sleeping has been a bit sporadic. Nothing detrimental or disturbing, just a lot of tossing and turning and waking up more tired than I was when I went to bed. Some dreams were there, others got lost in the cellophane whisper of waking up. Yet that has all changed thanks to last night.

I am looking for a job. That is nothing new. I am one of thousands upon thousands of people in my state who have been searching for a job for almost a year now. It can be frustrating, depressing, and very tasking on one’s sense of self worth. Last night I started a special 9-day crafting to draw My Ideal Job to me and I believe that performing such a positive, affirming ritual has shifted my brain into a happier frame of mind. So happy that last night while I slept like a baby, I had the most weird and coolest sort of dreams.

One segment had me at a university out in the woods. Cabins were the classrooms, all the students wore gray uniforms, and we were being instructed by the Japanese. The courses I was taking were math and English and the assignments were daunting (eg. Solve 100 math equations and then create 100 of your own, due tomorrow morning). As were the instructors strictness of follow-through. Yet in the end, we would get a holiday break of a month and a half. In other words, you work hard you can play hard.

Another segment had angels. One was a burly man with dark black wings and another looked like a little hippie. He was about 5’3″, large white wings, hand long hair, and wore a hemp shirt and drawstring pants. He was flying near an airplane which was suffering from technical difficulties and would have crashed if he had not swooped along, adjusted the wing with his bare hands as if it were made of tin foil, and guided the plane in.

One other segment had me out on a date with a guy who looked very much like younger Liam Neeson. Heh.

I was also on a jet with Amanda Palmer and her crew and we were taking silly photos with her iPhone.

Finally, I was in a movie theatre watching this apocalyptic film and the actress who played Kara “Starbuck” Thrace in BSG was staring in it. She played this kick-ass heroine who was going to bring down the bad guys who brought on all this destruction to the city. She had climbed into a secret passage to get to their main HQ so she could sabotage them from within. The camera then moves to the bad guys talking strategy (They had set up HQ in a very cool, and old looking library. Don’t ask.). Head Villain asked 3rd In Command if they covered their asses. No lose ends. 3rd In Command nervously said, “Yes. Of course, sir.” Head Villain tosses a very full looking organizer planner onto the table. It was busting out of the seams with papers.

“We have to make sure this does not happen. Because THIS is the most dangerous thing out there we face!” He points to the dayplanner.

“Why is that, sir? It is such a small thing.” 3rd In Command has no spine, of course, hence his ranking.

“Nothing can threaten us but THIS. No missiles, no secret ops, no Navy Seals. THIS is our most dangerous enemy. The Girlfriend!”

“Sir?”

The Head Villain opens up the dayplanner and out pours all these journal pages with sketches and plans and clippings — of a wedding to be. Written on the inside cover was a pledge to her man she would do anything to save him. “A woman in love is VERY dangerous. The Girlfriend will do whatever it takes to save her man. She will do anything for Love. So, 3rd In Command, tighten up security, get our tanks on the perimeter, because she is coming and we will be in for one hell of a fight.”

I laughed pretty damn hard when I awoke. You do realize, of course, that some of this is going into my NaNoWriMo today.

Gods, sometimes, I really love how my mind works.

A gift from coyote

Or rather a very awesome sale transaction between myself and Rowan. Yesterday as I was attending my first public shamanic ritual, I neglected to bring along Hooves, my round skin drum. I purchased him earlier this year from Cedar Mountain Drums in Portland (plug, plug) and I’m still developing a relationship with him. As I was still mentally loopy from the previous night’s NaNoWriMo write in, I completely spaced on having Hooves tag along.

Fortunately, Rowan, who lived nearby Lupa, went and fetched her spare drum so that I could participate in Lupa’s journeying. Rowan brought back a metal doumbek, a bit tarnished for wear, yet lovely just the same. I gently rubbed the natural skin (not sure what kind, could be goat) to warm it up and in the process I asked the drum if I may borrow it for the ceremony.

It was very courteous and wanted eagerly to be of assistance. Very cool.

With Hooves, I have a soft leather beater I use with it. It’s tone is high, but I rarely use my hands to thump out the rhythm because it simply does not work as well. Yet with the doumbek, as I gently rapped with my finger tips, its vibrations were rippling and strong. When Lupa invited Bear and began dancing, my fingertips turned into full on hand contact as I thumped heavy, sure beats. This drum can be gentle and rough.

I had decided right then and there, that when I get the funds, I wanted to buy myself a doumbek. Interestingly, it is called a doumbek because of the two sounds it can make: a DOUM in the center of the drum and the sharp BEK near the rim. Middle Eastern belly dancers and tribal dancers love this drum for that very reason.

I thanked Rowan for allowing me to use her doumbek and it was then she said, “Well, if you are interested in eventually getting one, would you like that one? I haven’t been giving it the attention it deserves for a while now and I’d like to know it’s going to home where it will be cared for.” She offered a reasonable price and I agreed that when I get the funds (I’m still looking for work like about every other person out there), we can seal the deal. Rowan went one step further, “Why don’t you just take it home now and pay me when you can?”

I was beyond words at such a gesture of generosity and trust. I gave her my word she will get paid when I get the money (I have a virtual post-it note on my laptop to remind me) and I thanked her profusely.

So, last night on the New Moon, I polished my new drum.