Welcome to Mary Fran Bontempo's Website!

                             

It’s a ritual I’ve gone through several times annually for the last fifteen years.  It always begins the same way, as an excited child dances through the door after school clutching a sinister-looking paper.  The letter is then thrust under my nose as the words which strike fear into my very bones are uttered. 

             “Mom, we’re going on a class trip and they need chaperones.”

             Immediately a vise-like grip clamps down on my stomach.  I feel light-headed and my mouth goes dry.  I stare, wide-eyed, for I know what is coming next.

             “I said you would go.”

            The details may vary, but the basics remain the same.  At some ungodly hour in the morning, on a day that will undoubtedly bring rain reminiscent of the great flood, with a cost that will require the family to forgo meat for a week, my child’s class will travel to some far away locale for the highly anticipated class trip. 

             As a chaperone, I will be assigned a group of children whom it will be my job to shepherd through the day.  It sounds easy enough, but when joined by twelve other elementary schools treating their children to the same experience, things can get murky.  Kids look very similar from the back, especially if they happen to be wearing uniforms.  (I will be forever grateful to the mother who clipped a huge red bow into her young daughter’s hair on class trip day.  I never once lost sight of that kid.)  Generally, I spend the entire day counting heads, fighting the panic when one head inevitably comes up missing.

             Then, there is the bus ride, treasured by children, dreaded by adults.  In order to survive with any shred of sanity intact, every chaperone should be equipped with ear plugs capable of filtering out sound decibels equivalent to those put out by a jet plane.  No matter the hour, children are required, by some law known only to them, to scream in lieu of talking on the class trip.  And let’s not forget the ever-popular sing-along.  Thankfully, the current trend towards political correctness has put to rest the standard rendering of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”  Still, sing they will, loudly and tunelessly.

             The final destination is irrelevant.  I have sloshed through mud-filled orchards, marched through tours of historical cities, and even slept for one very long night under the hulking skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex at a museum.  At each event, the kids are bored and restless, holding out for the only part of the trip that matters, the gift shop, where they will spend countless dollars on stuff their mothers will toss at the first opportunity.

            Soon, it will happen again.  I am going to chaperone my daughter’s class trip to Washington.  However, since my youngest is beginning high school next fall, this will likely be my last such outing. 

            Many passages of motherhood make me misty-eyed.  This time, though, I think I’ll leave the tissues in the box.

Back to Top

Eight pocket folders.  Clear contact paper.  Number two pencils.  Copybooks, rulers, protractors, colored pencils, glue sticks, etc., etc., etc.

            You recognize this list.  It’s the dreaded back-to-school supplies shopping list.  You, along with countless other wild-eyed mothers, are descending on WalMarts, KMarts, office supply stores and even drug stores as we speak, in search of everything itemized on the multiple pieces of paper you are clutching in your hand.

            Racing up and down the aisles, you prepare to do others bodily harm to make away with the last five subject spiral bound notebook in baby blue.  You drive to five stores searching for the “right” backpack.  And if they’re out of Hannah Montana art boxes, you probably shouldn’t go home.

             I sympathize; oh, I do.  But all I can really say is, “Those were the days.”

             I wish I were buying Hannah Montana art boxes.  As it is, I went back-to-school shopping with my daughters last week, but it was a far different experience than those of yesteryear, which (I can’t believe I’m saying this) I now recall with nostalgic fondness. 

             With an older daughter entering her senior year of college and the youngest child starting her college career as a freshman, I knew I wasn’t getting away with a few boxes of number two pencils and some loose-leaf.  But I was still hoping to be able to eat.

             We’ve done the college thing before.  The list goes something like this:  new sheets, a mattress pad, a mattress topper (Did you ever lie on a dorm room mattress?), pillows, towels, bed risers (you have to raise the bed in order to be able to fit more stuff underneath it), a desk lamp, a fan, laundry detergent, personal care items, flip-flops (No bare feet on dorm shower floors—Ugh!), an alarm clock…hmmm…Did I miss anything?

             “Mom!  I need a computer!”  Right, a computer. 

 “And I need a printer!”  A printer.  Check.

 “Oh, and my cell phone?  It’s broken.” 

 “What do you mean it’s broken?” 

 “The screen keeps turning white and I can’t read my text messages.”  Heaven forbid.  A new cell phone.  Check.

 “I just ordered my text books online.  All together they cost $489.53.”

 Gulp.  We haven’t even started on cute new college clothes.

 I figured the older daughter would be easier.  After all, this is her fourth year.  We should have some of this stuff by now.

 “Mom!  I need a bed!”   A bed?  Don’t they have beds in dorms?  Oh wait.  No self-respecting college senior lives in a dorm.  She’s moving into a house.  She needs a bed, as in a mattress, a box spring and a bed frame, which, as I recall, we have to carry up three flights of stairs.  No elevators in this house.

 “Mom!  My roommates said I’ll never survive up on that third floor without an air conditioner.  It’s like an oven up there.”  No central air in this house either.

 “And I also need a desk.  And a chair.  Oh, and a rug.”   Cha-ching.  “But we can bring my old dressers from home.  They’re not in such great shape anyway, and I’ll just throw them out at the end of the year.”  Oh.  Okay.

 “When I was out there last week, I was looking at the kitchen stuff, you know, plates and silverware?  It’s pretty disgusting.  I was thinking of buying some new dishes and utensils.  And I want to get some slip covers or something for the couches….”

 We’re not done yet.  But if you happen to see my husband and me, feel free to invite us to dinner.  We’ll be the skinny ones.

Back to Top

           

            The carnage lay everywhere, the kitchen, the bathroom, the family room.  It appeared as though enraged madmen had torn through the house, wreaking havoc and leaving destruction in their wake.

             The perpetrators?  The male members of my family.  The victims?  Boxes.

             You heard me.  Boxes.  Between my husband and my son, the box doesn’t exist that they’re not holding some sort personal grudge against.  At least that’s what it looks like by the time they’re done mauling the box in question.

             “What happened to the cereal box?” I asked.

             “What cereal box?” my son grunted.

             “This cereal box.  The one that looks like it’s been attacked by a rabid dog.”

             “Oh.  It was a new box.  It was a little hard to open.”

             “It’s made out of cardboard.  How hard could it be?”

             “I dunno.  They must use a lot of glue on those things or something.  It was taking too long to open, so I just kind of tore it open.”

             “It took too long to open?  Exactly how hungry were you?”

             “Geez, it’s just a stupid box.  What’s the big deal?”

             I turned my attention to the cream cheese box, bashed and beaten into submission, staring forlornly up at me from the table.

             “Who pummeled the cream cheese box?”

             “Don’t look at me; Dad’s the one eating a bagel,” my son said, ratting out his father without a second thought.  Dave looked up and stopped eating in mid-bite.

             “Thanks for that, David.  I owe you one,” he muttered in our son’s direction.

             “Hey, it took the heat off of me.  You would have done the same thing,” David tossed back, chomping down a spoonful of cereal.

             “Never mind,” I injected.  “What did you do to this cream cheese box?  I know for a fact that this was already opened because I opened it myself—without destroying it, I might add—yesterday.”

             “Opening it wasn’t the problem,” Dave said.  “When I went to put the cream cheese back in the box, it didn’t fit right since the cream cheese wasn’t a perfect rectangle anymore, so I ripped the box a little trying to make it fit the cream cheese.”

             “The box isn’t supposed to fit the cream cheese, the cream cheese is supposed to fit inside the box,” I said.

             “Well, the box was too confining,” he countered.

             “It’s supposed to be confining; it’s a box!  That’s the whole point of a box, to confine the thing inside of it!” I yelped.

             “I still don’t see what the big deal is,” my son said.

             “The big deal is that when I try to put things away, nothing ever fits right in the cabinets and whatever is inside of the box is always falling out!” I said.

            “I never have any trouble fitting stuff in the cabinet,” David said.  “If there’s not enough room, you just shove the boxes to the back and it all fits fine.”

             “Wrecking more boxes in the process and compounding the problem,” I said.  Met with a puzzled stare, I stalked out of the room only to find a torn FedEx box divesting itself of its contents in the family room and a bathroom cups spilling from a ripped box in the bathroom.

             I sighed, defeated.  They are men.  Wrecking things is in their nature.  And it could be worse. 

             They could be trying to fix things instead.

Back to Top

             It’s happening again.

             You’d think I would be at least somewhat ready by now.  But, the truth is, it never gets any easier.

              I refer to my third and youngest child’s foray into the world of boys and dating.

             My husband and I floundered through this excruciating rite of passage first with our son and later our other daughter.  In both instances, we were ill-prepared for the intensity (read: hysteria) of emotion that gripped our household from the beginning of these “relationships” to their predictable demise.

             We should have expected that it would be intense.  After all, both older kids demonstrated an early fascination with the opposite sex, maintaining opposite-gender best friends for all of their childhoods.

             Actually, I knew I was in trouble when my four-year-old son returned home from nursery school one day and announced that his female friend had helped him unbutton his pants when he had to go pee-pee.  “I couldn’t get the button, Mom, so Emily helped me.”  (In this age of occasionally over-zealous sexual harassment awareness, I wonder who would be called to the principal’s office, my water-logged son or his helpful classmate.)     

             And our first daughter regularly harbored crushes on the boyfriends of the teenage girls living next door.  Once glimpse of the boy’s car would initiate the ritual bouncing and begging.  “Mom, I think Jeff is visiting Teresa.  Can I go and say ‘Hi’?  Can I?  Please?”  (The sight of certain cars still inspires a similar reaction, but the cars are now parked in front of our house.)

             However, nothing truly prepares one for the seismic shift that rumbles through every household when your kid falls into a case of “serious like.”

             You amble along, under the misconception that your child is still a child until one day you pick up the phone and an unfamiliar and either very giggly or very deep voice asks, “Um, hi, is (your child’s name here) there?”

             At that point, the line has been crossed, the defensive walls breeched, and, in the words of the immortal Bette Davis, “Better buckle up.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride.”

             First of all, forget the old rules.  Dating is different these days.  An entirely new lingo exists to describe the multiple phases of relationships, a complex process which all but requires a navigational chart to muddle through.

             Initially, after the requisite hovering, comes “hooking up,” which sounds sinister, but is, in fact, simply kissing.  Then, if both parties are in agreement, they are “with someone” when their status is questioned.  Should the relationship last long enough to enter stage three, the individuals are now “together.”  The most serious phase, at which few seem to arrive, is “going out,” during which the coveted titles of boyfriend and girlfriend are bestowed, when a new level of insanity imbues the proceedings.

             Incessant use of cell phones and computers insures that the young romantics need never, ever be out of touch and can thereby constantly inflict their passion on the entire family ad nauseum.

             The only holdover from our dinosaur days of dating is stage five, the end of the romance, which almost without exception arrives as regularly as the rising of the sun, and is still fraught with teenagers writing bad poetry and plowing through box after box of Kleenex.

             Oh, and one more inevitable similarity—the cure for a broken heart will always be a half gallon of ice cream, a spoon, and the next potential “hook up.”

             I’m not looking forward to entering this final frontier with child number three, but at least this time I’ll be more prepared.  The mint chocolate chip is already in the freezer.

Back to Top

            There is something about a man and his garage.

             Perhaps it’s because we women have commandeered the rest of the house, doing our best to make certain any visible presence of men is kept to a minimum throughout.  Maybe it’s because the garage is the sacred place which houses all of their toys, from cars to power tools to the lowly screwdriver.

             But most likely, it is because our guys know that we women have zero interest in the garage.  In that haven, they are free to be whatever they like, as we of the fairer sex tend to avoid even peripheral garage contact at every cost. 

             We leave the fellas to their garages not out of the goodness of our hearts, reasoning that they deserve some small part, any minute part of the home to call their own.  Rather, we give the garage over to the men folk because garages are…well, gross.  They are full of dirt and oil and pointy things about which we are clueless.  They house heavy, noisy equipment over which men can muse indefinitely, comparing things like torque and horse power, while most women would opt for a visit to the dentist (hey, at least we have a chance at reading an entire magazine article) rather than a lesson in proper power tool etiquette. 

             This love affair with garages dates back to prehistoric times when caves were the province of men and the Sears Catalogue, replete with its selections of draperies, linens and kitchen gadgets, had yet to make its appearance.  Yes, the men were the kings of the cave, and despite hundreds of years of effort on the women’s part to squash the cave complex, it persists to this day, handed down from generation to generation.

             The location and size of the garage are incidental.  It can be a behemoth of a space, attached to the house in a heated, three-car version, or it can take the form of a tiny shed, with only room enough for a lawn mower, shovel and a tool box.  No matter, the garage is the men’s personal Holy Grail.

             And so it’s come to pass in the Bontempo household that the garage has extended its siren call, reaching the ears of my son, who proved no match for its allure.

             At the end of May, our garage took on the appearance of Wal-Mart after a tornado.  Giant plastic bins full of pillows and sheets vied for space with a second hand love seat, a mini fridge and a television as well as a DVD player, desk lamps and old textbooks.

             To me, the place represented nothing more than the organized chaos of two college kids home for the summer.  But, in the eyes of my son, it was Neverland, and he its Peter Pan.

             Before I could object, he sorted through and reorganized everything to his liking, transforming the garage into his own personal man-den, adorned with power tools and old cans of paint.  He’s even opted to spend much of the summer at home with his dad, instead of following his mom and sisters to the beach.

             He now spends most of his free time watching television and entertaining friends in the garage, and has become the envy of several neighborhood men who discovered his hideaway while out walking their dogs.  David, ever generous, has invited them all in for some down time and refreshments—dogs welcome.

            Hmmm.  A twenty-one year old living at home for the summer with his father safely and contentedly ensconced in our garage.

Give the guys their garage.  That’s one extreme home makeover I’m happy to endorse.

Back to Top

It’s an event girls dream about from the time they are small.  It’s the chance to live out the Cinderella fantasy in real life.  It’s the apex of American teenage girlhood.  And if all goes according to the plan, the princess will remember this magical moment for the rest of her life.

             It’s an event parents think about as well, though with not quite as much rapture.  To parents, this dream resembles a nightmare, complete with a payment plan intact.  And if they are like most parents, they can expect that their daughters will participate in at least two such extravaganzas, if not more.

             That’s right, folks, it’s prom season again.  And although Webster’s tells us a prom is a “ball or dance given by a college or high school group or class,” the simplicity implied by such a definition is downright laughable.

             Few things are more important in the life of a teenage girl than “The Prom.”  Usually held in the spring, prom planning begins months earlier, at about the time the department stores put up their Christmas decorations, so, around October first.  That gives the girls a few weeks during the beginning of the school year to scope out potential prom dates.  (Of course, the boys are doing their own scoping, but their sights are set no farther than the upcoming Friday night.)

             Once the dating pool has been established (the finalists will not be chosen until later in the game to accommodate upcoming hissy fits and/or crushes), talk turns to “The Dress.”

             The search for the dress starts with the purchase of multiple magazines devoted exclusively to proms.  Said magazines are chock full of the “must-have” looks for the dance, which translate into impossibly elaborate dresses at exorbitant prices.  Then, the warrior princesses and their mothers dive into the dress feeding frenzy taking place at the specialty shops catering to prom royalty. 

             Dress shopping often takes place well before dates are determined, to avoid getting stuck with picked at left-overs sure to resemble gowns worn by the ugly step sisters.  (After last year’s fiasco, when we foolishly started looking for a May prom dress in February, only to find the pickings slim at best, we waded into the sea of taffeta and tulle much earlier this season.) 

 If one undertakes the hunt early enough, Cinderella might be so fortunate as to score a dress so laden with beading and frills that she feels like she’s lugging around a suit of armor, as my petite daughter found.  (Since the prom is, actually, a dance, we opted for a lovely, much simpler number which allowed my daughter to stand upright and let us pay our mortgage that month.)

             Lest anyone foolishly believe that after the dress it’s smooth sailing, allow me to burst your bubble.  Debates over shoes, hair and nails will consume your household right up until the moment your angel floats out the door, an ethereal vision worth the price of a small car.

             As for the guys, as usual, they get the easy part of the deal.  Ask the girl, rent a tux, have mom order some flowers, take a shower, get dressed and walk out the door.  Total time elapsed, four hours.  Total expenditure, certainly not cheap, but the family will still be able to eat three meals a day and keep the electricity turned on.

             The best part?  The girls get to repeat the adventure at least twice, while mom downs more Tums and dad tries in vain to get a positive balance in the checkbook.

             Where’s that fairy godmother when you need her?                  

Back to Top

             It all started with a hair dryer.

             Like most people, I have a morning routine, and adherence to it is not only automatic, but starts my day off with a minimum amount of my energy invested in thinking, something most of us would rather not do at 6:30 A.M.

             After getting my youngest daughter off to school, I head back upstairs for a morning shower.  The water goes on, and while I wait for things to heat up, I assemble the prodigious number of accoutrements necessary to spackle me in place for the day.  All automatic, until, on this particular morning, my hairdryer turned up missing in action.  A glance around our narrow bathroom proved that the dryer hadn’t been misplaced and was, in fact, gone. 

 A woman without her hair dryer can quickly come to resemble Medusa in more ways than one.  Fortunately, I had a good inkling of where to search for the missing necessity before snakes started sprouting from my head, and I headed hall to the room belonging to my college freshman daughter, home from school for Christmas vacation.

 “Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” I said, none too gently.

 “What?  Geez, what time is it?”  she mumbled.

 “It’s 6:45 and I need my hair dryer.  Any idea where it might have walked off to?”

 “Oh, yeah, sorry.  It’s on my desk.  Can I go back to sleep now?”

 I grabbed the dryer and stomped down the hall to finish my morning replastering.

 Later on, I entered the kitchen to find my college junior son, also home on break, foraging through the refrigerator.

 “Yo, Mom.  We’re out of orange juice and lunch meat,” he said.

 “What?  How can we be out of juice and lunch meat?  I just went to the store two days ago and stocked up.”

 “I dunno, but there’s none in the fridge.  And we’re out of chips and Bagel Bites.”

 “How about fruit?  Any of that left?”

 He opened the fruit drawer.  “Yeah, lots.”

 “Of course,” I said.  I was interrupted by a call from upstairs.

 “Hey, Mom?  Have you seen my blue sweater?  I put it in the hamper yesterday,” the freshman said.

 “Well, I did all of the wash yesterday, and I didn’t see it,” I said, climbing the stairs.  I took a peek in the hamper, just to be certain, and was astonished to find it filled to the brim.  “Where in the world did all of this laundry come from?  This hamper was empty yesterday!” I said.

 “Beats me, but there’s my sweater.  Any chance you’re doing some wash today?”

 That evening, gathered around the table for dinner, we passed plates of pasta (the son’s favorite), salad (the vegetarian freshman’s dish of choice), and London broil (the youngest and least picky’s selection).  As I surveyed the mountain of dirty dinner dishes, my son said, “You know, Mom, it’s good to be home.”

 “Yeah,” his sister echoed.  “It is.”

 “Well kids, it’s good to have you all home again,” I said.

And you know something?  It actually is.

Back to Top

 

The phone rang as I was cooking dinner.

             “Hi, Mom.  I have a question.”

             It was my son, calling from our “real” home in Philadelphia, where I had abandoned him and his father for much of the summer to stay with the girls while they worked at their jobs on the boardwalk in Ocean City.

             “Sure, honey, what’s up?”

             “Can I eat those lobster ravioli that are in the refrigerator?”

             “Lobster ravioli?  Where did that come from?”

             “I’m not sure.  I think one of the girls brought it home when she was out to dinner a while ago.”

             “You can’t eat that!  Throw it away; you’ll get sick.”

             “I ate a half of one last night and nothing happened.”

             Ah, yes.  The logic of the male mind.  “Well, if you eat the rest of it, I can pretty much guarantee that you’re going to be sick.”

             “Oh, man.  I don’t know what to eat, then.”

             “Make yourself a sandwich.”

             “There’s no lunch meat.”

             “Eat a bowl of cereal, then.”

             “Cereal?  I can’t eat cereal for dinner.”

             “You can if you get hungry enough.  Listen, I’ll be home in a few days and I’ll get you stocked up again.  Try not to starve until then.”

             “Okay, but it won’t be easy.”

             Several days later, I returned home to a most enthusiastic greeting.

             “Mom!  Thank God you’re home.  There’s no food in this house.”

             “You do realize that anyone can shop at the grocery store, don’t you?”

             “Seriously, Mom, there’s nothing to eat here.”

             I opened the refrigerator.  There, sadly wilting and well past their prime, were several bags of salad along with strawberries, peaches and apples, all looking the worse for wear.  Another shelf held a full gallon of milk, unopened and outdated.  A half empty jar of spaghetti sauce languished beside several plastic containers which formerly held the carefully preserved leftovers from previous meals and currently held life forms yet to be identified.           

             The freezer offered at least five receptacles housing untouched main dishes prepared for future defrosting and reheating, along with ready to cook chicken, ground beef and frozen ravioli.

             “David, look at all of this food in here.  You haven’t touched any of it!”

             “Mom, that’s not what I’m talking about.  Check out the pantry.  Look, we’re out of goldfish crackers and pretzels.  No chips, either.”

             “Of course, what was I thinking?  You’re missing out on three of the major food groups.”

             “Mom, I’m serious.”

             “So am I.  Your eating habits have got to improve.  Plus, you’re twenty-one years old.  It’s about time you learned how to cook a few things.  Now, I’m going to go to the grocery store to buy some fresh foods.  Is there anything you want?  Aside from the goldfish crackers, that is.”

             “If I have to learn how to cook, how about Hamburger Helper?  And Bagel Bites.”

             “Hamburger Helper.  Well, I suppose we have to start somewhere.”

             An hour later I returned, restocking fridge, freezer and pantry shelves.  “David, come here, I’ll show you how to make a few things.”

             I patiently explained defrosting and reheating techniques, how to prepare simple grilled chicken and even how to navigate the complexities of Hamburger Helper.  “Now, do you want me to write any of this down?”

             “Yeah, I think so.”

             “What part?”

             “Pretty much all of it.”

             Later, I presented my son with basic instructions on cooking for two temporary bachelors.  “I’m heading down the shore tomorrow.  The girls have to work.  Do you have any questions?” I asked, as David reviewed my directions.

             “Just one,” he said, looking up from the paper.

             “What’s that?”

             “When are you coming home again?”

Back to Top

            Part of being a good mother is knowing when to step in and when to back off.  Since we are supposedly raising our children to function as independent individuals with a minimum of input from mom and dad, it’s important to allow them to test the waters regularly on the journey of life, even if it means that they have to occasionally go under in the process.

             However, no parent wants to see their child fail.  From the moment the little bundle is placed in our arms, our every instinct is to protect our offspring at all costs, a trait we share with many other of God’s creatures.

             View any National Geographic documentary depicting interaction between animals and their young, and witness the remarkable lengths to which the critters will go to protect their babies, even at the expense of their own lives.  (I can also relate to those creatures who on occasion feel the urge to eat their young, but that’s another story.)  While I have no doubt that we, as the “thinking” species, would all go to the same protective lengths were they demanded of us, there are areas in which the animals, despite our supposed cognitive superiority, have us beat.

             Those same National Geographic specials, while depicting the great devotion of mothers to their young, also present moments when mom appears to be ignoring junior, just as he is about to step into a mountain of trouble.  He takes the plunge, and as he is about to go under for the third time, mom ambles over, scoops the straying munchkin out of harm’s way, swats him on the head, and calmly goes back to munching on berries.

             Junior, for his part, accepts the smack, and with a wary glance back at the source of his misfortune, scampers on his way.  Without a word, the lesson is learned, (who says a good smack doesn’t work once in a while?) and therein lies the difference.

             Animal mom knows, without benefit of actual thought, the importance of letting her little ones make mistakes.  Without them, the kids just won’t get it.  And on some instinctual level, animal mom knows she won’t be around forever, so it’s her job to get the little guys as self-sufficient as possible as quickly as she can. 

             She must be doing something right, for the world has yet to see a twenty-three year old bear living with his mother, catching up on naps while she scrounges up the evening meal.

             Obviously, we humans could learn a thing or two.  Making mistakes is natural.  It’s okay for our kids to make them.  In fact, unless we let them make them, the truth is they won’t learn some of the most important skills necessary for succeeding in this world, namely resilience and perseverance.

             Difficult as it is, motherhood is all about teaching and letting go, and some of us do it better than others.  It’s not easy, and I’m trying, but I realized I have to start small.  So, when my son, home from college, wanted to do his laundry, I resisted the urge to say I would do it.   I bit my tongue as he mashed too much into the washer, grimaced when he shoved a huge ball of wet stuff into the dryer, and sighed when he ended up with a laundry basket full of nothing but gray, wrinkled clothes.

             He smiled with pride as he showed off his efforts.  “See, Mom, I told you I could do it.”

             Not perfect, but not requiring a smack on the head either.

             I think we’re both going to be just fine.

Back to Top