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another life
I bought a car this week.
It’s funny because it brought a lot of things to mind. Years ago – back when my life was very dark, and hopeless and felt eternally bleak – I made a list. I can’t find it now, but I remember fairly clearly what was on it. I remember where I was when I wrote it. I remember what motivated me to put my dreams on paper.
I’d thought that I had direction. I thought I’d found a partner to struggle through life with, and together we would accomplish things. I’d made moves (both literally and figuratively) to advance our lives. And then — suddenly and without a lot of warning — everything crashed down around me. My life as I’d known it, as I’d planned it, ceased to be. And I was left, alone, with massive amounts of debt — no direction, no partner, no life plan. Everything gone.
I moved back in with my parents at the age of 28 — something I’d vowed I would never do. I went back to waitressing after struggling so hard to get out. I spent more time than anyone should ever spend on the phone with my credit card providers, the landlord of my abandoned apartment in Chicago — groveling and apologizing and feeling more vulnerable and less valuable than anything I could articulate. Because that’s something that we all turn a blind eye to — the unquantifiable things. The shame and the humiliation — the feelings of defeat, of loss. Of failure. The fact that when you make such a huge error — and you don’t see it at first — you lose all faith in yourself. You don’t trust anything you feel, and it’s confusing and disorienting. And indescribably sad.
Back then, as I scratched and clawed my way out of the despair, I made a list. I wanted something solid to refer back to, to reference when I again began to lose my way. It wasn’t a long list, and it didn’t have much focus. Except that it defined the life I hoped to live one day. It motivated me to put money in savings every week, and open an IRA. It made sacrificing on spending easier because there was an end goal.
I wanted to get certified as a paralegal. I looked into courses at West Chester University. I ended up taking my LSATs and applying to law school. I got in, I got wait-listed, I got denied. I was offered a partial scholarship. I didn’t go. Instead I took a risk on my boss and his restaurant company. And that’s where I’m at now — six years in, running a growing business. Three restaurants open, two in development — more on the way. But I’m not a waitress anymore. Thank God for that.
I wanted to own a townhouse. I have always had a love for townhomes — I don’t know why. I just think they are divine. And I had this strange, dream-like vision of being a successful career woman living in a neat townhouse. I lived with my parents for a little over a year. And then John and I moved into a one bedroom apartment on the first floor of our landlord’s house. We struggled to pay rent for about six months. We could barely buy groceries. And we lived there for six years. And our landlords became our friends. And then, last summer, we bought a townhouse. A brand new, we-picked-everything-in-it-townhouse. And I come home at night, after an hour commute on the train, after running a business all day — to my perfect townhouse.
I wanted a dog. A real dog, a dog who went running with me and curled up on the couch. And in the first few days of 2012, John and I brought home Lucy. And until the MS, she went running with me every day. And when she’s feeling very generous, she curls up on the couch with her dad & me. And she is utter, complete, ridiculous perfection. She is my protector, and my child. She is a diva and a love bug. She is everything rolled into one. I don’t know how John and I existed without her.
I wanted to drive a Mini Cooper. And I did. I drove a black and gold Mini Cooper named Rooney, which I bought for my 30th birthday. And I owned a red and white Mini Cooper named Junebug. And she was beautiful.
There were other things on the list — things I haven’t done yet. I haven’t learned to speak Spanish. And I haven’t published anything. And I haven’t recorded a song. I might never do those things. But dreams are just that — dreams. And they keep me motivated when the going gets tough.
I haven’t achieved all the physical things I dreamed of, either — MS is a bitch like that. But i ran Broad Street before I was diagnosed, and nothing can ever take that away. And I feel blessed that I did it — even though I’ll never run a half marathon, or compete in a triathlon. Or climb mountain peaks like my brother. Or do a myriad of other things.
But back to the car that I bought this week.
John and I bought a Range Rover. Even typing that feels absurd and makes me giggle. I mean — do normal people buy Range Rovers? Six years ago we were eating dinners made of discount pasta (yes, discount pasta – something already absurdly inexpensive) and shaking under the blankets rather than turning the heat on.
It’s sort of insane. No — it actually is insane. Life is not easy — I promise you, most people can attest to that. Life does not cut you breaks, or help you out when you’re having a bad day. Life is brutal and unforgiving and relentless. Life tosses MS into the mix right when you think you’re getting on your feet. Life is like that.
And yet, despite all that — despite all the things that seemed to forever be going wrong — somehow John and I have ended up here. And it isn’t by chance. It is because of hard work, and sacrifice, and making choices. It’s because when things got hard, we held onto each other and buckled down.
I feel really proud of us. And when we bought the Range Rover — whom I have named Hazel despite all the raised eyebrows — it felt like the ultimate validation of our hard work. Not only were we able to buy a house, and furnish it (woof! that’s a tall order when you go from a one bedroom apartment to a three-story townhouse) but we turned around and bought a very nice SUV.
*****
I met John the day before my birthday. He walked in the front doors of the restaurant he managed — a restaurant I’d waited tables at — and I knew. I don’t know what I knew — I just knew more than anything, that there was something about him. I was still wrapped up in another thing but John filled my head. His smile and how genuine he was, the blue of his shirt and the twinkle in his eyes. I think we both knew that God had sent us to each other (with Jennie’s help, of course) and six months later, when circumstances were better, we fell into each other. I was a broken mess, and he scooped me up with his strong, gentle hands, and he helped to heal me. He helped me find my faith again.
Our journey hasn’t been easy. On so many levels. It makes me laugh, to be honest.
But even when things have been excruciating, I have never doubted for a moment that he was there, my strength and my soul and my heartbeat. And as we’ve struggled and succeeded, and struggled again, I’ve found peace within myself. I’ve laid so many demons to rest.
So when we bought that car this week — that absurd, luxurious, beautiful car — it reminded me of the journey. It reminded me of the list, and the dreams that all felt so unattainable. And maybe we crash again. Maybe things get hard again. But they aren’t hard right now. And I know that no matter what, I have John by my side, holding my hand, making me laugh, wiping away my tears. And the gratitude for all of it — for the shitty noodles and the freezing cold nights and the sacrifices — as well as the blessings of Lucy, and our home and our groceries …. Well, all of it is so crystal clear and near the surface of my conscience that I am drowning in love and thankfulness.
lessons
I am not quite sure how it all happened, but we have found ourselves working with a brand consultant (for lack of a better term) at work for the past few weeks.
I won’ t lie – I wasn’t against the idea, but I certainly wasn’t overly enthused either. However — it’s been sort of eye opening. Because it hasn’t been about branding at all. It’s been about human sociology – human nature and human behavior. It’s wild. Lots of talk about the limbic brain and gut feelings, culture and tribe-mentality. Without even realizing it we are all gelling and feeling puffed up with this idea that what we do is different and special. Something we are wickedly proud of building and being part of.
It’s actually bizarrely good timing for my mental health. It hasn’t been an easy six weeks and I have felt on the verge of giving up. Hopeless and lost and frustrated and … Stuck. And then – like a gift wrapped in happiness – I began to look at everything a little differently, and suddenly nothing felt quite as bad.
Life comes in waves – that’s how my brain has made it make sense to me – and there are peaks and valleys. Sometimes, when the valley is low and dark, it feels like the peak will never come again. And then it somehow sneaks up on you. And the depths of despair that had been drowning you feel faraway and distant. I like to be grateful for the valleys because they help me appreciate the peaks so much more. I won’t lie – I don’t always remember to be grateful. Sometimes I’m too distracted by feeling crappy.
But in the end, nothing is as bad as it first seems. And that’s a blessing.
ticking time
I’ve been in my head a lot recently.
Maybe always … but I’m just more aware of it right now.
One of my closest friends recently confessed to a minor mid-life moment. We’re not old — thirty-five, thirty-six — that’s not old. But it’s a moment. It’s a time when you really hope you have your sh*t together. You aren’t twenty-something anymore. You can’t sort of float through things, hoping you find a current and somehow a direction. The mistakes feel bigger, the consequences heavier. You are settled into life — into a job, or if you’re lucky, a career. You’re married. Or you’ve been traveling with someone for a long time. Your lives are woven together. You’ve had a child or a pet longer than you spent time in college. College … it feels farther and farther away.
Time keeps ticking. It never stops. Which isn’t overwhelming really … until it is. Until expiration dates begin arriving, until you look at your parents and see the gray in their hair, until you realize that you’ve lived away from home nearly longer than you lived there.
Making changes becomes harder. Somehow, when the whole world is ahead of you, anything is possible. But as you become settled, change becomes less exciting and more burdensome.
I’m in my head because I somehow found myself where I am — in the job/career I have. It wasn’t necessarily a choice I made. I was that kid who floated and ended up somewhere unintentional. I’m not ungrateful — but there are moments when I feel trapped. By bills. By obligations — by having to be a grown up. By bedtimes and early wake-ups and laundry and cleaning and dishes.
Anyway, I’m not really going anywhere with this — just writing to try to help my mind settle. Hopefully.
blue
Depression is an odd thing.
I feel as though it sneaks up on you — you are going, and going, and going, not stopping to breathe, just trying to keep your head above water. And then somehow, at some unknown moment, it consumes you. It grips your soul, and suddenly, you are drowning.
It’s also surreal. This feeling of hopelessness, overwhelming fatigue — disinterest in life and the ensuing sadness and frustration at feeling so disconnected. It’s also funny how well people can cope — hide — their overwhelming darkness. How you can smile, and function — get done what needs to get done — without any feeling of purpose or accomplishment.
Anyone who has ever felt depressed understands its nuances. Understands its insidiousness. Understands its inky darkness.
I’ve been here before. It was a long time ago, in a different life. But I know this place, this painful numbness.
When I was younger I had a painful fear of the transition from school to adulthood. I can’t remember exactly what i was so afraid of, but I remember being paralyzed with fear. I didn’t know how I was going to ‘grow up.’ I completely understood that everyone seemed to do it — I just didn’t understand how. I don’t know why this was so terrifying to me. But it was. I might not clearly recall the details of my fear, but I certainly remember the feeling.
I think part of the reason that I ended up in restaurants was this fear. I was afraid to pursue my dream of acting, and to stay young – to stay a child – I stayed in restaurants. I waited tables and hid in the haze of serving and the lifestyle of the hospitality industry. And then, without even realizing it, I ‘grew up.’ For six years I grew into adulthood by getting to work on time, learning accounting, and figuring out how to run a business with little to no guidance. I learned to trust myself, trust my instincts, trust my brain. I grew from a shy, scared little girl into a strong capable woman.
And becoming strong and capable has led me to again feel overwhelming depressed.
Life is funny that way, y’know?
I am looking forward into 2016, and the future of life — our first full year in our house, our trip to Italy, our trip to Iceland. I’ve thought about how we’ve gotten here, the hard work and the sacrifices and the mistakes we’ve made along the way. I’ve thought about maintaining our life, and the things we need to do to accomplish that.
And I know, without a doubt in my mind, that I cannot fulfill my half of the equation. I cannot keep doing what I’m doing, day-in and day-out without support or recognition or gratitude. I cannot keep doing what I’m doing when no one respects me, respects my time or respects my contributions. I know, in the depths of my heart, that I have to make a change. Or I will drown in this sadness, I will drown in this hopelessness.
time
It’s been a week.
I have discovered – in the most humbling of ways – that I am not actually capable of keeping all balls in the air without some crashing to pieces.
I thought – incredibly naively – that I could continue to manage my company’s daily business AND be a present and supportive wife during John’s surgery. This was a vast miscalculation. It was flat out impossible. There were moments this week that I could not have been counted on to spell my own name correctly, let alone handle anything of significance at all. On Wednesday night – after seeing John safely ensconced in the ICU unit with his incredibly capable nurses — I barely made it back to the hotel. I was seriously whacked out with fatigue. I lay down on the bed fully clothed (the energy to remove my sneakers seemed impossible to summon). I fell asleep before my dinner arrived. I couldn’t focus on anything. All my energy – for hours, for days, had been so solely focused on surviving John’s surgery that I had unknowingly exhausted myself.
I can tell you right now that my husband’s eyes rolled while reading that last sentence. He’s a seasoned pro at MEN, he’s had three prior surgeries. In fact, he mislead me about his surgery’s duration just to alleviate my stress levels because he thinks I take all of this stuff too seriously. Maybe I do. But I don’t think I ever want to become jaded, hardened, disillusioned. Surgery is a miracle, a beautiful art that man has been perfecting for years. The knowledge that all the people who took care of my husband have – mind-blowing. And these people work at one of the premier places of medicine in our country. They are incredible.
I have never felt this tired in all my life. And I have MS folks, so I feel tired ALL.THE.TIME. I thought I could be super woman – do it all – but a point came when I knew I didn’t care. Not even a little bit, not for a moment. About anything other than my husband. Life is a short, beautiful journey. And we all spend so much time fussing about insignificant things.
I love my husband. I love my family. I love my friends – especially Kate (God only knows why she’s still friends with me but I am so grateful that she is!). I am grateful for my life and my job – the purpose it provides me on a daily basis. I am not grateful for the stress, or the fact that no time is a sacred time outside of work. I do not love that I felt pulled in a thousand directions this week when I should have only been present in one.
That’s both my fault and a product of our society. We are all going so fast, things are so vital — we forget to stop and appreciate what is important.
I’m not entirely sure how to fix that. Or change it. But it was incredibly evident this week. And it was uncomfortable. I don’t think I should have felt any pressure outside of the surgery John faced. And I think – as a society — we need to figure out how to stop and smell the roses a little. Be in the Moment.
thoughts from The Palm
I remember when John first told me he had MEN Type 1. I remember it very clearly … And not clearly at all. Memory is strange that way.
We were lying on his bed in the apartment he lived in when we met, facing each other. It was bright, because all the lights were on. I don’t know how we’d gotten there. I don’t remember what preceded it. But I remember him talking to me in a clear, calm voice. Explaining in the best way he knew how what his disease was – how it affected his life.
I can say now – seven years later, marriage vows taken, MS faced — I had no comprehension of his disease until yesterday.
I stood in ICU, nearly delirious with fatigue – nearly uncomprehending from the pressure of surgery and hospitals and well, reality — and his surgeon drew me a diagram on a dry erase board and explained things in a way I understood. I think I will forever be in love with her for that — that, and she loves the restaurant scene in Philadelphia. (Plus, she seems to perpetually be in heels, and that just deserves respect!).
As I have mentioned – probably more times than necessary – John and I have been together for about seven and a half years. Every year he’s spent a week at NIH (National Institutes of Health in Washington DC) where his doctors have monitored his disease, any changes, any progressions. I’ve stayed at home. Watched ‘Grey’s Anatomy’ live, gone to dinner with my girlfriends … Made him feel bad for leaving me alone.
John is my whole world. He is the reason I am strong every day – the reason I schlep to Penn for my meds with a smile, and fight for normalcy. He is the happiness in my life, the voice in my darkness, the light at the end of every tunnel. He is reason and spontaneity and comfort all rolled into one. I know his breath in the stillness of night, his smell, his warmth. I do not ever want to know life without him. Because I already have – and it’s not what life is now.
I think a lot about our bedroom right now. Not in an amorous way. I’m not that girl. But because I yearn for its comforts, its quietness – the sound of Lucy’s snuffles in the night. As I ride the subway to the hospital every day, and collapse into bed at night, my mind is filled with memories of this disease, memories of things he has told me and I didn’t fully register.
I remember tears falling slowly, one by one, as he talked about MEN. I was trying to be strong, but my heart was so full of love for this man, and everything was so new, and i couldn’t hide that this news was devastating. But as time passed … we moved in together, we traveled to Wyoming, we adopted Lucy … it faded — it became part of our dialog but not actually part of our life.
All that changed in October. We weren’t anticipating it. But he drove down for a day trip, for some tests to be run, for a study he had joined to scan his body. And he came home with the news. He would need surgery. Sooner rather than later.
MEN Type 1 affects the endocrine system. It’s a genetic disease (John shares the disease with his father and would have a 50% chance of sharing it with any biological children he might have). It manifests itself in a myriad of ways — many people are mis-diagnosed with a symptom of MEN, and not MEN itself.
The scan told his doctors that he needed surgery, and it needed to happen right away. My husband is incredibly strong, and would deny it today, but the heaviness of the news weighed on him, it darkened the words he spoke as he told me about it. It was evident in the lines around his eyes, the set of his mouth.
I felt the heaviness but I didn’t realize it’s weight until the surgeon came to speak with me in the waiting room — much earlier than I had anticipated — and told me that things had gone well. He smiled — which seemed insignificant to me at the time — but my father-in-law said afterwards he didn’t recall if he’d ever seen that doctor smile before.
I know now what MEN Type 1 means. I know that it will never stop being part of my life, of my husband’s life. I will become more familiar with NIH than I ever imagined. But I am grateful for NIH, for the study he is part of, for the doctors who examine him and keep him safe. I understand now — more than I ever thought I would — what this disease is, what it means, how it will continue to silently ravage my husband’s body.
I sit and I type and my eyelids droop from fatigue and I miss my husband by my side. And I finally understand.
women
I have been spinning like a top for weeks — hoping that I’m going fast enough not to tip over and fall, but knowing that because of the speed, everything is staying afloat by a hair — by a breath. I opened up my blog to write a little bit, and I will, but I saw this post that I began back in October, and I felt as though it was important enough to share. I spent the weekend following this with one of my greatest friends, and it was wonderful and perfect and all the things that felt as though they were piling up felt less burdensome. For just a moment.
October 22nd ~
On Tuesday morning, I bit it. Hard. Right on Market Street near City Hall.
Then I found out that my assistant had made an error so huge that it jeopardized half our staff’s payroll.
My company is growing so fast that I can’t keep up. I take a lot of pride in what I do and what I’ve helped to build. But right now it feels much too big to get a hold of and take care of properly. And that’s scary.
And I’ve spent the last week as a single person.
My husband took his dad on the trip of a lifetime and he has no cell service where he is — so here I am, alone. With my Lucy Lou.
It hasn’t been easy. There are moments when I just want to curl up in a ball and cry. Work, and home and responsibility and falling in the middle of the street — it isn’t easy.
And then I remember that I’m doing it — I’m holding it all together, and I’m doing it by myself. I’m eating healthy food, and getting proper rest, and taking Lucy out and keeping the house clean, and paying the bills and doing laundry and running a company … and I’m doing it alone.
It’s humbling. And it’s really hard. I think of my mother, who was a wife, a mother, a career-woman and all the shades in between. And I am both inspired and in awe. There are women out there, every day, with so many balls in the air. And they don’t all have the support that I have in John. They are making it happen and making it work on their own.
jeh
There are moments in life that take the breath right out of you.
You’d thought you had every side protected, every loose string accounted for — but that small sliver of weakness leaves you raw and exposed and it’s so sudden, and so unexpected, you spend a fair amount of time staring into space, uncomprehending.
Marriage isn’t easy. I feel super blessed, because I married the right man and we are best friends — he’s my favorite person to be with, to laugh with, to hold hands. But marriage isn’t just about two people who dig each other’s company. It’s so much more than that. It’s every breath, it’s every challenge, it’s every triumph. It’s every mountain, whether you want to climb it or not. John and I have been together for over seven years (!!!) and we’ve faced poverty, multiple sclerosis, MEN type I, our parents health (which includes cancer on both sides), difficult family relations, a dog who is a vegetarian, frustrations at work, depression …. The list is not short. We’ve also found solace in each other, in the quiet moments eating soup and watching mindless TV, in buying a house together, in traveling to new and exciting places, in brother-in-laws, in food and wine and football. And I know that no matter what we come across on this road of life, we’ll get through it together.
Eight years ago, my grandmother died. She ate steak and banana cream pie at the casino days before she passed away, so she went out on a good note — I hope. I miss her every day — not in that aching, I-can’t-continue-to-live kind of way. But in the I-wish-I-could-call-and-b.s.-on-the-phone kind of way. She moved in with my family when I was five years old, and she made breakfast for my brother and I every morning before school, she was there when we came home, she chased us with a wooden spoon when we made her mad, but she also spoiled us rotten when she thought my parents weren’t looking. She was stubborn as a mule, and very opinionated but she was every kind of fabulous. I was her little girl, her only granddaughter. She bought me so much clothing (in an attempt to ignite in me her love of fashion and jewelry and perfumes …. it didn’t totally work). She tried to get me to collect porcelain dolls. She fed our dogs potato chips.
She died and two months later, I met John.
I think she sent him to me. I know, I know — it sounds naive and ridiculous. But I think she knew I would need someone solid beside me for my life’s journey. She probably knew things I didn’t know yet. She probably knew the man I was with at her funeral wasn’t the right man for me. She was right.
Sometimes life takes the breath right out of you. And nothing seems familiar. Or fair. And in the end, I guess you just have to hold your precious people close to you and hope and pray for the best. You have to believe you’ve made the right decisions. And if I’ve only made one right decision in my life, it was choosing John. And I will do anything and everything to protect that, to protect him and to protect us. And I think that’s the best thing — maybe the only thing — I can really do.
what I do, who I am
The man and I decided to lounge by our fire tonight. It was a long, gray, wet day with the prospect of another long, gray, wet day on the horizon. So Lucy and I curled up on the couch, with John in a lounge chair, with the music filling the house with the sounds of Melody Gardot, Ella Fitzgerald, and Frank Sinatra and fire gently crackling in the background.
I began to think, as the day wound down and the tension began to ease from my shoulder blades, about how long I’ve really been in the hospitality industry. I remember working the concession stand for my brother’s little league team — selling all sorts of colorful candy treats to parents and friends there to watch the games. And helping out at my aunt’s campground in my teens — learning very quickly that the British and Americans spoke two different versions of the same language. Beginning my first high school job bussing tables and running food at an exceptional eatery and learning the elegance of casual fine dining first hand — the knowledge needed to properly ensure a diner’s enjoyment. Three years hawking burgers and loaded potato skins at a huge corporate operation (and in multiple locations to boot!) that taught me nothing if not systems and their effectiveness. I thought about my ex-Uncle and all the things he taught me about steps of service, how to clear a table, properly pour a bottle of wine, to appreciate the artistry of a chef.
It isn’t surprising at all that I’ve found myself fully immersed in the industry in my mid-thirties — even if I spent a lot more of my time waiting tables bemoaning it and wishing myself anywhere else than appreciating the knowledge base I was growing. I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with restaurants. It’s hard, back-breaking work with very little lasting financial reward and it’s every day, all day and night. On national holidays, restaurants have additional staff. Not less, and they certainly aren’t enjoying the day like everyone else.
But somehow, i can’t imagine doing anything else. I live it and I breathe it. It’s an integral part of who I am. If I know nothing, I at least know restaurants. The culture, the ebb and flow, the politics. It brutalizes you, pulling you back when you most want to leave. It’s an addiction, a constant fight for perfection that will never occur. I’m so indescribably proud of my little restaurant and all it has provided a foundation for: new locations, new concepts, more brilliant restauranteurs and chefs. And yet it absolutely breaks me on a daily basis, pushing my patience and capabilities to their absolute limit. It makes me want to quit, it often makes me cry. But it also lifts me up at unexpected moments, and brings such unadulterated joy for flashes of time.
It doesn’t surprise me at all, when I think back and look at the path I’ve walked, that I am the director of a restaurant company. But it also takes me completely by surprise that this is where I’ve gotten to, because despite all the experience and all the time in the trenches, I still feel as though I know nothing at all.
my favorite month
My favorite month is October.
You would think it would be December — my birthday, Christmas, my mom’s birthday, Christmas, my birthday. But at some hazy point in my past I knew without a doubt that October was the ultimate — the bee’s knees, the motts.
There’s something so essentially autumnal about it — more than September or November. It’s orange leaves and sweatshirts and football and bonfires. It’s the smell of leaf piles and apple cider. It’s comforting, a brief breath of time that feels exactly as it should. Without fail, every year.
Today was a gray October day with spitting rain … and then actual rain as I heaved food home in ripping paper bags the three blocks to the train station and then the absurdly long trek from the far side of the tracks to my car. A stranger shared his umbrella with me for part of the walk — it was such a beautiful reminder of the goodness of people. That gets forgotten a lot in the course of a day at work, fighting losing/lost battles and being constantly challenged to the point where you have no idea if anyone is on your side.
Tonight I’m sitting in my little office and the darkness has taken over the skies — so much earlier than a few months ago when we first bought this house. It’s beginning to feel like home — as we settle into routines and do the things we used to do somewhere else, with different routines. I cooked yesterday, and I cooked this past weekend — and the kitchen has stopped feeling so foreign, so untouchable. It’s starting to feel like ours. Coming home and bundling up in a rain coat to take Lucy to get the mail feels normal. Turning on Sonos in every room and filling the house with music — it’s no longer a novelty. And tonight, I’ll curl up on the couch and watch my Steelers — my poor, depleted, beautiful Steelers — play their first divisional game of the season. While eating quiche. With my hubby and my little fur ball Lucy. Life is good.
Like I said, October is my favorite month and I am looking forward to this one with such joyous anticipation. And it’s so nice to be home.
D5 Creation