Despite its spelling, there is no FUN in funerals.  Well, unless your part of my huge Irish-American Catholic family.  We always find a place for humor, why?  because it’s our #1 coping mechanism.  Is this a bad thing? Are we being disrespectful? No and no.  If humor is first, then music is very close second.  But what is even more important than both of these, is our faith in God.

Since my last blahhhhg entry, my 86 y/o dad “got sick”, meaning he had a wickedly re-infected neuropathic left foot that he didn’t tell anyone about, probably because he couldn’t really feel much.  He ended up in Middlesex Hospital’s ER, got admitted, had surgery to clean up the wound, then sadly, suffered a major heart attack, was transferred to ICU, finally, ending up in Middlesex Hospital’s Hospice unit.  Sadly, after a full 8 day vigil, the man I’ve lovingly called “Daddy” for 58 years, took his last breath, right in front of me, as I sat next to his bed, crying, holding his hand and caressing his full head of white hair. My dad has died. I can’t even believe these words are even coming out of my mouth. The truth hurts.  Blessed, I had my dear friend from nursing school, Beth, by my side, rubbing my back, as she, too, cried for my loss.  The Hospice nurse also present, Dori, was a natural.  Compassionate and comforting.  Perfect. The first day I met her, she said her name was Dori, just like the Disney character, as she’d, too, probably forget all our names.  Humor.  It helps, even on Hospice.

Humor is genetic in our family and its how we cope and survive.  It’s usually a one-liner that cracks the tension or a longstanding inside joke, yes, usually with a sports reference.  For instance, does every family throw rolls to each other at the Thanksgiving/Christmas/Easter dinner table and then critique the pass?  Ours does.  It’s tradition!  Did we throw rolls to each other, over many unaware heads, at Dad’s packed funeral reception this past Saturday?  Absolutely.  And, yes, the throws were right on target, all passes were caught, and no one sustained any shoulder injuries either, right Billy?  It’s a Dunn thing.  Humor, laughter, a throw, a catch, an unbreakable bond.

Did we laugh and share stories, watch old funny photos on a slide show (power point) and laugh (and cry) at Dad’s Irish wake and FUNeral reception? We sure did. Did we send Dad off in a respectful, honorable, loving and humorous way? 100% Yes.  Billy’s eulogy of Dad was amazing.  Beautifully written and well spoken.  I’m sure Dad’s Irish eyes were smiling.

Humor in the ICU? That’s another story, but it was there.  In Dad’s restlessness and confusion, he came out with some goodies.  Knowing that sometimes the sick and dying start dreaming of their own parents, I asked him if he was dreaming of anyone or anything in particular?  He said, “Yes.”  So I asked him, what?  His answer, “toilet paper.”  My brothers and I are still laughing.  ‘Twas not what we expected to hear.  Humor.  He didn’t even know how much we needed to hear something silly and I know he wasn’t trying to be silly, but man oh man, it helped.  You know what one brother said next, right?  If you said Charmin, you win and you’re catching on.

Music.  Yes, my Dad loved music.  Schmultzy music.  The schmultzier, the better.  A favorite song of his was “They Call The Wind Mariah.”  Our first dog was even named Mariah.  She did run like the wind, especially when she was called, only problem, she ran up the street instead of coming home.  I’m really not sure why he loved that song, but I will tell you, and Beth can confirm, the moment of his last breath, the wind whipped and howled around the outside of his Hospice window as if his soul was taking flight.  It was so amazing, it gave me goosebumps. I almost started to sing …”and they call the wind, Mariah!”

Dad used to sit by our old console stereo that took up a third of our living room, listening to Ireland’s original 1920’s tenor, John McCormick.  He sang along to those sad old Irish ballads while his records played with their old scratchy Victrola sound.  The records weren’t old, the recordings were.  He loved it and yet most times he’d end up with tears rolling down his face as he longed for his own parents, long since passed.  I, too, loved this schmultzy Irish music and sang along with him.  Music was my special bond with Dad.  I’ve since taught these songs to my kids, yes, complete with the tears.  My Grandma Dunn, my Dad’s mother, used to say, “We Irish have our bladders too close to our eyes.”  Humor.

Notre Dame Fighting Irish Song?  Stars and Stripes Forever? John Philip Sousa Marches? Yes, yes, and yes I did, march around our living room while Dad played those records.  I still do in my own house, just ask my kids and very patient husband.  They chuckle.  Humor. Music.

One summer, our parents took us took up to Tanglewood in the Berkshires, the summer home of the Boston Pops.  Cue: Marches and schmultzy music.  We sprawled out our blankets and beach towels on the grass, (ain’t no way in hell they could afford covered seats) gazing up at the stars, listening to the Boston Pops.  At first, us kids wished we had a real seat, but after a while, we loved it and honestly thought that the people under the pavilion were missing out.  I’m sure I stood up for Stars and Stripes, probably had to march in place because it was quite crowded.  The whole experience to Tanglewood, was on so many levels, Heavenly.  Ugh. Heavenly.  That word now takes on a new meaning.  It’s Dad’s new forwarding address after 57 years at the same exact address in Clinton, CT.

As I watched Dad lie there in Hospice, struggling to breath, fighting to stay alive, any bad memories of mine completely disappeared.  (Believe me when I tell you he was strict.  You did not want to upset Dad or worse, let him down.  Even a brother or two learned how to sign Dad’s signature on progress reports just to avoid having to show them to him.)  I sat there, hour after hour, watching him as a mother watches her newborn breath, but felt as if I was a 12yr old girl again, mourning the Dad she knew from childhood.  Dad, the coach, the lifeguard, the loyal fan at all my games.  The man I made proud when I finally graduated from nursing school in ‘82. (He was none too happy when I dropped out of UCONN.  None.  I can laugh now, but that date, Nov. 17, 1978, is just a tad bit seared in my brain.)  He was tough, but we know he loved us, all of us, unconditionally.  As for me, I was his little girl, even at 58.

Dad was a public school teacher in New Haven for 27 years.  He taught math.  He was a numbers guy.  Clinton, CT = 25 miles from either New Haven, Middletown or New London, or a 2.5 hrs drive to either NYC or Boston.   Clinton Town Beach, 1 Mile from our house.  Distance between both rafts at the Clinton Town Beach, 25 yards.  Basketball hoop, 10 ft. high;  foul line, 15 ft away.  “Take 100 shots a day and don’t come in the house until you’ve made 10 fouls shots in a row.” Practice your lay-ups by trying to touch our 8 ft high ceilings.  60ft to pitcher’s mound, 90 ft to 1st.  Left field at Fenway 310 ft from home plate, Green Monster 37.2 ft tall.  Football fields = 100 yards. Each end zone another 10 yards.  Previously, longest field goal ever kicked, 63 yards by Tom Dempsey, who had only half of a foot. You can talk on the phone to your friends for 10 minutes. In 1971, we drove 7000 miles across the country and back, in 30 days, camping. We visited our Dunn side, Arcand cousins in Seattle. We had 5 kids, they had 8. Number people all together? 17.   Fun was had 100% of the time! Time together, not long enough per us kids. Parents probably thought different. Cue: That 3 day rule about visitors and fish.  Both Mom and dad were the youngest of 6 kids in their families. Both their mothers were (I think) 42 when they were born, at home.  Dad died on 2/16/18 => 2+16=18. Time 21:12.  I’m sure he loved all those Sousa marches because of their clocklike steady beats.  It’s a math thing.  Numbers, numbers, numbers. He loved numbers.

This past month has been surreal.  I feel numb, I think.  Actually, I’m not really sure what I feel.  My brain says, I know Dad’s gone. I watched him take his last breath.  My heart says, I still don’t believe it.  Maybe, selfishly, I just don’t want to believe it. My brain says, he was old, in poor health, his foot terribly infected, he was getting more confused, and yes, he was 100% completely frustrated with his lack of independence. (I think he asked everyone he knew to help him get his license back. He even called the CT State Police telling them they we were wrong to take it away.)  My head gets it, my heart doesn’t.  I’m relieved he’s no longer in pain or struggling, yet I’m so sad he’s gone.  I know by my strong Catholic faith, that Dad is wrapped in God’s loving arms surrounded by his own huge family.  That is so comforting, I can’t even explain it.  He is at his eternal home.

Dad was 86 when he died.  How many years between Boston Red Sox World Series wins?

86.

Dad and Mom were married 63 years.  What’s the exit number off I-95 for Clinton, CT?

Exit 63.

Numbers.

Thanks for everything, Daddy.  I will always love you. ❤️

Love,

Your #1 and only daughter,

Katie ☘️

2/27/18

It’s January 27, 2018, the dead of winter, what else should I talk about?  Summer, of course!

A few people, ok, more like a total of 2 friends have asked me to blog again.  Go figure, they like my stuff!   Problem is, I got nuttin in my SAD head to blab, I mean, blog about.  Husband Joe asked, “Do you have brain Bloggage?” Yes, I do, and that’s pretty funny, I’m going to use that, thanks!  So, to keep my 2 fans tuned in, I’m going to defer to my favorite personal PTSD story.  We all have one don’t we? Don’t worry, no labor and delivery horror stories, not yet anyway!

It was either June 17th, 18th, or 19th. ….On one of these dates in June, I graduated from high school in ‘77, another date I graduated from nursing school in ‘82, and the last date, I got jolted, literally, and that was in 1978.  I just can’t ever remember which June day was which.  I could go look it up, but I’m too lazy.

Anywho, the above first two events are pretty self explanatory.  Graduations!! Yeah!! Good times!! Although, one could easily argue that surviving 3 years of absolute hell, I mean, nursing school, could result in PTSD,  but that’s not what I’m talking about here.  This third and very memorable (aka traumatic) event was literally burned into my brain, however it entered through the back of my then, very toned left thigh and exited out my left pinky toe.  That’s right, lightning.  Very lucky, I was, we all were.  We, being our entire women’s softball team, most of whom, all got zapped.

It was a 3H summer evening, Hazy, Hot and Humid.  Ok, it was still spring, but it was close to summer!  We had an away women’s softball game in Old Slyme, CT. (Sorry, Old Lyme, that’s what we called you!)  Old Slyme’s (OSL) team, by our own self proclaimed amazing standards, wasn’t very good.  The drive from Clinton was a good 30+ min ride, but felt more like about a 3 hour drive.  Once we got over the Saybrook bridge, we got off 95N and headed south for several miles. (Who knew OSL had this much land south of the bridge?)   “Are we there yet?”  Nope.  Keep gooooing, but don’t miss the left turn or we’ll end up in East Slyme! (You knew that was coming!) We continued driving up and down and all around winding roads to some elementary school on I think it was called, Mile Road, which should’ve been named 100 Mile Road. (Did that sign just say, Welcome to Rhode Island?)  We found it! Yippie!  Remember, no GPS in 1978!  How did we ever get by?  We can thank those Weekly Reader maps from 4th grade!

OLS’s field was tucked way back in almost the (freakingfanelli) woods, you know, near all the mosquitoes and ticks! Good thing Lyme Disease wasn’t even on our radar back then, but the bad thing, we didn’t have radar on our cell phones either!  Cell phones?  More like NO phones, which would’ve been helpful to summon 911 help.  Thee bottom line, we wanted an easy Win and then get heck out of Old Slyme, hit the Jug Inn, and not have to return there until next year’s away game.  Little did we know that some of us would be Carl Lewis Olympic sprinting it the heck out of there, while others lay motionless on the ground.

The game was going well, we were winning! (Of course we were!)  Then we heard it.  Off in the distance, a rumble of thunder, or was that a plane?  Uh oh, there it goes again, maybe it’s not a plane.  We could NOT really see any major dark clouds because this storm was approaching us from behind the thick forest of trees.  It was getting a little darker, but it wasn’t anything that made us really worry.

Drip, ..drip,.. dripdripdrip,  It was starting to rain.  What inning was it? Top of 4th.  Crap, not enough, we needed to get in a full 5 innings for it to count, cuz we sure as heck didn’t want to drive ALL the way back there AGAIN!   We were winning and it was an away game, so we had to keep playing.  Hurry, up, hurry up, gotta get this game in…More thunder, hmmm, that one was little louder, must be getting closer.  Can’t really see it, gotta still be a little ways away from us, besides, the Ump isn’t calling it yet.  Good thing that we’re up at bat and protected by all these nice tall trees (soon to learn this is not a good thing!) sitting on these nice wooden benches with their huge metal legs and bolts (also not a good thing). We were so glad that we were at bat and not out in the field.  Those players are the tallest things out there!!  I’m glad I’m not up yet either, aren’t those bats metal? Yup. Don’t stand on deck holding that bat if you don’t have to!

FLASSSSH/CCCRRRAAACCCKKK!  (No need to count the seconds in between, there weren’t any!!)  I know this sounds crazy, but I honestly didn’t know what happened as it was happening.  All I remember was hearing a realllllly LOUD noise and simultaneously getting lifted, completely, arse and all, off the bench with my left leg flying higher than a NYC Rockette.  Kathy “Gladbags” Gladwin was on my left side and holy cow, she literally flew OFF the bench and landed about 6’ behind the bench. How’d she do that? She was next to me one minute, gone the next.  SCCCCREAMSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!   Oh, yeah!

I landed back down on the bench and immediately ran as fast as I could, ok maybe not Carl Lewis fast, more like, Carla Lewis fast.  It was as fast as my long, scared to death legs would take me, but yes, tall girl here, ran hunched over, not wanting to be the tallest thing in that big open softball field!  Maybe, seeing that I was all hunched over, it was more Grandma Lewis fast….thank goodness, no cell phone videos!

Anywho, I got to Nancy Javor’s car and Nancy was already there.  She had been on 2nd base and may not have felt anything, but she SAW the whole damn thing unfold.  She described it as the biggest flash of light she’s ever seen, almost as if a bomb blew up right in front of her.  Bodies went flying everywhere.

We climbed into her unlocked mother’s yuge brown Chevy Impala station wagon, fondly named, Gertrude.  Gertrude could fit almost half of our team!  But, where were they? Where was everyone? Now real panic started to set in. Where’s Gladbags? Where’s Hedge? Oh, here she comes.  Why didn’t everyone run like we did?  Are they OK??  Maybe we should drive Gertrude over towards the bench.  Where are the car keys? In Nancy’s bag behind the bench.  Ugh. Now what?  What the heck happened anyway?  I think we were struck by lightning!!!  OMG!!!

Yes, we were.  Well, it wasn’t a direct hit, not too many people survive a direct hit.  Remember that tall forest of trees surrounding the field?  Well, one not so lucky tree, right behind our bench, took the direct hit.  The electricity from the lightning strike didn’t stop at the tree, it kept Energizer bunny going, seeking other conductors, like those metal poles in the ground holding up our nice wooden bench, secured with huge metal bolts, a few of which Gladbags and I were sitting directly on, specifically, my left leg.

John Carlson, a husband of one of our teammates had his hand leaning against that same unlucky tree when lightning struck.  (Later on we learned, it hit just a foot or so above his hand.)  John ended up in full cardiac arrest and was revived by a very smart and cool headed OSL coach who performed CPR on him.  (Best to rethink that Old Slyme nickname!)

Not sure who called 911, but ambulances, firemen, cops, and many EMS personnel showed up.  Many teammates like Gladbags, we’re temporarily paralyzed.  They could not move their legs.  They lay there on the ground unable to get up while the storm was right overhead!  After a few minutes, the temporary paralysis eased and with others’ help somehow got to the cars.  John and his the wife, Nikki, both ended up in ICU at Middlesex Hospital for a few days.  Both, thank God, survived the lightning strike.  We found out later that the coins in John’s pockets made for pretty bad burns.

Cindy Hedge’s, now late, father, Mr. Patrick Hedge, who was very high up in the CT State Police, drove a bunch of us in his tank of a squad car to L&M Memorial Hospital to get our vital signs checked, etc.  (He really was the coolest, funniest, nicest man, with the best smile around.  Nothing phased him, nothing.  I felt comforted knowing he was driving us to the hospital.  I don’t know why, I just did.  Believe it or not, he was not even at our game.  He heard the calls on his police radio and just like that, voila, he appeared.  The guy was smooth.)

So, thank God, again, we were physically fine, mentally, not so much.  I had a burn mark on the back of my left thigh and what looked like a big popped blister on my left pinky toe.  Entrance and exit.  My sock had a hole in it and a burned mark around the hole.  I saved it.  It’s somewhere downstairs in my cellar.  It’s probably disintegrated by now, but it was proof!  I do have my own built in radar now, no not on my cellphone, I just know.  Call it KateDar, it’s better than Channel 3’s Doppler Gaydar. Sorry, Scot Hiney, couldn’t resist..

I continued playing softball for many, many years.  I took a little time off for 2 pregnancies.  I even came back ~3 weeks after Bridget was born, complete with both a nursing bra and sports bra two sizes too small to help hold the mammaries in place.  I couldn’t breath well, but I saved the liquid gold supply.

The final straw of “you’re not as young as you used to be” sadly hit home at my last time at bat.  Stupid grounder to short, crap, not even out of the freakingfanelli infield.  I still sprinted to first, only to end up pulling not one, but two hammies!!  Dunn is Done.  Put a fork in her!  Go ahead laugh, my husband did! “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of someone pulling two hammies at the same time!”

Now, it’s golf.  But, be it softball, golf, a picnic, on the beach, you name it, my KateDar can pick up dark clouds, rumbles of thunder and flashes of lightning w/in a 50 mile radius. Just ask my husband, my kids, my brothers, my parents, my close friends, my teammates,….they all laugh at me, they make jokes, they tell me it’s so far away it’s not even close yet!!  Sorry, I don’t care what you say or think.  I’m outta here! If you need me, I’ll be under my bed, thinking about my next blog….let’s see, 36 hours of labor and then how many hours of pushing???…..

P.S. Our women’s softball team was sponsored by Lupone’s Dept. Store in Clinton, CT.  After getting zapped, we were known then as Lupone’s Lightning! We even sewed felt lightning badges on our sleeves.  And yes, we came in first place for the season! We were all both pretty lucky and pretty good!

XO, Kate  1/27/18

 

Happy New Year 2018!!

I, Kate, resolved on last Jan 1, 2017, to lose #50, only #75 more to go!

It’s that time of year again when we’re bombarded with a gazillion celebrities (getting paid, like they need the money!) to speak on behalf of the newest twist on usually an old weight loss program.  Lose 30# Fast! …Turbo-13! …New Freestyle, Join a gym with your friend for only $20!  Lose weight, make and keep your New Year’s resolutions! Blablabla…

Over heard in my house this week, ”OMG, not again, Marie Botox-mond is still at it, selling Nutty System!  She’s on every single channel, I swear!  She even had a full page ad in my AAA magazine!!  I think she’s following me.

🎵Marie: “I’m 50# lighter.”

🎵Donny:  “I’m a little bit sick of your frozen face!”

And even worse than our country girl, Marie, is the queen of giveaways, Opera!! You know, Kayle Ging’s BFF?  Or is it the other way around??  Anywho, Really? Opera?!! Who are the blind ad wizards that came up with her name, yet again?!  If you think that of all the celebrities out there, that she’s the guru on how to lose weight, I have a BoFlex machine I’d like to sell ya! (True!)  Ok, ok, maybe she is, but she also wears the crown for the celebrity most likely to put it all back on and then some!  Hey, I’m not making fun of her, …Ok, maybe I am.  Sadly, Heaven knows, I know how she feels!!  Difference being, I ain’t on TV acting as if I’m an expert on weight loss for the 27th year in a row! Stick to giveaways, Opera! I’ll take a green Mercedes, thx.

Have you seen the advertisement on FB selling black yoga pants that proclaim to burn away cellulite simply by wearing them?  Too good to be true?  Somebody else buy them and let me know if they work? Thanks. Oh, you have to exercise in them too? Ohhh, well they didn’t say that!!

After a lot of mostly negative, self loathing thoughts, as I eat 3 more homemade oatmeal craisin white chocolate chip cookies warmed in the microwave, (hungry yet?) I’ve come up with a new diet plan.

(Dating, circa 1985    Kate: “Joe, do you like seafood?”    Joe: “Of course, I like all foods!!  I see it and I eat it!!”)

I’ve figured out that many of the crappy, high caloric foods consumed (yes, by me) start with the letter C.

Chocolate, cookies, cakes, coffee, Chardonnay, cheddar cheese, cream cheese, Chinese food, cashews, calamari, clams, (ice) cream, cannoli, etc….

My 2018 resolution is to avoid any food that starts with a C.

I’m going to call it The No C-Food Diet.  Maybe this will C-atch on!

BTW, My new 2018 Dictionary will be on the shelves in 2 days.

McChocolate, McCookies, McCakes, McCoffee, McChardonnay, McCheddar McCheese, Get the picture?….I’m never going to lose the McSeventy-Five pounds that I need to!

 

Xo, Kate  12/30/17

I’m gonna give my Weight Loss Coffee another try…I didn’t get started correctly the first time back in the fall …But, it’s as simple as just 2 cups/day!  Also, I am totally Loving my fiber water!! It’s so tasty and hopefully bringing down my Chol.

For legitimate info on Weight Loss coffee, and/or you’d like to buy the boflex machine in our basement and carry it the heck out out of there, shoot me an email at k.scott317@icloud.com   I kid you not!

Hello, Opera, do you like coffee?

I’m loving the newly soooooouped up grocery store (the one and only!) in our small town of Portland, CT!  (Yes, there is indeed a Portland in CT, too!! Take that Maine and Oregon!)  New owners from neighboring state, MA, bought it several months ago, they even changed the name from One-Town to GLAdams, but you know, no one that lives here in Portland will ever call it by its new name, ever!  Even giving directions will go like this: “Take a left into the parking lot where One-Town used to be…”

After many weeks of construction and a lot of do re mi $pent, they transformed our little redneck store into our own mini “Whole Paycheck” kind of experience.  Okay, maybe not that extreme, but I’m totally impressed with it, although the aisles got narrower and the carts got smaller.  What’s up with that?

Yesterday I found myself wandering slowly (a They aisle new everything into MOVED almost!!!  Marketing ploy? A big fat YES!) around the aisles, singing to the piped in Christmas Carols.  Was I in Heaven?  Did I fall for their marketing ploy? Two big fat YESses!   “Where the heck are the eggs?”  I even sang a little harmony here and there, and was just waiting, bring it on, bring it on, “Oh, Tannenbaum” come on, sing it in German!!  I was ready !!   Anything to NOT sing One-Town’s piped in ONE and ONLY commercial!!  If I heard that Rasta-Vita commercial one more time……

2pm, a great time to shop, old ladies are already home, slippers are back on and tea water is boiling.  Young moms finished their shopping hours ago and they’re at home checking their FB, (In my day, we napped!) waiting for the bus to drop off their melting, germ ridden, angels.  Exhausted, working outside of the home moms, are watching the clock, trying to come up with what to make for dinner.  Only a few nice elderly men are shopping beside me.  They push relatively empty carts, probably just holding on for balance.  Their canes stick out of the cart and manage to clear off stacked boxes of corn muffins, etc, at the turn.  They smile and nod, saying “hello.”  Ahhh, The Greatest Generation of gentleman, I think I was born too late.  I’m really an old soul, NOT OLD, just an old soul.  “After you!” “Why, thank you.” Open my door? Love it.  Burn my bra? Never!  As it was, I thought I was the last girl in 6th grade to FINALLY get one!!  Mom: “Hey, Dad, guess what I bought Katie today?”  Me: “SPEEEECHLESS?!!!”  Timmy and Billy: “HAAAAAAAAAAA!”  But I digress, nowadays, I can’t wait to get home to take it off!!! I mean, just my bra, you, you, dirty old men…Hey, maybe those nice elderly men in GLAdams are ….no…they couldn’t be….hitting on me?!  Don’t flatter yourself, Kate.  Remember, they can’t see a freakingfanelli thing!!!

I finally finish my shopping and head up to the checkout lanes.  There’s hardly anyone in line, but I still use my keen assessment skills to see who’s doing the checker-outing….Do I recognize any of them? That kid looks way too young, probably his first day at the register. Nope, not going to him.  Is there someone to bag? Is this going to take 5 minutes or 20?  Come on, you know we all do this…GLAdams, geniuses that they are, have even added a second express lane, but at this 2pm lull, there wasn’t a checker-outer standing at either one. (Their lights were on, but no one was home!! I mean no one was working them!) Hmmmm, decisions, do I now go into the first real lane, which, in One-Town days was usually saved for express if no one was working the specific express lane?  I think, well, I’m not sure, but I’m willing to take that risk and start unloading my cart.  Then it happens, a tall, cranky looking, middle-aged man holding only a basket steps up rightbehindmycart and gives me the “you’re really emptying all those groceries in the express aisle” look…..I pause, kick in my acting skills and politely ask my young pretty checker-outer gal, “Oh dear, is this express aisle?” Nice young checker-outer gal tells me, “No, you’re fine.”  Which then gives me the go ahead to give Mr. tall cranky pants behind me, the obligatory return look and say with my eyes, “Nice try buckoo, you heard her!  Not my fault no-one’s- working-express-checker-outer-lanes!”  Maybe I should’ve gone into acting! Although, then I’m reminded of that all too famous line, “You have a face for radio!”

Finally, nice young checker-outer gal says, “Mam, you can leave the waters in your cart, you don’t have to lift them.”  “Oh, okay, thanks!”  In my mind I’m thinking, “Ok, honey, I wasn’t planning on it!”  She totals it all up and I look up at the screen and for the first time in my adult life, I gasp in quiet disbelief.  I’m 100% shocked and simultaneously, 100% insulted!!   She thinks I’m a senior and gives me a senior discount!!!! HOLY, HOLY, do I look that OLDLY?  Come on acting skills, where are you now?!  Instantaneously, my pennycounting mother-in-law (GRHS🙏🏻) shows up in my head saying, “Are you nuts? Take the discount!!!”  Quickly, my 100% insulted turns into an 80% insulted: 20% delighted!  I’ll take the $5.00 off!! Although, as I’m pushing my cart out the door, I think, maybe they should change their name to MADAMs.

Next trip and probably next blog:  Do or don’t I ask for a senior discount?

Easy peasy……NO freakingfanelli way!

Xo, Kate   12/15/17

In 1960, when Dunn babies were booming and I’m told, chicken pox were blooming on my 1yr. old body, my parents moved to what seemed to be “clear across the country” from their rental in their hometown of New Haven, CT. to the little suburban town called Clinton, CT.  Total distance: 25 miles.  “It’s almost Rhode Island!” I think was heard from more than a few New Haven relatives!

Dad was an elementary, (non-union, he even crossed picket line$, he had to, to feed his family!) public school teacher and a HS swim coach.  Where? Yup, back in New Haven.  He was away from his brand spanking new house from sun up till sun down.  (“25 miles, one way!” We heard that a lot.  26 miles to Grandma Dunn’s, the distance of a marathon, which I’ve never run and never plan to either. Sticker seen on my husband’s car 0.0…I ❤️ him!)  Any who, definitely a long day for Dad, however, I’d put money on the fact that Mom’s day was considerably longer!!  Why? Two words: One car.  (2017 HGTV whine: “But it doesn’t have a 3 car garage! Where will put our extra Land Rover?!!)

Many moons and a few kids later, Dad bought a brand new, second car, from Charlie Mannix, remember him? It was kind of a snazzy car, for us anyway.  A 2 door Chevy something and kind of goldish in color. The following Sunday we all went to pile into our new car to go to Mass and guess what? We didn’t all fit! Oops!!  “I’ll stay home!” rang loud and clear from a few siblings, but you know that didn’t fly!

So, my Dad, who btw, made me the #1 rule follower that I am today, did break at least one rule that I know of.  He actually drove on I-95 BEFORE it was finished.  (Can you even imagine CT without I-95???!!! Let that sink in for a second!) Anything to shorten his new commute and get home to his beautiful wife and soon to be 3+ kids.  (IrishCatholics =>Always one on the way!)  Funny, as I think of it now, he would eventually make his ride lonnnnger by getting off the turnpike in Madison, jumping on RT.1 for a mile or so, then getting back on in Guilford, and reverse it coming home.  Why? No, not to lengthen the ride, avoiding the semi-organized chaos at home, but honestly, to save every single cent he could and not pay the 0.25 toll x 2. Public school teachers before unions and before combat pay, made, well, let’s just say, they weren’t in teaching for the money.  I know, they still aren’t.  It wasn’t until the ? mid 80’s that teachers started to make a little bit more, just in time for Dad to yes, retire from teaching!  Timing is everything!  My first RN job in ‘82 paid me 15K.  Same year, Dad, after almost 30 yrs teaching hadn’t broken 20K yet.  Saving money at the tolls make sense now? You betcha!

Ahh, the suburbs. 16 Park Drive.  A quaint 5 room ranch, 1 bathroom, 1 garage, no cellar and no attic, but biggest lot on the street.  Final count: 7 people, plus 1 dog, 2cats.  2 parents, 4 boys, and I like to say, 1 princess, but I’m hardly a princess and nor was I treated like one.  Ok, maybe I was Daddy’s little girl, thank GOD, but my 4 brothers reminded me daily that I screwed up their “Starting 5” for a basketball team!  “Let’s make Katie cry!” was their daily mantra.  (Me? Therapy?  No, God answered my prayers with my 2 beautiful daughters and a very patient husband!)

So have you Dunn the Dunn bathroom math in your head yet?  That’s right, 7 people , 1 bathroom and oh yeah, 1 empty, soon to be filled, frozen orange juice can!!  (2017 HGTV whine, “We must have 3 bathrooms! Little Johnny can’t possibly use the same bathroom with his 2 sisters, Buffy and Biffy!)  Rarely, and I mean rarely, did we ever get to use the bathroom alone. There’d be 1 person taking a shower, 1 person using the toilet, if standing, they’d have to strategically position themselves if Mom or I were also within sight.  2 people brushing their teeth, but one had to brush in the hall hoping the mint mouth freeze wouldn’t hit before the other person finished rinsing and spitting!  “Hhhurrree yup, III’vvve gotttToossppittt!”  (2107 HGTV whine: “We can’t have only 1 sink in the master bathroom!! How will we ever get ready on time in the morning??!!)

Now, I know, you’re dying to find out what’s with the orange juice can?  First of all, just “concentrate” for a second, (LOL!) ….Yes, OJ does come concentrated and frozen in a can, or at least it did in our house.  Were the Dunns on the cutting edge of “Going Green” and not just on St. Patrick’s  Day? You betcha!  We started the “re-use” part of the recycle world long before it was hip!  Youngest brother, Neil Dog, would usually wake up last and immediately have to go!  (Ya schnooze, ya lose, aka bathroom’s full!!)  From the hall, you’d hear, “Get the can, quick!”  Person on toilet would reach down to the floor, pick up the empty OJ can, pass to tooth brushing person who’d pass it out into the hall.  Neil would fill it and, if lucky, it’d get passed back without spilling to person at/on toilet who’d empty it.  Did we even blink an eye about this? Not one bit.  As a matter of fact, I don’t think Neil even opened his eyes because he was usually half asleep!

At some point, maybe after 4 yr.old Neil Dog almost died from epiglottitis, (I learned about emergency tracheotomies at a young age). Dr. Hertzberg, our family doctor, suggested that we buy a dishwasher.  Dishwashers could wash and rinse plates at a much higher water temp than handwashing, thus helping keep germs and winter colds at bay.  Yeeehah! We got a dishwasher! It was even on wheels!  What?!! You mean dishwashers aren’t usually on wheels?! They’re built in? Not ours. We had to roll ours around from the back corner by the washing machine into the kitchen, hook up the hose to the sink and yes, remember to turn the water faucet on.  (2017 HGTV whine: “Well these appliances will have to go, they’re NOT stainless steel!)  My Mom loved having a dishwasher (who’s name wasn’t Jane), but she wasn’t too happy with the arguing about who’s turn it was to empty it!

Dryer? What’s that? You mean you didn’t have frozen towels on your clothes line? We did.  A little rough around the edges, but you get used to it!

Oh, happy day and hello, warm towels, when we finally got a clothes dryer!!  Although, can’t remember if it was one of those Mother’s Day gifts gone bad, but had good intentions?! Either way, seeing that the rolling dishwasher lived where the dryer should go, the dryer, by default, ended up on the outside wall of the garage.  So to “move the clothes” meant carrying as much as you could, bobbing and weaving through the kitchen, into the garage, around the car the we all don’t fit into, open the dryer door with whatever finger is left and voila, clothes are in the dryer!  Easy peasy?  Well, maybe not, but it beat frozen towels!

Eventually, my dad built a good size family room on for a total of 6 rooms, just in time, as eldest brother Billy says, “for me to go to college!”  57 years later, and by the grace of God and the selfless, unending help from many wonderful neighbors and family, (God Bless, Nancy!) my two parents are still living at 16 Park Dr.  They get the gold medal for the only original owners left on the street.

Xo, Kate  12/13/17

Kate: Another day wasted, typing in my pjs. Life is good.

Joe: What’s for supper?

Kate: Reservations!

 

 

T minus 14 days until Christmas and I’m not ready.  Ohh, well!  How exactly does one define “ready” anyway?  Cards all sent? Probably not even sending any this year, certainly not a photo card.  Ohh, well!  (If Christmas card sending was a sport, this would be my bye year, just don’t take me off your bye-bye list, yet!)  Presents all wrapped?  Haven’t even bought everything yet.  Ohh, well!  (To quote Kancy Nerrigan, “Why, why, why,” didn’t I buy stock in Amazon? Ohh, well!)  Irish breads and cookies baked?  Negative.  Grandma Dunn’s Christmas Marmalade made yet?  Don’t even have the jars.  Tree is up, lights are on, but not one single solitary ornament is on it yet. Ohh, well!  The good news is, our manger scene is on the lawn (Ty, Cabana boy, Joe) but we haven’t put the spot lights on it yet that shine our famous 15’ shadows on the side of our house.  Ohh, well!  Those yuge shadows are both neat and mysterious, that is, until the wind blows and Angel Gabriel takes a header down the hill.  Ohh, wellllllllllll.

Getting myself motivated this year has been worse than pulling teeth.  Ohh, ___ Don’t say it!!  You know what, it’s okay.  Why? Because it’s not just about one day, it’s not just about cards and presents and trees and cookies and glitter and, and “all those little Who’s down in”….wait, what am I saying?  Have I become you know WHO? Yikes, I do live at the top of a big hill…..hmmm,  Ohh, well!

If you step inside of a Christian church right now, (contrary to what you’ve seen in every single freakingfanelli store since Labor Day) it’s not Christmas yet, it’s the Season of Advent.  Yesterday started the second week of the Advent season out of a total of four, which, hockey widow here, knows it is exactly 1/10 of the entire National Hockey League (NHL) season!  When Christmas falls on a Monday, as it does this year, the 4th “week” is only 24 hours long.  If only the NHL playoffs were only 24hrs long, I’d be one happy gal!  (I still don’t get why hockey players are allowed to punch the heck out of each other?  What is this teaching our kids? At least take off your gloves and helmet and clock somebody really good!  I am so just kidding, I know, it’s really well!)

Back to Advent.  Yes, Advent, where we Christians are preparing with excited anticipation to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, the Savior of the World!!  (What a title!! Stick around till Easter and I’ll tell ya how he earned it!)  HE has come to save ALL of us.  What an ADVENTure!

In light of my Martha St. Ewart decorating skills, I truly never lose sight of His glorious purpose.  HE is with me 24/7, with of course, the occasional slip up where I take off my helmet and gloves and throw a few punches!! Wait, wait, wait,…I mean, take off my hat and gloves and make a few lunches!!  Yes, lunches! Eventually,  I’ll get the Christmas decorating, shopping and wrapping all Dunn, maybe just in time to say,  Happy New Years!!  Ohh, well!

Xo, Kate    12/11/17

 

I must have all eyes, up here. Watch me.  Men, I do not want to see the tops of your heads.  (Your bald spots are lovely) but for Heaven’s sake, do you not know the first three words and notes by now without looking down? …..Wait, …wait,…Thank you, smile, lighten the mood, let’s begin…

Any and all choirs I’ve been in since 5th grade are made up mostly of women.  Good men are hard to come by, (in choirs, too!)  Women, on the other hand, those who love to sing, seek out choirs wherever they land.  I did last winter during my two month hiatus from freezing.  You see, last January, my good man, aka husband of 31+ years, Joe, and I went to our condo in SW FL for 10 days.  Spoiled rotten wife here, looked him right in the eyes and said, ok whined, “I don’t wanna go home and I’m not kidding!” That’s right, I decided to stay at the condo in FL, alone, instead of going back to “death by sleet and freezing rain, made all pretty and nice, nice, with an occasional covering of snow, CT.”  Ok, yes, we have those years of 78” of snow, too, just not all at once like Buffalo! (Those people from Buffalo must be C-r-a-z…actual Buffalos!) But, (there’s always a big butt!) not returning home meant NO New England Chamber Choir! (NECC)   NOT, no husband, 2 grown children, 3 animals, and elderly parents, BUT NO CHOIR!  Joe gave me his blessings, saying, “have fun!”  Off he went, back to work, while I stayed in my flip flops for the next two months.  (Not sure how I ended up with him, but Thank you, God!)….

The following Sunday, off to Mass I went, all alone.  (I/we attend Mass, EVEN on vacation!)  FYI: There are no shortages of Roaming Catholic SnowBirds in SW FL!  From Fort Myers down thru Naples, there are several Yuge RC churches. The churches I’ve gone to all have lovely cushioned pews. (Kind of wonder from where the word “pew” originated? Ok, bad joke.  I loved, loved, loved taking care of my old timers!)  Each weekend, at any given church, there are at least 6 Masses, and that’s just on Sunday!  At almost every Mass, the faithful are packed in like sardines.  Standing room only and it’s NOT Christmas!  Imagine THAT?!  (Guessing JetBlue’s marketing genius must be a practicing Catholic in SW FL!)  An easy, 20-25 Eucharistic Ministers distribute Communion and the sardine Offertory collections? 20+Ks/ weekend.  No lie.  It’s printed in their glossy 10+ page Weekly Bulletin! (Yeah, but during the summer? Zilch!)

So, I’m singing away, yes, to every part of the Mass that is sung, and doesn’t the lady next to me whisper, “you have a lovely voice.”  Which to me, this easily intimidated Mezzo that I am, immediately thought she meant, “Pipe down, sister. The Evangelicals are down the street!” (Ps, their church is the size of a Super Walmart, I kid you not!) Mezzos are sometimes called 2nd Sopranos, which in athletic terms, means we get the Silver Medal.  Mezzos=Middle. Our voices are lower than the high voice, higher maintenance, requiring praise regularly, Diva, Gold Medal 1st Sopranos.  The Mezzos are then higher than the “I’m so glad I’m not singing harmony ALL the time” poor Altos. And the Bronze Medal goes to all 15 Altos!  Sorry, you’re gonna have to take turns with it.

What’s there to say about those 1st Sopranos? What’s not there to say about those 1st Sopranos?  They love those high notes. Drives them absolutely nuts when our director says, “get lighter (aka softer!) as you sing higher!”  Aka, DESCrendo when all they want to is cresCENDO! Does it make me chuckle to myself? I plead the 5th.  Depends upon if we’re singing with them or not.  Aren’t most Mezzos just frustrated 1st Sopranos? This one is.

In my CT choir, many of us Mezzos always assume we’re the ones who screwed up, easily crumbling in our chairs mentally and sometimes, physically.  But, there are a few of us who, after crumbling, get ticked, and sit right back up, ready to show ‘em.  “Yeah, well, we can hit those high Gs, too!  Sometimes even better than the 1st Sopranos!” On occasion, though, it’s just…Cue Eeyore:  “He’ll nevvvvver notice us, cuz we’re juuussst the Mezzos.”  Mezzos frequently are asked to sing soprano here, alto there…and so on.  We’re definitely flexible, musically anyway!  Our music has more highlighted markings on it than a AAA Triptik! (For you Millennials, a Triptik was the GPS for baby boomers.  What’s a baby boomer? Oy ee vay!)

Ok, so by now, I’ve ticked off bald men, Diva 1st Sopranos, Crumbling Mezzos, Buffalos and oh yeah, those poor Altos! They never get the melody, just harmony.  Ever hear someone harmonizing in church, probably an Alto!  They rarely get any credit even in a small ensemble. Why not? Because the Soprano voice is simply more exposed.  Overheard being said to an Alto, “Oh, you were singing, too? I didn’t even know it!”  Honestly, Altos are probably better “musicians” because again, not having the melody, they have to work harder to learn their part. Last but not least, they get yelled at, a lot, for singing or going flat.  I truly feel sorry for them. They are the Rodney Dangerfields of the choir, “they get no respect!”

Next up: The men, all 6 of them!  2 Tenors, 2 Baritones and 2 Basses…..oh, I’m just kidding.  In NECC, we have about 20 male voices, 10 that can even read music! They memorize really well. (Kidding!) And, on a different note, ya know what, they all just look so tired all the time.  One tenor, Dave, used to work and live in Middletown, 5 minutes from where we rehearse.  Then, out of the blue, he moved an hour and fifteen minutes away.  First night driving home after our regular 7:30- 9:30pm Wed. night choir practice, he missed his exit, he kept driving in the “how the heck did I get here mode” and almost ended up in New York!  Dave, loyal to our choir? 200%.  Very importantly, we make sure to take a break midway through rehearsal and feed Dave and few others, cookies.

The common denominator among us musical singing types is, we’re all sensitive people, some more than others, like ME!  It is a full time job for any director to stroke the egos, encourage the weak, yell when needed, but above all, make great music.  It has been said, that most choirs schedule concerts just so they have an excuse to meet once a week and rehearse!!  If you’re in a choir, this will make total sense to you.

So, after Mass ends, I bob and weave my way against the flow of exiting walkers, wheelchairs and white haired sardines, towards the choir area. I dig down deep and cresCENDO my Mezzo nerve up to introduce myself to the director.  I ask him if I can join his choir for 1 month. (What am I nuts? Originally, I was only staying in FL for 1 month. It morphed into 2 months of 80 degree sunny weather quite easily!)

The director seemed much younger than even me, who at 58yrs old in FL = spring chicken!!  I told him that I’ve sung with NECC in CT for 10 years and all through school and in several other church choirs. He heard me say CT and then gladly shared he was a piano performance major and graduate from HARTT.  He would be glad to have me. Yippie, I’m in!  I spent two months singing my heart out and loved it.  If I live long enough, maybe I’ll become a Mezzo/Diva! (Don’t kid yourself, Kate, that ain’t ever gonna happen.)

xo, Kate 12/4/17

http://www.newenglandchamberchoir.org

 

 

I’m pretty sure I’m the only woman in the United States who has not bought a “cold shoulder” type shirt, blouse or dress.  You know, the ones with the cut out or slit at the shoulder.  I guess you could say, I’m literally giving “the cold shoulder” to thee cold shoulder.

Anyone who has knows me, from like kindergarten on, knows I have the famous Dunn aka middle linebacker shoulders…wait, I think the “Brothers 4” were mostly running backs and quarterbacks, not line backers….but you get the picture.  Showing off my already large shoulders is like the last thing I want to do!  Okay, my gut says that’s a lie.  That’s true. The gut is far worse.

Have I mentioned before that my eldest “Brothers 2” coined the term of endearment, “Bloat Gut” for me when I was in 6th grade and then proceeded to share it with all of their 7th and 8th grade cute guy friends?  No? Well, the good news is, for the next two years all the cute guys would acknowledge me (yeah!) in said Eliot School hallways.  The bad news is, their greeting went like this, “Hey, BLOOOAT!” Snicker, snicker.  Grudge? Nah, Truth hurts? Definitely.  It’s genetic, right closest thing to a sister, Jerry?

I’m really not sure if they coined this term for me after the (fat) plastic red whiffle ball bat we all swing, swang, swung in our back yard for 36hrs/daily! or if the bat was coined after me? It’s name was “Bloat bat.”  That Bloat bat was duct taped up and put back together at least 200 times…when it officially could not be saved with anymore duct tape CPR, it was buried in our back yard, ceremony and all.  We had neighborhood games that rival the World Series.  Catch the ball off the roof, yup, it’s an out.  Get hit with a thrown ball, you’re out! (If Timmy threw it and you’re the only sister, you’re also now crying because you have welts on your thigh mirroring the holes in the whiffle ball!)  (No video replays necessary in our day!) Over the roof, into the front yard, Homer!  Whiffle ball, sadly, stuck in the gutter, if the rake couldn’t get it down and nobody knew where the ladder was, game over.

Us: “What’s for lunch, Mom?”

Mom: “Where’s Neil?”

Us: “IDK, but when we find him, he’s going on the roof to find the ball!”

How in the world did I start this blaaaag with 2017 cold shoulder clothing, morph into a 1973 whiffle ball stuck in the gutter and 4 y/o Neil (Dog Potato Salad, don’t worry, I’ll explain, one of these days) up the street?  Now that’s talent!!

Xo, Kate 12/1/17

 

 

“Quid Pro Be-Low”  If you say it fast enough, you’ll understand.  The almost daily addition of well known men dropping like flies because they dropped theirs, is well, pretty, pretty sickening. (A button on his desk that locks the door? Can’t you hear the voices in Slick Willy’s head? “Why didn’t I think of that?!” ) I’m not sure I’d like to say anything more except the Fast Passes to Hell are going like wild fire!!

In about 3 lines, I’d like to quote my eldest brother Billy, (a recovering atheist and now a Bible teaching Catholic, yes, Catholic!).  The 3M Scotch Tape theory given to all of us 2000 years ago by S. Smalley Franken’s Minnesota Mining and Manufacturing,… wait, it wasn’t him, it was HIM, Jesus, yes!!! JESUS!  The 3Ms are : “Modesty, Morality and Monogamy” (Ty, Billy and Jesus) … What 3 great ideaRs!!!  Trying ‘sticking’ with them and perhaps our society might stop falling apart at the seams….(Personally, I’d like to throw in a 4th M for my Catholic friends out there, you guessed it, Mass.  Go (back) to Mass.  It’s a celebration! Christ IS (a) present in the Eucharist.  Dog gone it, you’re worth it!  If you don’t want to go alone, I’ll go with you.  Please note: I will be singing.)

Heaven Help us. (Quote from my mother, who, for 87 years has been modest, moral and monogamous and yes, attends Mass!)

And if anyone knows how or what I did to indent the above indented paragraph, and/or how to fix it, let me know.

xo, Kate 11/30/17

 

One lovely characteristic that I’ve inherited and/or learned through osmosis, mitosis or meiosis, that btw, I’m not proud of either, is that of a short FUSE-lage.  Badabing, badaBOOM!!  (Glad KJ-u ain’t related to me.  I understand he’s lighting off fireworks again. I know, not funny.  Can’t just one misfire and take him out?!!)

But I digress.  Yes, even Spankee Candle called me and asked if they could rewrite their directions.  “For safety reasons, please keep your wicks trimmed to a Kate Dunn Scott level.”  Sadly, my entire family, both sides, and yes, some close friends, too, would understand.

My youngest brother Cornelius, aka Corny, or Neil Dog Potato Salad (don’t ask), also inherited this same short fuselage.  His claim to fame, way back when, was busting badminton rackets while playing the game.  (I’m laughing just thinking about it!) Luckily, he has grown out of this and is a now a remarkedly patient person, either that or he deserves a few Oscars.  Although, come to think of it, I havent seen him play badminton in a long time!!!

When I feel myself Going Tesla (0-60 in 1.9 seconds) the good thing is, I know it.  Some days it’s just easier to hit the breaks than others.  Which is a great “Segway” into another character trait that greatly enhances my warm and fuzzy personality.   I’m referring to that frequently used psychiatric term: “pasteurized aggressiveness.”  I sterilize before I verbalize!  Okay,  that’s a lie, I don’t sterilize anything…I’m so honest, I’m my own worst enemy and act like a jerk in the process.  Just ask the insurance lady who stopped by my husband’s office today trying to avert a yuge crisis.  Mind you, I knew nothing, zero, nadda about any insurance problemos until my phone rang at home. ‘Tis not good for us Tesla types!

Ring, ring…. Caller ID: My hubby.  Awwww, he must be calling to tell me he loves me….ok, no he’s not.

Joe: “Hi, yeah ah, our insurance sucks!! They’re not processing any more claims. We’re changing it and the new one is gonna cost the company twice as much!!”

Kate: “What? Why? What are you talking about? … Wait, Joe, I have MD appointment tomorrow and a mammogram for Friday.”

Joe: “Well, you might have to change them. There’s a lady here helping us.  Here, I’ll put her on.”

Kate: “Wait, …Joe!”

Nice Lady: “Hello, my name is ____, What questions do you have?”

Kate: “What questions do I have? What the hell is going on?!!”

Yes, I said “hell”…. then potty mouth here back tracked …. omg… short fuselage/non-pasteurized aggression!!!! Stop it, Kate!!  Breaks, put on the verbal breaks!! Not her fault. Not her fault.

In Joe’s defense, the word lull is non-existent in his day. There are a grand total of -900 extra minutes for him to put out insurance “fires”, solve HR problems and/or explain things to said lovely wife!  Oh, the joys of owning your own small company.  (Tax breaks? You betcha! Bring ’em on, Thx, Donald!)

Any-who, Nice Lady helped explain what indeed was going on, which was much more involved than originally thought. Let’s just she said the words lawyers and “Sovereign Nation” in the same sentence.  And no, Joe doesn’t own PHOXwoods.

I apologized for my rudeness and decided that my Tesla personality was secondary to being hangry (hungry + angry).  My Tesla just needed a little recharging.  I woofed down a little sangwich and felt a bit more humane, even thought of playing a little badminton.

Hello, Neil?

Xo, Kate  11/28/17….

 

 

 

 

“I really think the psych world needs to invert those words to aggressive, passive. That makes more sense to me….