Pop's Pop Protocal

I learned a few more things in the last few weeks that made me feel Rosie the Riveter empowered.

The first was due to the tonsillectomy and my searching the internet for relief and ideas on what to do with the situation.

I read that if you drink Coca~Cola, after your tonsils are torn from your throat, it will painfully strip the scabs off, bring immediate relief due to all tonsillectomy woes. (This didn't seem scientifically proven, but I was desperate and resorted to Padre's pop stash)



Don't care for pop, especially the carbonation, thanks to a HS Football coach's warning: it "winds" ya! Under the dire circumstances, two gapping holes in my throat- referring pain to my ears like a Star Trek episode when Khan puts those slimy bugs into the helmets of two Trekkies and the worms wrap around their ear drums or something- I had to do whatever I could to alleviate the Khan-like punishment of excruciating ear and throat pain.

Pain I dare say only those that have felt the guillitine's slice, right before death.

Luckily, they die quickly and you with your recently removed Red Wood rooted tonsils, sit with a blade-like pain in your throat for at three weeks.

Blogger's detour:(Read Great Expectations!!!!!!!! KILLER Guillitine moment interspersed with the gentle heoirc action of a lawyer's mercy, great courage by several charachters, followed by redemption and love. Two love stories to be exact.

One of my favorite books. Expect big words, but don't stop! You will be crying at the end and willing to do whatever for those you love, find hope in overcoming your weaknesses or at least redemption through paying a price... That's it, I'm reading it again. However, I would never want to endure a tonsillectomy again. ever.)

I poured the cup and commenced to hop up and down, grab my throat, flap my arms, while tears and carbonation well in my eyes; Coach was right, I was sufficiently winded.

This dancing around allowed carbonation to escape the bottle- I usually don't care if pop goes stale, but Padre, has to have his fizz. Like in the Olympics, fratctions of seconds matter!!

I drank from the DIET bottle, which he will NOT touch, but still, POP/Padre Protocal must be kept!! I have never learned this maneauver. Maybe out of spite. Or lack of care for pop. But I got a crash course in it. Here it is:

A special, patented cork and a pump keeps beverages "sparkling" and carbonated. It can be used for wine, too. See picture below.




For only 9.99 from Rush's Kitchen Supply, you can buy this most valuable contraption. However, there are only three little soda stoppers per package. Which seems rather exspensive to me.

After Padre quickly pointed out my indiscretion that led to the seconds ticking away AND valuable CARBONATION escaping into the atmospere from the Cola; he told me the importance of the camping like contraption.

Windedly I croaked: "I don't even know where you keep the pop pump!" Tears involuntarily spilled onto the kitchen floor. USE CAUTION! when attempting this during your tonsil tearing!

Thankfully, Madre, a white, calm personality, walked to the cabinet and showed me the pop pump's home; a space next to the spices. To her surprise, It wasn't in its home!

Code RED. Even this calm, collected, veteraned-wife put it into gear.

We rushed to the table and counter tops searching under napkin holders, vases of full of flowers I'd placed on it, mail and junk mail from the last two days..

and there it was, under one of Padre's perfectly creased, ordered from A section to Z section, WSJ.(Wall Street Journal).

Not only do I now know how to change a bike tire, know how to pump it to the appropriate level for the activity (racing, skate parking, or pooped out level of air proximity); but CAN NOW add to my "know how to" list: POP PUMPING.


(Norman Rockwell's version of Rosie)

First you wet the champagne/soda stopper then twist it onto the bottle.

You grab the pump, lift the handle and push H2O back into the bottle, you must lift the pump off the bottle after each pump and continue in like fashion until the bottle looks like it is going to explode.

I don't know about you, but the more skills I learn, the more empowered I feel. It's a very AMERICAN feeling. A woman, like ol Rosie during WW II when the boys were gone, we women could role up our sleeves and get to work riveting. And cutting our skirts shorter to ration the material.

Due to my neighbors, I can also add to my list of how to, How to make Colloidal Silver for the same tonsil problemo. Along with what to do if you have been swallowed up by sugary snow by a tree upon your snowmobile, weld, and a number of other useful or at least interesting things, like juggling rolled up socks.

The confidence in learning how to do any of these things, from pumping air back into your Cola, to starting a fire with nothing but dollar bills from your wallet and two rocks, learning how to do something for yourself is empowering. But don't worry, boys, we still feign we need you because, really, we do. I would much rather have you keep the carbonation in the pop than have to do all that pumping alone.

But don't fret! America is a nation of new "Rosie's".

Bring on the CarboNation!

After Awhile

After Awhile


you learn the subtle difference between holding a hand and chaining a soul


and you learn love doesn't mean leaning
















and company doesn't always mean security.




And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts



and presents aren't always promises


and you begin to accept your defeats



with your head up and and your eyes ahead


with the grace of a woman,



not the grief of a child.






And you learn to build all your roads on today

because tomorrow's ground is too uncertain for plans




and futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight.(Willie Gillis has one too many pen pals)


After a while you learn that even sunshine burns if you get too much





So you plant your own garden and decorate your own soul instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers

And you learnthat you really can endure, that you really are strong and you really do have worth and you learn and you learn
with every good-bye you learn.

Author: Veronica A. Shoffstall

All Photos by my favorite artist, Norman Rockwell

MILLION $ RED

Well, I have complained about one of the drawbacks to handwashing dishes and that was flimsy nails. So with the help of a tonsillectomy (this just made it so I couldn't get around much) I turned to Sally Hansens Hard as Nails in Red.

You can't go wrong with red.

But even red chips on flimsy nails. (Especially when you are mastering the art of bike tire changing due to the Snake River Jam Fest. Always be prepared with a Patch Kit and Pump!! )



LUckily, my flowers bloomed beautifully to keep my bedside enjoyable as I've looked at catalogs and cut out everything I picture ought to be in my life, placed them in a box and forgot that I needed them!

Thankfully Tech Deck has brought the skate park home to us, rather than having to load the bikes, scooters, etc.to the park. (But I don't recall bringing Barbie to HS like some of the boys do with their BMX trix bikes, etc.)


Young boys and older boys can entertain themselves like we young girls did with Barbies. Except boys can't just "pretend" skate. It is exactly like at the skate park... "Mom, (or when they are older its their girl) watch this. Watch how I can do a 180, use your typewriter has a twinkie and then grind down the keys....."

That made me see RED.





But, hey, it's that time of year: American Football. Forget the manicures ladies, and hit the sidelines to cheer your guy on cause they always do better with an audience!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dear Anonymous Commentor,

Rather than filter comments from everyone but my invited readers, I decided to allow all comments to come. The good, the bad, the ugly. Thanks to bloggerfordummies.blogspot.com, I am empowered by the fact that I don't need to post any of the comments or even take them personally.

Here is one question I'd like to address, one I would love to answer....

"How do you find time to blog when you're Professional Patient, mother and lack a dishwasher?

Dear Anon. Reader,

Like this:



Those of us fortunate to be stuck in the stone age of dish washing, have a great advantage to those with dishwashers: free therapy. I have said before, and will re-iterate, hand washing is much like yoga- for the brain.

It also builds your creaitivy. The air conditioner above the window blocks my kitchen garden view, and requires me to make up a view in my head. This imagination lends itself to what writers need most: material.



Many a devised sentence has taken place with the help of scalding hot water-logged hands, fingernails floppy enough to not break once bent backward, a hand made wash rag looped around the tines of a fork; slowly cleaning them.


But seriously,Anon, I will answer 'how' one can have an auto-immune disease, be a professional patient, and still accomplish a few things.... oh, and how to get genuine, sincere compliments like: "Well, ya look good!"

(PS thank you for those compliments, It's nice to hear you look good when your body is waging war against itself on the inside. I appreciate the fact I have been blessed with hand-me-down looks from my parents, even if they came with a mutated gene that has caused chaos inside my body. It is nice to look good. I just know that I can look a lot different at points and I brace myself for the inevitable unrecognition)


So here is the list, Anonymous. The top "10 Ways to How She Does It"

10. Move home with your parents.

If they love you, or at least tolerate you, this will be the best move you make.

It will allow you to focus on being a full-time patient. Only with the help of sibling rivalry and the proximity of your neibors to such performances, will you be spurred to undergo any kind of treatment in an effort to get better.

If you all share a common belief in Judeo-Christianity and its tenets of forgiveness, or are blessed with selective memory; all should smooth over after some time.

9. This is a big one on the beauty factor: one siblings must be a beautician. Having this great geenetic tie has meant I have been the recipient of a professional's salon discounts. The latest, 'ENJOY!' shampoo and conditioner has been nice, and I the mint colored TIGI Manipulator with its yummy coconut smell has been good for keeping my hair in place.) Sis's ceramic hair straightener has been a time saver for sure.

An "IN HOUSE" hair stylist makes primping a lot less painful to your wallet. Especially if she medaled at ISU's Annual Hair show and walked away with First Place in the category: "Best men'short hair stylist". Because she can fade my son's hair. (Now he wants it long. So that doesn't help us anymore.

Warning: you may choose to let your hair be a dummy for practice for beauty school students; NO WORRIES! Hair does grow back! There have to be sacrifices if you are going to get this student trained,so be willing to sacrifice!

8.

Have a child that is overly energetic.

I know most of you will scream that this is genetic... but honestly I think it is simply spending time and teaching them. They learn it, love it, and won't leave you alone once they've mastered it. So be prepared. Having camping skills will help, cause that is what you will end up doing: campin' out. Or "Roughin' it."



Spending all day at the skate park will require food, water, and patience.

Living at home will allows me to use Padre's tools, gadgets and camp equipment, i.e. coolers, extra large thermoses, and camera; if permission is granted.

Which falls under #7.

When I tried to use Padre's dutch ovens to prepare a meal at the Park, the Parks and Recreation folks came unglued about "rules" and such and having a bon fire in the middle of a skate park.
(they should try having to hang out at these place all day)

If city ordinances or health keep you from getting out, threaten the child wth a need of their help weeding the garden or washing the dishes.

Magically, the child will disappear to do old-fashioned play, leaving you with moments of alone time.



6.

Afternoon naps. I call it: Down Time. And it can happen at any point in the day.

Translation: child does whatever he like, as long as he stays inside and is completly mute while letting mom lay down. Ear plugs come in handy for those kids that struggle with the latter part.

Many think "down time" has to do with laziness. Really, it is a life saver. Once, a friend asked: "Don't you get bored, just laying there?" I was in a severe episode with my illness that went on for about 3 years. Laying there on the bed with a heat warmer on my stomache, I thougth about that question and tried to think if I had been bored. I wasn't, not at all.

When all of your cells are attacking one another, it really isn't boring. It requires all of your efforts to allow them time to do their thing. Every ounce of my attention and energy is exerted to allow these cells to do whatever the heck it is they do.

In fact, it is almost a work out. But I can't tell you the calories it burns. All I know is that I never get bored. And the only thing burnin' is the midnight oil.


If that isn't even possible, than the hum of a humidifier and the pleasant memories in your head will entertain your busy body. I have yet to get bored.

5. YOu will have time to read a book, write letters, do needlepoint, cross stitch, or call a friend.

Being bed-ridden can be a real bummer after so long...

But if you challenge yourself, you can learn stuff. Like a new language.

It is only sad when you are unable to write, read, or type while bed-ridden. When all your energy has to focus on NOT thinking because you are expending the energy needed for your white and red blood cells to fight eachother. (J and I imagine them dressed as pirates, donning swords, bandanas and eye patches.)

At those moments I look at a single picture that I like; one kept from a calendar or a card sent to me. I can close my eyes if I get tired and, when I have enough strength, look at it again. Old calendars are nice for this exercise. And so are lots of memories and books under your belt. You draw from those when you can't do anything. Like the movie: Count of Monte Christo. He's in a rock cell where he gets to meditate for several years.

If he had an auto-immune disease, he might not have learned to sword fight.

4. Friends. The more you serve others the better you feel. And vice-versa. They are there when you need them the most. All I have to do is make a call, and boom, they are there.

3. Going from poor to poo(where you are so poor you can't help but pronounce the word like a little boy with a speech impediment and can't prounounce the 'r's.) is quite liberating. You realize what are needs and wants. Not that you don't want some things, you just realize that using plain 'ol soap on your face rather than your exspensive facial system, isn't the end of the world. And you can't tell the difference. Except when you can't get the lotion. That is one thing I will hold to. But if it's tight- vaseline will do the trick and a yellow, generic tub of that will last longer than most marriages.

2. Waiting in Dr. Offices. I can't tell you how many hours I have sat in a waiting room to get health care. It is a great opportunity to read, learn patience or deep breathing techniques. If you are prepared with a pen and paper, you could use that time to write a book, or two. Or at least log you life down for your posterity, so they know you weren't just killing time looking at People magazine or flipping through the channels of cable TV, while your mind slowly rots.

And the number 1 reason I am able to do it:

A team of Doctors, Researchers, and all the professional patients that went before, blazing a trail, so I can navigate this crazy disease, its treatment and the side effects that go along with it. Mixed with my parents and friends. That's how I do it.

I hope this anwers your question, Anon.

Sunday Best and Back to School

(picture rites belong to blogger's son who is now my photgrapher)

Ahh, we are into August and panic is setting in for J.


He has wanted all vacations, activities and minutes mapped out so he knows just how much time he has to sleep in, stay up late and otherwise refrain from any formal learning.

I have been secretly feeding him information by disguising it while we are out and about.

First off, cred to Emersonmade who made Sunday Best even Better and warranted a sweet and sincere compliment from my son,

His comment:

"Mom, you look Hot. Like a school girl, or something."



Thanks so much!

The red signature carnation went perfect with my disheveled, vintage tie. (I asked Padre to tie it Sunday morning and, coincidentally, he was upstairs standing in front of the mirror doing the same thing. Exasperated, he let his tie hang around his neck and did a crude job on mine- distgusted that tie manufacturers these days don't make ties long enough.



It seamlessly went from the Church Pew to the Casual Cut off Jeans afterward to business formal with a striped shirt and slacks.



I didn't know how Dandy your little tinies could be, Emersonmade!!!!!!

So, back to my back to school sentiments

The other day I walked upstairs to see a Permission Slip on the table. It was in Padre's distinct, swoopy cursive handwriting.

"Amanda," it read, " you are welcome to use my computer." He then signed it: "Dad".

Having been trained in the art of deception, he can quickly find out when his stuff has been used. Photgraphic memory helps.

I have my own computer but on occassion have to get into his picture archives.

Interagation style, he complained: "Funny, even though you are on your own computer I am still getting some floppybutt page up on my computer." DOH! I froze. I thought I had been stealth-like in his office.

(I blame you, telephone company and employer of Padre, for sending him to all those computer classes teaching him how to track every key stroke of a computer!!)

"Pops!" I answer defensively. "Can I help if mom wants to read my blog?" I lied.

"Amanda, its those kinds of sites that pick up and drag in all the junk I have to stay up late to clean up."

So you can imagine my shock when I saw the permission slip.

There you have it, I am letting all of blog -o -sphere know that, I, have documented permission to use Padre's computer. Like an obstanate teen sluffin' class, I would have done anyway.But to formally have him allow me the freedom is quite touching. And almost as bonding as the moment he tried to show me how to tie a tie.



Well, I am making a bold goal on here since J has to start learnin' again, I will step it up, too.

I am going to finish what I started with the Spanish language.

Many moons ago I played a small stint as a Sister missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saintsm in a big city. Where I really stuck out with my blonde hair.

Last fall, after a lot of years, I tried to re- learn this language. I stared to check out bi-lingual books from the library and reading them out loud.

Soooo... with the help of a calling that required I really know it and stumbling onto a blog: 'The Unapologetic Mexican, who is now El Machete or something, I am going blog-bilingual.

Did I just write that? Como (what) am I thinking?

And I am not even going to cheat. It will be the real deal; me looking up the words in the dictionary, or googling them.

(El Machete lives in Sweden is American and is not sorry he's Mexican. I don't even know how I ran onto it on a google search. But this Mexican/American/Swede can WRITE. Granted, I only read three or four posts. But I like his style he can really weave a sentence. I need to research this hombre further, but you can be assured I wouldn't put something on here that isn't Quality.

Do NOT fret.

Be glad. My posts will be short. And don't expect it till September. It's still summer!

(translating is like editing; writers hate that aspect. It slows us down mid creativity.)

Well, I have to go. Madre just informed me that one of Padre's new shirts required 'drip dry' and I put it in the dryer.

I might lose the permission he gave me earlier this week!!!!!!!!!!!! I need those archives!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! (the woes of a stay-at-home daughter)

I GOT MAIL

I love mail.

Real mail.

The kind from a REAL mail box. Where you walk outside a front door, down a cement walk to a physical mailbox, mail.

I love to bend over a bit, open the little door and peer inside. It is always exciting to see how much mail the mail man brought (Up until last year, Ralph always brought it, but Ralph has since retired, darn it. That is the perfect mail man name.)

You can't replace the feeling of an unexpected, personalized letter. Going out to the mail box is bitter sweet for some.

Guilt ridden folks may reluctantly trek to the box like a man to the gallows, for the most part I enjoy the daily ritual.

The new mail man is prompt, so I can walk out when the flowers and grass are still wet from watering, so I am still in my egg blue gardening shoes.

I get anxious, like a teen waiting for a reply text from her boyfriend in the middle of math class, to pull the Wall Street Journal wrapped around all the other contents out of the box and see what is for me.

Jaw clenched, one eye squinted I rifle through the bills.

Skeptical, I bypass junk mail

Cautiously, I take in the sales on the Victoria Secret Catalog(these will have to be torn and tossed so J doesn't see them;and I don't decipher the promo code and buy a new bra. (Dang them and their good bras)

As I continue to screen my mail, I keep my guard up for inevitable post divorce mail, a.k.a: "post- marriage-maintenance-mail" (these camouflaged bills come on legal stationary are additional reminders of the choices you have made in life. They can make reading the WSJ that much more depressing.

)

But, every blue moon, I get what my eyes are wanting: a white envelop decorated with perforated stamp in the right corner undulating black post marked lines waving over it, and the official post mark date, circled with the same black ink.

(I so am kicking myself for throwing my collection away as a kid cause I thought it was lame I kept them in little baggies in a credit union check book cover.)

Best of all I love seeing my name hand written across the front.

Credit card and political candidates try to mimic this personal way of communicating. But they can't replace the authentic hand writing. I can spot dupe ink when I see it! My fav is the post-it note reminder with cursive scribblings by credit card companies reminding you how special you are to them.

Getting a letter from a friend or loved one is magical. It makes me dream-like drift to the porch, sit down and drink in the handwritten note.

I feel like Charlie, in Roald Dahl's book:



Holding that letter I feel like little Charlie Bucket holding a chocolate bar and the golden ticket.



What is inside the letter is as mysterious as Johnny Depp, I mean, Willy Wonka's factory.

So in a nutshell, a letter is like good chocolate.

Like Charlie, I can't wait to open it. I walk to my porch, sit down and using my thumb nail pull up the right side of the sealed carta.

From there, I tear. And proceed to devour the letter.

My Son can sum up these emotions like this...


If you are lucky enough to get a package, you know how great it is! Getting a package from here:


(used with permission of emersonmade.com)

was a surprise.

I didn't see it coming.

Just like I didnt' see the "Sneak Pass" at a Blue Angel's air show.


(pictures by Padre)

Blue Angel Pilot Lt. Cmdr Frank Weisser told Post Register journalist that, "[his] favorite stunt is the SNEAK PASS. Definition: "A low flyover performed halfway through the air show when viewer's attention might start to wander." (Post Register article)

I was one of those that had wandered when Weisser snuck up on me. But not cause I wasn't into it. I had just used the bathroom in a nearby hangar at the airport.

Due to dehydration, I almost made it through the entire air show without the need to go.( The one time that dehydration came in handy. )

But after my son and I had guzzled several expensive bottled waters; (well, I had smuggled in bottled waters thanks to my prepared gene so we hadn't bought that many.) I regained volume. And J spotted a loooong line to the latrine, overheard the announcer say the Angels were gonna take off, so he proudly told me he needed to go to the bathroom. (I always tell him Good Choice! when he confesses this need before we are in a tight spot.

Thankfully, the latrine line wasn't as long as the hour long hot dog line. We had stood in that line and subsequently paid $3.50 a pop for two Gatorades to replace the lost electrolytes we had suffered. (Brilliant marketing, vendors!) Oh, and thanks so much to the sweet mom who offerred us her baby daughter's SPF 85 Sunscreen, cause we'd sweated ours off.)

Thunder from the Blue Angels filled the air just as J entered the latrine and he exited real quick.

Jaden warned me that it wasn't in great condition, but what can you expect out of an out house? Sometimes you have to rough it.

I had sanitizer in hand so it was as good as it could.

The rush of wind kicked up by all jets taking off, made my adrenaline rush as I rushed into the latrine.

My excitement was met with a quick, revolting shock. The latrine was full. Not with people full. But latrine capacity full.

Full, as in 'Flush' with the top, full. (flush and latrine seem somewhat of an oxy moron in the same sentence. but there it is.)

The Blue Angel thunder in my ears combined with the scene in front of me made my head swarm in circles like bees around a hive.

Nausea set in at mach speed. Deaf, due to the Blue angels roar and blind by the sight of 400k people's bowel content, I stumbled to the door, fumbled with the lock and finally fell out of the blue closet.

Gasping for fresh air in the stale 100 degree heat. (not a breeze in sight and this Idaho!!!!!!!!!!! And the first day we've had without a breeze. the pilots were able to actually land without a side wind- which is rare.)

The small audience congregated in a line to use the rest room, went from blurry to focused.

Bent over the dirt blanket we'd been using to watch the air show, hands on my knees
(where we sat)

I choked out a warning: "D-da-do-donnn't, don't, don't g-go in tthh the, the, there."

Screeching jets made my admonitions barely audible.

The bystanders pulled their eyes from the spectacle before them, nodded and returned to watching the air show and the next victim went in. Too weak to stop them I focused my energies on standing.

Now in serious need of a restroom, I made the quick decision to walk back to the bikes and go home. (I finally am starting to understand my Dad's pain and I had no qualms about pulling a Padre here.)

The sidewalks/tarmac were clear so we could easily walk to our bikes without a crowd.

But the stars aligned like those Blue Angels in the sky.

As the heat waves rose above the hot tarmac I could see, like an oasis in the middle of a desert,a restroom sign at the back of a private hangar.

Parched mouth, full bladder, feet dragging I asked the mirage like person if I could use it.

He must have known it was serious, because we were the only human beings walking away from the show that everyone had suffered dehydration, lethargy and near death l for the show. (At 3.50 a pop for a bottled water, many got a ride to the ER in an ambulance.)

However those dire circumstances, it did help us empathize for those in concentration camps as the WWII fighter jets flew around.

My dream, request came true; the man was not a mirage but a flight instructor.

I was able to use clean, air conditioned, commode. Refreshed and relieved, I exited the pristine area, my hands washed with REAL water and into the bright sunny, cloudless blue sky.

Only an OCD germa-phob with an auto-immune disease can appreciate not having to resort to just hand sanitizer.

A patriotic feeling of freedom about the good 'ol U.S. of A was swelling in my bosom.

I patted my son's head which was watching the planes fly into the northern sky, white smoke painting six cloud lines on a clear blue canvas.


Proud as punch I breathed in deeply and exhaled.

Lt. Cmdr., Weisser, had me right where he wanted me. Literally.

Completely as ease.

Ear plugs removed.

Directly below his Sneak Pass.

Weisser, coming at mach speed from the east, flew DIRECTLY over this hangar and my head at " '720 to 730 mph, " 'just shy of the speed of sound," and as low as 50 feet".(Post Reg article)

What Padre could snag with his Nikon, but Weisser was so quick..

"[It] provides a "jolt" and "thrills the crowd" Weisser said in his interview by Rachel Cook for the Post Register. (all information about speed etc. also came from this article. Thanks, Rachel.)

Lt., you can use this story in the next town you go to.

Let's just say it was a good thing I used the restroom.

So the Emersonmade gift from my friend, was a Postal Sneak Package.


I was on the phone with the friend that had snuck this passed me when I heard the rumble of a big truck outside of the house,followed by a ring of the doorbell.

"Can you grab that?" I asked the slave-child. (Padre gets packages all the time.) I continued to tell Care about watching the Egyptian Dancing Team that performed for the Chamber of Commerce that day.

Within two shakes my bedroom door was framing the little one who held a package.
Excitement didn't set in until I saw the return address.



I opened it to find a letter from none other than: Care!

Can I say, YAY??????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And Bob, (Bob Hoff owner of Aeromark and instrument in getting the Blue Angels here), Thanks for such a great day. It will stay in my son's mind for the rest of your life. Water glitch will not happen next time!
a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpSHJEmgCjUZs3PZxoiH_hg4nU0m_u400O0hXwxJHEmYYpE2J7Vhq_Ib29knRMKoiU5LW-s774M0OujB2MEftBPOB19TA6eX42ogRpkb-RPse0WHFq6HJWnE_5AiJE1Ed1uw0LIo1yWOUa/s1600/DSCN3217.JPG">
(hat courtesy of baby sis, w/o her consent. Don't worry little sister, I just used it for the photo shoot and put it back.)



And Away I wear It!!!!!