PBS Rocks (I would fight you, but Grover taught me better)

Jaques Pepin is my spirit animal.

 I could watch Jaques and Jean-Claude (his bestie and co-hort/sometimes-host) make magic in a pan for days at a time. I’m not sure why, my husband only eats from the brown and white food groups, but I am continually mesmerized by glazes, sauces and edible sustenance that isn’t brown or white.

Especially when it’s made by two distinguished French men with sexy accents who have been in kitchens since they were 13 years old. (Insert chef’s kiss sound effect in your imagination <<muah>>)

Anyone who has ever worked in a kitchen can tell you it is sheer hell with moments of pure, unadulterated chaos that turn out things the public will either swoon over or eviscerate you for. (No, it’s not proper English, but it’s the damn truth.)

Rarely does a recipe or beautiful thing appear on The Complete Pepin that contains only brown meat and white veggies (AKA: potatoes and rice), however, I still love watching the J-men get hammered on white wine and make gorgeous little edible things. It’s an art.

Speaking of that, guess where I learned about art?

Again, PBS.

Could anyone be more gentle and pleasant than Bob Ross? For Christ’s sake, Bob. Just beat the dickens out of that little brush. You are the freakin’ man, Bob. Put a squirrel over there in that scene. Yeah, man. Do it. God, I love you. Thank you, Bob, for peaceful, lovely words and happiness when I felt so lost, and so poor because I couldn’t afford cable. You made me rich with simple kindness and support from public television.

In that vein of thought – the only traveling I’ve ever done outside of 20 miles past USA borders was with Rick Steves. I was born poor and apparently fubared everything up from pretty much there on out, so international travel hasn’t been part of my life but thanks to you, I know a lot more about what I’m missing out on.

I’m kidding. I appreciate you. And I’m sure a lot of other folks do as well.

But honestly, Rick. Could you be cooler and a little more laid back? Oh wait, don’t. You won’t move at all and I still need to see Uruguay. I missed that show. Also, I would love to see Cuba without a Castro ruling it. Thanks. You’re awesome and I mean it this time. Don’t ever change.

When I hear people taking about getting rid of public television the only though that comes to my mind is how very ignorant of so many wonders of the world I would be had I grown up without it.

And I almost did.

Kids, I came along before Sesame Street, but just in time for it. I was born in January of 1968. Sesame Street appeared on ‘po folk TV’ in November of 1969 and it was the best thing to ever happen in my life because Ted Turner was trying to dissolve my mind with some Seals and Croft bullshit.

Y’all ever watch the Banana Splits? The Bugaloos? And who the hell was the big-headed McDonald’s-looking dude who had the very young friend with a ‘magic flute’?

What the actual fuck, Ted? Magic flute? Come the hell on, man. How many creepy dudes succeeded in showing a kid his ‘magic flute’ because of your liaison with these nut cases? You’re the reason we became latch-key kids. We had to lock out the weirdos and freaks. Thanks, Ted.

No wonder the X-gen has drug issues. We watched adults have a solid acid trip once a day at four o’clock sharp. Get on our level and feel the whatever-ness of the whole situation when we decide to drop a downer or burn one down three times an hour. That shit was horrifying. But we had no words for it because ‘trauma’ wasn’t a thing back then unless you were in a fiery car accident.

 Good thing my verdant little mind was also fed by my mother’s public library addiction. I thank God she was (and still is) a book junkie. Sesame Street was library time without having to ride the bus to the library. And I was enriched in every way by it and public library in downtown Atlanta, Georgia, when I was too young to properly appreciate it.

Sesame Street was the first and undoubtedly most successful distance learning tool in the history of education.

It still works and I don’t give a damn what anyone says. I would fight you about it, but Grover taught me it’s better to become a Super Grover and do good instead of evil. So there.

(I wish to goodness I’d remembered being Super Grover in my late 20’s when I was racking up all those court costs for being wild. I blame Oscar the Grouch. Motherfucker did what he wanted and lived in a trash can. I mean, can it get better? Fed, stanky and left alone to be grumpy and drink the residuals out of beer cans.)

I should have realized when I was four this was my true destiny. It actually says so in my baby book. Momma wrote, “Wendy wants to be a garbage man or a go-go dancer when she grows up.”

But I was four. And I was going to do something great one day. Garbage men and go-go dancers wore cool boots, and they kicked the world’s ass as far as I was concerned, so there’s that.

Don’t rain on my ambitions. Burt and Ernie never did.

Turns out, I did succeed. I let myself learn and I enjoyed it. I did precisely what the people who designed and labored over these shows wanted to happen.

I am a Sesame Street, public television, fifth district Atlanta-born success. And I am proud of it. I could have never done it without public television and mother who reads books like she breathes air. I am thankful beyond words for both opportunities to expand my world.

Support public television. It’s a good thing.


Almost noon

#FlashFictionFeb (Final prompt is to write a story using only dialogue.)

“Toby, you gotta come up outta that sun, it’s almost noon. We can’t stay out here forever, you know they already lookin’ for us.”

“I ain’t never comin’ up outta this sun. I ain’t never gonna see the dark again. Fourteen months in that hole, I ain’t never comin’ up outta this sun again.”

“Toby, you scarin’ me. We gotta go, now. Jump up out that sun and let’s go. They comin’, Toby. I know they comin. Ain’t no time for none a’ yo’ spells.”

“This sun ain’t close enough. I gotta find me a mountain and sit up on it, as close to the sun as I can get. I ain’t never comin’ outta this sun. Never.”


#FlashFictionFeb  Day 24 

Today’s prompt is to create a new myth.

What does a giant do in the dark all day?

And why does the dark always light his way?

You’d rather not know so the truth gets delayed.

Does he stumble around?

Bump his head?

Scrape his toes?

You’d rather not know; you make up how it goes.

Does his lair smell of cheesy rags and decay?

You’d rather not know so you hope and pray.

Is his hair made of thread?

Clothes of silk?

Skin of mold?

You’d rather not know; it’s easier to scold.

Why do the children keep coming his way?

Promised love?

Spun sugar?

Shiny things made of gold?

You’d rather not know or be so bold.

Is the giant a monster?

A legend?

A myth?

Look into the mirror and meet him forthwith.


The talking snake

#FlashFictionFeb Day 23

Build a flash around a random word. (Semiotic) 570 words

This was it. This was Monty’s ticket out and he’d be damned before he lost it. He’d been watching the hole for three hours
to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw. Granted, his vision wasn’t what it used to be. Age was a bitch, especially with a physical job like cleaning showers at a truck stop. His knees were shot but his ears worked just fine.

Monty still couldn’t believe the phrase ‘cleaning showers at a truck stop’ pertained to him at all. He was cock-of-the-walk, king of the road, Mo Better Trucker with the slickest rig around until…the accident. Bitter thoughts of someone who called themselves a “semiotics” expert crushing his weak defense of unreadable signage in a construction zone flooded his memories. Lawyers would do anything to fuck with a small businessman. Well, he’d show em.’

He’d show em’ good when the talking snake came back.

A loud knock at the door broke his concentration. “Boldwiener? Are you still in shower five? What the hell happened in there? We’ve got people lined up!” Brian, the shower manager, continued to knock while he fumbled for his master key.

Monty cracked the door, “Man, it’s bad in here. Someone had diarrhea all over the shower,” he said.

“Those fucking people,” Brian spit, “did you see who it was so I can ban them?”

“I’m pretty sure it was a brown guy,”said Monty, knowing full well it wasn’t. No one had been in the shower at all, besides Monty. Taking a private shit in the shower toilet was the only perk the job had. “I’ll be finished soon. Put the ‘out of order’ sign out for me.” He closed and locked the door. Monty didn’t plan on opening it again until he was good and ready. He sat with his back against the cold aluminum and stared at the uncovered drain hole.

He didn’t have to wait long. The drain gurgled ominously as grayish-green sludge bubbled up and out of it like molten snot. Monty watched, fascinated, as the blob slowly took on a huge snake-form. It was bigger than before. It was much scarier than before, too. The snake had human eyes, giving it a startling anthropomorphic quality that was distinctly unsettling and something Monty Boldwiener hadn’t noticed when he saw it the first time.

“Hello, Monteeee,” the giant snake whispered, “I knew you would wait for meeee.” The serpent’s forked tongue darted lightly against Monte’s foot. “Do you know why I’m bigger and stronger now?” It asked.

Ever the smart-ass, Monty answered, “I don’t know, GMO’s?” He giggled nervously. The snake did not look amused. Its human eyes flashed as they locked on to Monty’s own very wide, very scared eyes.

“No Monty,” the snake hissed, “I am bigger because your hatred for people who don’t look like you is stronger than ever. Your inability to see that all are equal, Monty, even the brown people, makes me huge and powerful enough to show you that almost every living thing is pink on the inside. Even talking snakes.”

Before Monty realized what was happening, the snake devoured everything about him except for one orthopedic shoe and a Confederate flag belt buckle. The talking snake retreated down the drain and waited for the next hater to notice it.

Monty Boldwiener was never heard from again.

It’s OK to go Mad

#FlashFictionFeb Day 22 (296 words)

I stood in the Mad River today and let the cold, lugubrious water fill my boots. Fall is beautiful and sad on swift Ohio waters, when waterways are distended by sweet, late season rain. 

Verdant smells of wet soil, decaying trees and ecological destruction poignantly mark the end of growing season, but heighten the anticipation of frigid, swift rivers harboring bountiful rainbow and brown trout. 

Finding them and luring them to bait is the art of an angler.

A wily sable mink nimbly navigates cracks and crevices over and around the Mad’s frigid water, watching from across the river, as I watch from the opposite shore.  It avidly notates bait thrown, savvy enough to realize hooks notwithstanding, the raging river will eventually tug freshly dead and flaccid worms from any human apparatus and feed him easily in the still waters down river.

Urgency dictates flow and ebb of shallow water over slimy green rocks with a clarity and transparency lamented by minnows and snails hatched there.  Food and water mingle in a oneness that is perfect and beautiful beneath a warm fall sunset.  Mosquitoes buzz, reminding human flesh of vulnerabilities.

Chartreuse river grass and trees, fallen many years before my simple migration towards this chosen spot, obstruct a juicy, purple worm I offer as allurement. I diligently jerk, tease and taunt flowing water, committed to making even a simple worm sacrifice of life matter in the grand scheme of things.  The fish caught in my trap of hooks and pain will be returned to their homeland. 

Satisfaction is not gained in the capture of wildlife; it is in the capture of their environment.  To be a still, quiet observer among them is as refreshing as boots full of frigid, flowing water.

Fish with arms


Day 21 Write about something that scares you. (268 words)

If the past four years has taught us anything as a society in general, it’s how to be afraid of things. Everyone is so afraid of weird things that may or may not happen they haven’t even had time to be afraid of the weird things that have happened.

Like fish with arms.

Depending on how scared you’ve become of what boogeyman, a headline of “Fish with Arms,” might elicit a mental image of gabillions of cold-blooded gill-breathers with tiny cannons growing out of their head.

“Oh my God,” you think to yourself, “there are tens of millions more of them than us. We are doomed.”

Or you might think to yourself, “Good for them. Wonder what kind of ammo they’re using,” and phone your stockbroker for a hot tip on tiny aquatic cannon balls.

Fortunately, fish are not growing tiny cannons out of their heads. But I did see an article in which researchers from Harvard University and Boston Children’s Hospital were able to create mutant zebrafish with the beginnings of arms by tweaking just a single gene.   

And with arms come thumbs, and with thumbs come all kinds of terrible things, like Twitter accounts. Never mind wondering why researchers from a children’s hospital are looking to arm fish, wonder how scary the conspiracy theories will be when some of the more bat-shit crazy news outlets get a whiff of it.

In closing, as scary as armed fish of any kind may seem, it seems to be the future. And in the future I will continue to fear people more than any fish with thumbs. Until the fish get Twitter accounts.

Then we are surely doomed.


Notes on attorney fees

#FlashFictionFeb  Day 17  Write a second person how-to. (360 words)

Here’s a trick for when you’re paying $250/hr to talk to an attorney. Talk fast. Make your point make sure he gets the basics. Get it done in 15 minutes. Then just start talking randomly about your childhood terrors and the reason you don’t like peanut butter loofah soap.

Seriously. It works. Here’s an example:

Me (After explaining why I need an attorney very quickly): “So that’s it. Anything else you need?”

Attorney: “No, you’ve been very thorough.”

Me: “I had notes. At these hourly rates I make sure to have my shit together.”

Attorney: “Ha ha. Good plan.”

Me: “See? It just cost me a dollar seventy-five to make you laugh uncomfortably. It was worth it.”

Attorney: “Uh, is there anything else?”

Me: “Well, I don’t know if it matters, but I have a fear of spider monkeys. Probably because one ripped a handful of my hair out. Hey – if that monkey is still alive, can I sue the owner for my lifelong terror?”

Attorney: “Mrs. Parker, I don’t practice personal injury law.”

Me: “That’s cool. Can you represent me in a book deal? I wrote some stories about how to keep your vagina clean, only I called it a ‘Mimsy,’ because vagina makes people nervous.”

Attorney: “Mrs. Parker is there anything else you have pertaining to our first fifteen minutes of discussion?”

Me: “Besides the fact that I’m scared of monkeys?”

Attorney: “Yes, besides your fear of monkeys.”

Me: “Nope, but we only talked for 27 minutes. I bought an hour, didn’t I?”

Attorney: “We’ll bill you a half hour. Thank you for the information. I’ll get back to you.”

Me: “Hey, what size pants do you wear? I found a pair of crocheted swim trunks at the thrift store the other day; I’ll send em’ to you.”

Attorney: “OK, we’ll call it fifty bucks and you let me go.”

Me: “Deal. And you’ll take my case?”

Attorney: “Unfortunately, yes. You’ll hear back from one of my associates.”

Follow me for more tips on making expensive conversations end quickly and how to’s on finding new lawyers frequently. Remember, I’m here for you, and it’s free.

Larry and Lisa

#FlashFictionFeb  Day 11

Write a story about a holiday 2/11/2021 (419 words)

“Larry, I just can’t do it,” she said. “I’m not ready.”

“Lisa, stop being silly. And don’t call me Larry, I’m your father,” Larry said.

Lisa dramatically rolled her eyes at Larry’s lurid suggestion that she call him anything other than Larry. Of course he was ‘Larry’. He was Larry Lincolnton and he was certainly not her biological father. Famous actresses don’t have names like ‘Lisa Lincolnton.’ And she was most certainly going to be a famous actress one day.

“Larry, it’s sweet that you still think you’re my real dad but really, let’s stop pretending,” Lisa huffed.

“Lisa, I am your father and we’ve talked about this,” Larry mumbled around the hair pins he held in his teeth, “Now hold still so I can get your headpiece straight. And stop calling me Larry.”

Lisa continued to fidget. “Larry, I’m not so sure I want to do this,” she whined.

Larry finished pinning the headpiece in place. “There,” he said. “You’re perfect. Just in time, sweetie,” he beamed.

Lisa continued to be petulant even though Larry had spent hundreds of hours rehearsing with her, making her costume and perfecting her make-up. “Larry, I’m not doing this,” she pouted over her shoulder as they walked into the stage wing.

“Honey, it’s normal to be nervous,” Larry told her. “But you’re ready. You know the material and you look fantastic. Now go break a leg!” He gently pushed her towards the spotlights.

“No. I’m not doing it, Larry,” Lisa was immovable.

By this time, the stage director was motioning frantically for Lisa to make her entrance. Larry had had enough. “Lisa! You asked me to help you be the best Christmas Queen ever and I did!” Larry yelled. “It’s Christmas Eve, Lisa. Don’t fuck it up!” He was immediately sorry for his words, but it was too late.

Larry was standing beside the hot mic Lisa was supposed to carry onstage to perform her Christmas solo to the packed church auditorium. Every good Christian in attendance heard him tell Lisa not to ‘fuck it up’. Larry was mortified.

Lisa dramatically rolled her eyes at Larry as she grabbed the mic and covered it with her hand, “Great job, daaad,” she said sarcastically, “Way to get the crowd ready for peace and goodwill.”

She sauntered onto the stage, refusing to hurry for the now apoplectic stage director and performed her solo. And she didn’t fuck it up once.

How to pill a cat in four easy steps

#FlashFictionFeb 2021 Day 10 write about an animal. (1240 words) *Yes, you’ve seen this one before. Part of this exercise is to drive traffic to my site, so enjoy it again!*

Our cat has seasonal allergies.

I felt sorry for him until an hour-and pint-of-human-blood-ago.

His occasional fits of licking himself in one spot until his fur and skin dissolve are alarming in their escalation. I’ve gone to bed with him just beginning to fixate on a tiny spot and woken up in the morning to find the poor bastard bald from the waist down with part of his liver exposed.

We’ve narrowed it down to “seasonal allergies” through a process of paying off our veterinarian’s lake house. Food allergies were ruled out by spending roughly the same amount we would on a kitty-sized heroin habit for weekly cat food bills. He currently eats (and copiously vomits) kibbles made of meat held to higher standards than those of human baby food.

The best we can do is treat the symptoms when they arise. Which would be fine if this cat wasn’t the closest thing to feral a house cat can be.

He has seasonal allergies and he’s skittish. There are still no answers for the skittish part and no money left for a cat therapist. All I can attest to is 10 years of trying to love this weirdo through his problems, which seems to be a prevailing theme in my life in general.

Mind you, this same cat acts like mesmerized serpent when our vet has him on the table. The hissing, pissing nightmare of crating him magically ceases when the crate is opened and he finds himself on the table, under the lights. From that moment forward, at least until I get him back to the car, he’s a lovely, docile creature who stands perfectly still while I look like a turd for letting him lick himself bald and liver-less.

Hell yes I’m jealous. I want a lake house and a cat who loves me.

According to the vet, pilling a cat is “easy peasey.” Keep in mind this is the lady who can also talk me into buying pet food worth its weight in solid silver.

“First, cover the pill with an oily of fatty base because antihistamines taste awful and we want it to slide down his throat easily.”


“Second, wrap the kitty in a towel so he feels safe.”

Wait. What about my safety?

“Third, part his jaw at the joint, push the pill down his throat with your index finger.”

Yeah, about my safety. I have concerns.

“Pinch his little jaw shut gently and rub his throat – he’ll swallow reflexively. That should keep him from being so miserable when he has flare-ups. I’ll have the tech get you a pheromone plug-in to try at home. It should help with his anxiety.”

We did not discuss my anxiety and I gave her money. Again.

Whether it’s an effort to warn the general public or clear my conscience of dark hatred is probably a moot point, however, I would like to address a few key points the veterinarian-of-the-lake didn’t mention.

The instructions should probably include, “have twelve assistants and a giant net available” and plainly state that the part where she told me to “coat the pill in something oily or fatty” should definitely not be done first if it takes 45 minutes to catch the cat to wrap it in a towel so he feels safe after you’ve chased him around the house for 45 minutes.

Clearly step one should be laying out the fatty substance and the pink, pinhead-sized pill in close proximity of one another. Refrain from mixing the two until the cat is caught and wrapped unless you hate your whole life and enjoy crushing disappointment.

Catch one ended with harsh feelings between myself and Mr. Skittish when I screamed in frustration after finding a puddle of antihistamine-butter-goo where I left the pill. I’m here to testify that opening a child-proof medication bottle is positively impossible to do while holding a thrashing cat-burrito.

Also, of note, you will never actually get a cat wrapped in the towel twice, but it will be necessary to staunch multiple wounds you’ll no doubt obtain in the second quest for the freaked-out cat.

So, let’s forget any pretense here.

My second attempt at making the cat feel safe was a “three-footer,” meaning I only got three of his feet under control. This was a grave error in judgement from which I sustained a facial wound worthy of a Quentin Tarantino movie as the fur-rocket launched himself off my face towards the bedroom.

Blinded by my flapping eyelid, I slipped on a $20 pile of cat-food-vomit chasing him down the hallway. At this point it was all-out war. I was determined to make him feel safe.

I blindly clawed my way towards the smell of cat urine while the cat displayed his heightened level of anxiety by liberally spraying everything in his path worth more than $25 before darting underneath the bed.

(Fun fact: cats can sense when something is expensive or irreplaceable. It actually intensifies the smell of their urine and improves their aim.)

When I finally got him backed into a corner under the bed I realized I’d left the towel in the living room with enough of my DNA on it to clone a species.

I did, however, have one of the pills in my pocket because my initial intention was to lovingly wrap him in a towel, place him on the kitchen counter, remove the medication from my pocket while gently holding him in place in his happy-fucking-place towel, wiping the stupid pill in butter, and shoving it down his ungrateful throat.

But things didn’t work out like that.

I’m not going to lie. I just grabbed him and laid on top of him. Honestly, in my altered state of pain and near-exhaustion I no longer gave a shit if he felt safe, I was going to feel a whole lot more fucking safe with that feral bastard pinned underneath me and the bed, towel be damned.

I grabbed his jaw and tried to gently pry from the joint with my thumb while clutching the intact antihistamine like it was The Holy Grail in the other hand. It was this posture in which I discovered yet another key point the veterinarian didn’t mention.

Cats have jaw teeth that can shred titanium.

It took me a second to realize the growls had become gurgles because while “gently parting his jaw at the joint”, his jaw teeth had inflicted an arterial bleed on my thumb that was shooting directly into his windpipe.

I blame pure adrenaline for thinking how fortunate it was to have an oily substance to assist in shoving this pill down the esophagus of my demon-cat from hell with such ease and efficiency. I did not pause to rub his throat as I wasn’t sure if he was reflexively swallowing the pill or a large portion of my thumb-meat.

Instead, I deflected parting blows from a cat who clearly did not feel safe anymore. I slid myself from under the bed in the trail of blood and hair I left going in. I briefly paused to consider smashing the $40 pheromone plug-in.

As I limped to the bathroom to attend to my wounds, I stepped in a pile of foamy, pink vomit that looked suspiciously like the blood-soaked antihistamine I had, only mere moments earlier, fought for my life over.

Decorating Surprises

#FlashFictionFeb Day 9 Write about a surprise gone wrong. (600 words)

There’s a misconception that creative people are also good at crafty, paint-y, decorate-y things.

I am solid proof that this is false information and possibly a filthy lie.

Oh, I’ve tried. Believe me. I was one of those people who thought, “I’m creative! I can make a story out of the expression on my cat’s face, of course I can self-decorate the house while I’m home with all this time on my hands.”

Well, I was wrong. But don’t tell my husband.

In my somewhat tepid defense, home decorating shows use camera sorcery to make people believe they can paint an “easy” plaid pattern on one wall of their den that doesn’t end up looking like something from a Dr. Seuss illustration.

I was enchanted enough by this idea to follow Shondra-on-the-tee-vee’s advice and use contrasting colors for a “pop” all dens need. I surprised my husband George
with the “pop” of color.

He did not appreciate it, or my newfound advice on “popping” color but was kind enough to offer to paint over it.

“Why would you want to paint over it?” I asked, appalled that he was not smitten with the brown and yellow plaid.

“Because it looks like a rotten banana and it’s hideous,” George said, in a very disenchanted way. “Please do not paint anymore.”

I was clearly under attack. If 25 years of marriage teaches you anything, it’s to be on the offensive preemptively. I had to defend my creativity.

“Well, I am sorry that you cannot appreciate a fashionable home,” I huffed. “And if you don’t like the plaid wall, you’re really going to hate what I did to the kitchen cabinets.”

“I doubt that,” he said, doubtfully, but he had yet to see the chalk paint that looked ridiculously like white shoe polish wiped on every wooden surface of the kitchen.

“Oh my God,” George said, when he did see it. “Are you…finished? Or is this the primer?” He reached out to feel the paint.

“Don’t touch it!” I screamed. “It picks up fingerprints like a bitch. I need to stencil some swirly things on it, so it doesn’t show smudges,” I explained.

“What are the smudges on it already?” he asked.

“They’re stencils I messed up,” I whispered.

“What?” he said. “I didn’t catch that.”

“I said ‘shut the fuck up, George,’ “I whispered again.

“You know what,” said George, “It’s great. It’s really great. If you like it, I like it, OK?”

I was shocked and immediately sensed a trap. (Refer back to 25 years of marriage. To the same person.)

“I don’t know what’s happening here, but I’m sure it’s a trap,” I said.

George didn’t hear me because he was busy dragging a gold-leafed, life-sized baby hippopotamus statue from the junk room into the newly-decorated den. He parked it in the center of the room, looking quite pleased with himself, which fully confirmed my suspicions of a trap.

“I’ve been saving this,” he said, “I think it will add a little more “pop” to the den.” He was positively pleased with himself. Which meant only one thing.


“You know what?” I said, savoring the moment as much as I hated the hippo, “It’s great. It’s really great. If you like it I like it.”

“Good,” said George.

“Good,” I said.

Thus began the saga of a den that ended up having enough “pop” to surprise even the most stoic of interior design critics, like my mom.

But that’s a different story for a different day.

Remember to follow me for more home decorating tips and relationship advice.

Or don’t.