One last post for the day.

Today was my sons' father's birthday. He ws born on Easter Sunday. If he were still living he would have been 54 years old today. His birthdays may have stopped in 1995, but our love for him lives on, and he remains in our thoughts and words.

Warren Tabor Johnson was a brilliant man. He was self-taught in many areas of tooling, electronics (before it became popular) higher mathematics…he was an inventor of sorts as well. I would have put him up against any college-degreed engineer. Warren had more common sense in his pinky finger than most anyone I ever knew. He loved us, and took his responsibilities as a father/husband seriously. He provided and we wanted for nothing. We were hardly wealthy, but we were healthy enough to buy good things when we bought them. He was uncompromising when it came to quality. Even our dog had the best doghouse known to man at the time…shingled and sturdy enough to withstand a tornado, lol. 

 

My kids will have their own tributes to their Dad, but one thing that I'll always remember was the way he supported me in anything I wanted to do, (except work when the kids were little — he wanted me home with them). But, even so, if I expressed an interest in photography, he bought me the best camera available, the accessories, and several instructional books. I mentioned one time that I wished I had learned to play piano as a child, and one day there was an upright piano delivered to the house. He knew I loved music, and he provided me with a Sony Stereo for my 30th birthday, and the first CDs to ever hit the market. When I was collecting the dolls, he bought me the sewing machine I still use to this day, and he encouraged me to take the correspondence course to get my official 'Doll Doctor's License."

 

I don't think he was wonderful because he "bought me things." I think he was wonderful because he didn't want me to become stagnant in motherhood. He respected me as a living, thinking person…and he forgave a lot of bad cooking as I was developing my culinary prowess šŸ˜‰

 

Warren had the dryest sense of humor, and used some of the funniest expressions I've heard to date. He was stone-cold serious, but hilarious at the same time. There wasn't a lazy bone in his body, and there was nothing he couldn't figure out. I still miss him, and I wish I could tell him I'm sorry for any time I might have given him the impression that I didn't appreciate him. Sometimes I talk to him and ask him what I should do about this, that, or the other. He would have been proud of my magazine. I know it.  

 

So, I didn't want this day to end without him being remembered. He was one of a kind, there'll never be another one like him, and I at least have the gift of still seeing him so very strongly in both of my sons…their mannerisms, brains, looks, and their loving hearts. Thank you Warren, for two of the greatest gifts one person could ever give another. We love ya.

 

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8 Random Facts

The rules:

  • Each player starts with 8 random facts/habits about themselves.
  • People who are tagged, write a blog post about their own 8 random things, and post these rules.
  • At the end of your post you need to tag 8 people and include their names.
  • Don’t forget to leave them a comment on their blog and tell them they’ve been tagged, and to come back and read your blog for the whole story.

I've been tagged so here are mine:

 

1. I'd never tasted cottage cheese until the age of 23, and I can balance an egg on the countertop. (that's 2 things but it's both food-related so no foul, lol.):

 

 

2. As a young adult I played semi-pro volleyball right after highschool. (Back then there wasn't much volleyball promoted — most highschools didn't even have a volleyball program, but ours did. I started playing with the Parks Dept at age 9. The teenage boys wanted me off the court but the Center Director made them let me play. So, they were rough — slam-spiking the ball at me and other things to discourage me. Being the brat I was, I just got tougher, developed a wicked overhand serve, and by the second year I was usually second or third pick when forming teams.

 

3. I'm a fairly good seamstress. Although I took Home Ec in 8th grade, I was too much of a Tomboy and never got the hang of sewing. This disappointed my mother a little bit because she was an excellent seamstress. It wasn't until after my second child was born and I started collecting dolls that I learned to cut my own patterns and sew clothing for the dolls that didn't have any. Some of the dolls were very small, and cutting/sewing those tiny, ruffled, inset sleeves were a feat unto its own. I apologize for the poor quality of the pics. These are scans of photos from before digital cameras were out:

 

 

 

4. I used to have naturally straight hair. When I donated my uterus and associated parts to science at age 40, it became the very curly mess I have now.

 

The rocking chair I'm sitting in is one I picked up at a garage sale when I was 18. After the first divorce when I had to move back home for a few weeks, I left it with my mother. 31 years later (when Mom passed away) I went to her house and retrieved the chair. It's in my living room now.

 

5. I can put five 12-gauge slugs inside a 4-inch circle at 65 yards (with no scope). 

6. I never set foot into a bar until I was 36-years old. (then I made up for lost time)

7. The ring on the third finger of my right hand has been there since I was sixteen and has never been taken off – even during surgeries, etc.

 

 

8. I can drive cars, motorcycles, fork trucks, boats, snowmobiles, 4-wheelers, jet skis, ride horses, and fly small airplanes. (no, I do not have my pilot's license…)

 

I haven't tagged anyone yet.

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The Passage of Time

Back to this thing about unrequited love. I’ve set this post for viewing by neighbors only, as most of you already know my sad tale.

 

Weeks and months have passed since I last saw him. I’ve talked to him many times on the phone – sometimes it’s a merry, heartening 3-hour conversation where afterwards I feel like we’re really okay – just two people comfortable as an old husband and wife. Other times the chats are brief and cool in nature, as if I have kept him from the hockey game on TV. Generally this happens when I’ve called him, not the other way around because after all, everything must be on the Adored One’s terms. It’s after one of these chats that I am yanked back to Earth, a reprimand of sorts, to defer to the true nature of our relationship. I have to remember, it’s still a one-sided affair, and I could be just one of his many acquaintances on the other end of the telephone line.

 

Don’t misunderstand (like I often do) he likes me (a lot, according to him) he’s concerned about my general well-being, and he’s the best friend a person could want in many respects. He’s always on my side about matters, he continues to put time and expense in my dogs so that I can remain active in our sport…but there is nothing special in his heart for me. I have finally accepted this. Nevertheless, we have plans to meet up in July, drive to Maine, and run the dogs in a derby event. I will have gone from October until July without laying eyes on him. I’m quite sure he hasn’t similarly marked the passage of time.

 

So, I go about my days with the knowledge that there will never be an ā€œus.ā€ A year ago I couldn’t do that without falling into this huge chasm of sorrow. My life was either ā€œyes, there’s hopeā€ or ā€œI’ll go to the grave without love in my life, because I cannot get past this. I cannot get past him.ā€ Back then I hung on his every word and nuance to determine which sentence I would live on any given day. Occasionally I still find myself looking for that glimmer of hope, but for the most part I’ve stopped, and alas, over time and many weepy, drunken nights, thinking this is the last night I will allow myself to hurt like this, I have managed to claw my way to a middle ground, a place where I can at least perform the functions of an average day without the tears, the wallowing in self-pity…and that horrible aching in my chest. I’m safer here — in this lackluster middle ground, and I dare not venture a foot either way. It’s just easier not to feel, but the reality of my life is, I have little reason to be here, little to look forward to. I work each day to survive, and all I’m really doing is just passing time.

 

Even though I no longer expect or wait for the phone to ring, I still think about him…pretty much always, and that’s the way it is with unrequited love. Because you can’t be together, thoughts of being together are constant – you cannot make them go away.  In thought, your Adored One takes up residence beside you like a lingering apparition. You created it, and now you can’t force it to go. They are with you through every song from your car radio. They are with you when you leave the salon; your imagination plays out their response to your new hairdo. They are with you when you pick out a wine – sometimes even influencing the selection, or when you watch a movie, or cook a meal. Even a simple act such as lighting a scented candle brings a feeling of anticipation that quickly dissipates, knowing it will go unfulfilled.

 

Now…(points and shakes finger at neighbors)…you know they DO this to you, the Adored Ones, and they don’t know the extent of the damage they cause, but subconsciously having your heart in their hands strokes their self-centered natures. You perhaps started out with this big, black hole in your heart which one fine day they suddenly filled. The loneliness that used to live there has been replaced by exhilaration. Every gesture initiated by them is precious stuff; and just the sound of their voice makes your now healthy heart leap for joy. But somewhere along the line, as you go along in the relationship, little things happen or words are said that prick your spider sense. You begin to get little indicators (often ignored at first) that possibly, maybe…there’s a wee chance that your love isn’t being returned quite to the extent that you’re giving it. It can be something very subtle, like the last several e-mails you received didn’t have the pretty rose icon at the end, or the daily calls have now become every few days. Sensing something has changed, you try to test the waters a little — rekindle a bit of the flirting, and it’s rewarded with something marginally hurtful or not acknowledged at all. Something has definitely changed. Or not, really.

 

Eventually you can’t ignore the indicators anymore and so begins the process of reassessing everything that has taken place since the beginning. You take inventory of all saved e-mails, notes of correspondence, photos taken of the two of you…perhaps there’s something evident in the body language of the photos. Did I imagine all of this, the hearts and flowers, the compliments and sweet flirtations? No…we’ve been intimate. We slept beside each other 60 nights out of 365 even though we live in 2 different countries. That took effort on both of our parts. I know how he folds towels and what he keeps in his freezer. When we make dinner together, I chop the vegetables and he sets the table. I did not imagine those things. So did I make more of it than it was? Was it me who turned this flirty little friendship into a full-blown love affair, and he simply played along until he could think of a way to back out? 

 

Could be…except I’ve discovered they never quite back out completely.

 

Instead, they choose to walk that fine line – where they say or do just enough to keep you captive, but then they slap you down if you get too close or assume too much.  A totally different phenomenon has occurred here, folks. Without you even knowing, they have been busy chiseling a second hole in your heart — right next to the one they now occupy, except his one contains panic and insecurity, and they are in total control of it. You are now more damaged than when you began this journey, and if your Adored One is adept at exploiting the two holes to match his occasion, then this, my friends, is the most miserable condition of unrequited love.

 

Sometimes you muster your nerve and confront them about the dynamics of your relationship. You want clarification, you need answers…you demand them. And then you hear what you don’t want to hear. This is generally followed by three weeks of pouting and silence on your part, and then the e-mail or phone call will come. Now you have a decision. Do you sit on this anger and totally bury everything you have/had, or do you cave in and pretend nothing was ever said? If you’re like me, pathetically you cave. You suck it up and settle for what you can get. You can’t bring yourself to sever the ties for good…just in case you made a mistake, of course, about the miniscule chance that they also adore you and are just being stubborn or fearful.

 

If you see yourself in anyof this, for God’s sake, pick up the phone and call a good therapist. Do as I say and not as I do. If I could ever get my heart and my head wired together then I would probably be okay. Until then, I’m just passing time.

 

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QotD: Dream Job

What's holding you back from your dream job?
Submitted by Question of the Day.

A non-compete clause that expires in 11 months.

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Happy without SUIT

Ob_gynanswering
Jolene Roxbury

The only SUIT I have is cobwebs. *giggles*

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Single, and movin’ on down the road.

This one is prompted by EmJay's Why? post. *waves to EmJay!*

 

My 52-year-old ass listens to music in the car (or anywhere else, when I can get away with it) as loud as I can stand without rattling the rear-view mirror off its base. I was raised around rock bands, and my son is a drummer for one, so besides being a music junkie, it seems only natural to me to crank it up loud enough to hear the squeaks of fingers on the frets and the vacuum of the high hat.

 

This is one of those things I sometimes fail to appreciate about my life right now, as I stay work-tired and still broke most of the time. Little things go unappreciated that shouldn't go unappreciated. Sometimes the good little freedoms squeezed in between the big scary must-dos are all we have, so we must acknowledge them and take delight. I wasn't always able to do this — listen to music in my fashion in the car. Any of the four times I was married (*crosses self*) I had to listen to what my partner could tolerate…at the level he could tolerate…or suffer wrath and loathing I liken to that of a freshly-bathed cat:

 

"JEEEZus CHRIST, turn that down!!! Don't you have any Reba?"

 

*sighed* I need to stay connected, but methinks I'm out of time with most of my peers.

 

So now I can listen to whatever I want, whenever I want, as loudly as I want.

 

I like to make these hokey little music videos from time to time, so I have scads and scads of candid video, gigs of raw video, of which I may later only use a few seconds of each for a finished project. Before the cropping, muting, splicing, frame-by-frame editing, transition inserts, special effects, and the final song overlay, the raw clips are pretty much like this — me going down the road, single, and doin' my thang.

 

Speakers on if you dare to take a 3-minute ride with me. (This video makes one wonder how I keep my eyes on the road to drive, lol.) I hope nobody trying to watch this is on dial-up, 'cuz I have high-speed cable and it was a mufucka to upload:

 

 

 

 

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QotD: Spring Cleaning

Are you planning on doing any spring cleaning this year? If so, please share a cleaning tip you swear by.

Here is my tried and true 10-step method. I did it just this weekend. You must start at the front of the house and go back. Pour yourself a hot cup of coffee and put some upbeat music on the stereo to keep you on task and make the experience a pleasant one.

 

1. Take anything that doesn't belong in the front room, i.e. suitcase from last trip, Christmas decorations, partially used bag of rock salt…and move all items one room back.

2. Dust and sweep front room. Pour second cup of coffee and decide to save windows for later.

3. Take anything that doesn't belong in the dining room, i.e. suitcase from last trip, Christmas decorations, partially used bag of rock salt, the 3 winter coats thrown over chair, bowling ball, laundry baskets…and move all items to the next room.

4. Dust and sweep dining room. Put 12 weeks of sale ads inside empty pizza box and throw away. Dust table again. Decide to wash dining room windows when you do the living room windows. Noticing that it is now almost noon, put coffee cup in sink and switch to merlot.

5. Take anything that doesn't belong in the den, i.e.suitcase from last trip, Christmas decorations, partially used bag of rock salt, 3 winter coats, bowling ball, laundry baskets, 8 pairs of assorted shoes, jigsaw, dog leashes…and move all items in front of basement door. Sweep and dust den. Pour fourth glass of merlot, and make a mental note to have a Window-Washing Party sometime in June.

 

You are now at a turning point. Having all items strategically in one place, you can make good progress at this point without having to move your feet (which coincides with your inability to do so). 

 

6. Toss the suitcase, winter coats, and 8 pairs of shoes into the bedroom to your right.

7. Pitch the partially used bag of rock salt, jigsaw, and dog leashes toward the back door in the kitchen to your left.

8. Hurl the bowling ball, Christmas decorations, and laundry baskets down the basement stairs. Remember to let go of the bowling ball. Crawl back up basement steps and pour another glass of merlot.

9. Pull the shower curtain closed, shut the bedroom door, put all pots and pans into oven for storage, take broom and whisk the majority of scattered rock salt out the back door, roll sweeper into corner of dining room so as not to trip on the cord again.

10. Light some candles, pour the last of the wine, and call it a day. 

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JP’s Exclusive Mix – (A Letter to my Manager)

Dearest Jim,

 

 

Thank you for loaning me your copy of the audio CD compiled by Joey, our outside salesperson for the west central territory.  Even though you had reservations that the CD’s copious amount of country music (20 songs) might somewhat dampen my enthusiasm for it, I appreciate your willingness to share with me something that obviously gives you much pleasure – as indicated by your winning smile and hearty accolades for it as you gingerly handed it to me. I brought the CD home with me and listened to it over the weekend.

 

 

I made it all the way through the 6th song before nearly succumbing to the urge to take my own life with a rusty screwdriver. I feel that I rebounded remarkably well after hearing that one band brutalize the Queen song, ā€œFat Bottom Girlsā€, but my eyes began to glaze over with the sixth selection, (the title escapes me, but it went something like ā€˜get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed’) and it was unfortunately ā€œend gameā€ for me. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something about this sort of country music that makes me want to spit, kick dirt, and screw my first cousin. I had to hit the eject button. I hope this doesn't hurt my chances for a raise in 2008..

 

 

All is not lost! The six selections that I did endure gave me an intuitive notion that it is not necessarily the lyrics that sends your heart aflutter and stirs the primal beat within you; it is more the tempo, and the good ā€œbeer buzz/hell yeahā€ feeling driven by it all. Therefore, I offer to you a mixed CD of my own…an effort to broaden your horizons…just a snatch hair.  Although it has more of an urban edge to it, I think you’ll find it doesn’t stray too far from the overall bounciness of JP’s exclusive mix, only without the unbridled wallop of huck-ditty-ho. In fact, I think you will find it quite the toe-tapper, given you’ve both bathed and shaved at the time of playing it. You do not sport a mullet, so the odds are in your favor. Tell Joey I know a good barber if he’s interested.

 

 

I’ve spared you some of my personal favorites on this CD – Evanesence, Garbage, The Pretenders, Seal, Sting, Van Halen, Ozzie, etc. so as not to catapult you entirely out of your comfort zone. Toward the end of the CD I did slip a couple of tunes in there that could even be considered southern rock, and a somewhat benign Tom Petty tune. You’ll hardly notice. Here’s the song list, and if Joey is with you when you play it, just tell him to crank back another Bud Light, it’ll be okay:

 

 

No Rain………………   ……Blind Melon

All I Want………………     ā€¦.Toad the Wet Sprocket

Slide………………… …  ā€¦.Goo-Goo Dolls

Peg……………………..  …..Steely Dan

One Headlight………… …  ..Wallflowers

What Would You Say…….   ..Dave Matthews Band

Baby Please Don’t Go… ……John Cougar Mellencamp

Sultans of Swing……..…  … .Dire Straights

Walking in Memphis…… ……Marc Cohn

How Far is Heaven……… …..Los Lonely Boys

Last Dance With Mary Jane…Tom Petty

I’m No Angel…………….   .…Greg Allman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The price of owning a puppy…

 

This is a long read, but well worth it for any pet owner, breeder, hunter if you enjoy what you do and wish to continue doing so. I did not write this article, but I wish I had. I've written similar articles, made many posts on many message boards, but this lady sums it up pretty well:

 

Pentimento
by DIANE KLUMB
as published in Show Site Magazine September 2002

Hi. My name is Diane, and I am a Breeder. I am good at it, and I am damned proud of it.

I bought my first show dog in 1969 and whelped my first litter in April, 1975. I have, since that inauspicious beginning, in partnership with my long suffering husband and a few good friends produced a few dozen champions, some top producers, a handful of Specials, and a lot of superb close-working grouse dogs and well loved companions. We kept a fair number over the years and sold the rest. (NOTE: I said sold, not 'placed'…we' ll address that particular idiocy later.) We owned a kennel for many years, and trained gun dogs. This involved the killing of untold numbers of game birds, all of which we ate. I have more recipes for pheasant, grouse and woodcock than you can shake a stick at. We showed our hunting dogs and hunted over our show dogs.

I do not believe for a minute that the whelping or sale of a single one of those purebred dogs is in any way responsible of the euthanization of a million unwanted dogs a year at the shelters around the country, any more that I believed that cleaning my plate when I was a kid could in any way benefit all the poor starving children in Africa, no matter how much the nuns or my mother tried to make me feel guilty about it. I couldn't see the logic then and I can't see it now (although today I would maybe refrain from suggesting that we bundle up Sister Edlita's meatloaf and actually send it to the poor starving children in Africa.)

Look at it this way:
If I go to a bookstore specifically to buy Matt Ridley's The Human Genome (which, as it happens, I recently did) and that bookstore does not have it, I will do one of two things – I will order it, or I will go to another bookstore the does carry it and purchase it there. What I will NOT do is take the same money and buy Martha Stewart's latest cookbook instead, because this is not what I want.

 

Guilt without logic is dangerous.

Show breeders are simply not responsible for the millions of unplanned and unwanted mongrels produced in this country. Period. So don't let anyone make you feel guilty about it. I do not understand why the top horse farms in this country are not in the least embarrassed by the fact they make a lot of money doing it, yet in the world of dogs if one is to be respected, one is to lose one's ass financially.

 

That is a load of horseshit, pure and simple, yet we accept it meekly and without question.

Why is that?
Basic economic theory suggests that if we are not turning a profit, one of two things is wrong – we suffer from poor management, or we are not asking enough for our product to cover our production costs. What are our costs? Well, if we are breeding good dogs, besides basic food and veterinary costs we ought to be adding in the costs of showing these animals, and advertising, and health testing, which are not expenses incurred by the high volume breeders (puppy mills).OK, so we have much higher costs involved in producing our healthier, sounder animals. Yet the average pet shop puppy sells for about the same as the average well bred pet from show stock, and often they sell for much more. What's wrong with this picture? We're stupid that's what's wrong.

Q. Why does a Jaguar sell for ten times more than a Hundai?
A. Because it's worth more and everyone knows it.

"And everyone knows it" is the key phrase here, folks. But somehow no one knows our puppies are worth more and we're embarrassed to tell them. Why is that? The difference between the sale price of a multi million dollar stallion and what he's worth as horsemeat on any given day at a livestock auction is quality. Yet we cannot address this issue in dogs because we are embarrassed to talk about money and dogs in the same breath.

Why is that? OK, I'll tell you, because someone has to come out and say this sooner or later.There is a war going on.
Unlike most wars, however, this one actually has three sides rather than two. We have Show breeders, who are producing a small number of purebred dogs. We have High-Volume breeders who are producing a large number of
purebred dogs. We have Animal Rights Activists, who believe that neither group has the right to breed or even own purebred dogs, much less make a profit at it. While the first group is busy trying to get rid of the second group because they don't like the way they breed dogs (which by the way ain't gonna happen as long as the American public wants purebred dogs and the first group won't produce them) the third group is winning the war.

You think I'm making this up?
Then how come we've started saying we "placed" our puppies instead of sold them? We talk about the new "adoptive homes" instead of their new owners. What's next? Instead of price of a puppy, we'll charge an "adoption fee?"

What's wrong with this new language? I'll tell you – We didn't come up with it, the Animal Rights Activists did – we
are just stupid enough to use it. We are stupid because it's based on the premise that we have no right to own dogs.
It is based on the premise that dog ownership is the moral equivalent of human slavery, and that the species homo sapien has no right to use any other species for any purpose whatsoever, be it food, clothing, medical research, recreation or involuntary companionship.

Now, I don't know about you, but my politically incorrect opinion is:
Our species did not spend the last million years clawing our way to the top of the food chain to eat tofu. The stuff tastes like shit no matter how you cook it, and there is absolutely no sense pretending otherwise.

Zoology 101:

Animals who kill other animals for their primary food source are called predators. Their eyes are generally on the front of their skulls, they have teeth designed to tear flesh from bone, and a digestive system designed to digest meat (like us). Animals that live primarily off vegetation are called herbivores. They have better peripheral vision, flat teeth for grinding, and the most efficient of them have multiple stomachs, which we do not (like cows). And lastly, Animals who live primarily off what other have killed (carrion) are called scavengers (think about that one long and hard.) Man like the canid, is a pack-hunting predator, which is probably why we get along so well. (If that fact bothers you, get over it.)

How did we get to the top of the food chain?
We are the most intelligent and efficient pack-hunters ever to suck oxygen from the atmosphere, that's how. We are certainly intelligent enough to understand that maintaining that position on this small planet depends on responsible
stewardship, not guilt. And we are so damned efficient that we can support a tremendous number of scavengers in our midst. Like the Animal Rights Activists, for instance. (Me, I think we should dump the whole lot of them buck naked
in the Boundary Waters and see how well this equalitarian philosophy of theirs plays out, but that's probably too politically incorrect for anybody else to consider. (Sigh.)

So what do we do?
Well, to begin with we need to regain control. The first way we do this is with language, which is the tool they have been using on us. These people who don't want us to "own" dogs are likening themselves to Abolitionists. That's a fallacy, unless you accept the premise that dogs are really little humans in fur coats, which frankly is an insult to a species that has never waged war on the basis of religious differences. No, the group they really resemble is the
Prohibitionists- remember them? A particularly annoying bunch of zealots who firmly believed and somehow
managed to convince our duly elected representatives that alcohol was a bad thing, and any beverage containing it should be illegal in these United States of America. Very few Americans actually agreed with this, by the way, but by the time Congress got its head out of its collective you-know-what, a whole new industry had developed- Organized Crime.

We look back at that whole debacle now and wonder how anything that stupid and wrongheaded ever happened.

Well, boys and girls, in the inimitable words of the great Yogi Berra: Its's DƩjƠ vu all over again. The Prohibitionists are back.

And once again, we are buying it. Amazing.

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QotD: Act the Fool

Share a story of a time you acted foolishly.

Every day. It's my credo.

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