- Work it off. Blow off steam physically with activities.
- Talk out your worries. It helps to share concerns with someone you trust and respect. Sometimes another person can help you see a new side to your problem and, thus, a new solution.
- Say "no" more often. Refuse inappropriate requests and turn down invitations you really don't have time for.
- Learn to accept what you cannot change. If the problem is beyond your control at this time, try to your best to accept it until you can change it.
- Relax your standards. Doing everything perfectly is not only unnecessary--it's boring. Life's a lot easier when you ignore a little dirt, take shortcuts when appropriate, let the grass grow a bit higher.
- Find the humor in it. Every dilemma has something funny about it if you look for it.
- Change your perspective. Instead of worrying, "what will happen if...", ask, "so what?"
- Avoid self-medication. Speaks for itself.
- Get enough sleep and rest. Ditto.
- Get help with the jobs you hate. Barter or pay for the help if you need to; it's worth it.
- Establish a serene place of your own. Even if it's just a comfortable chair in a quiet corner.
- Count your blessings. Rarely is anything so bad that it couldn't be worse, and it helps to remember that. Appreciate what's going well.
- Balance work and play. Amen.
- Take time out. Breathe deeply, stretch your muscles, nap, meditate, anything.
- Do something for others. Sometimes when you're distressed, you concentrate too much on yourself and your situation. Get your mind off yourself.
- Take one thing at a time. It's self-defeating to tackle all your tasks at once. Set some aside and work on the most urgent.
- Unclutter your life. Anything you do to simplify your life helps reduce stress.
- Give in once in a while. IF you find the source of your stress is other people, try giving in instead of fighting and insisting you're always right. Other might begin to give in, too.
- Reward yourself after stressful activities. Stop for a special lunch or treat, relax with a favorite tv show or book.
- Make yourself available. When you're bored, stressed or feeling left out, go where there are people. Sitting alone can get frustrating.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
20 Ways to Relieve Stress. I need this.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Classrooms
"Classrooms can be places where learners attempt to reduce knowledge to that which can dazzle or deceive. Too often, learners are more concerned with the appearance of knowing than with the genuine investigation which will enable one to come to know, deeply, a subject and our world. In our antiquated educational system, teaching has been reduced to and cheapened into a privatized delivery of facts and data. Classrooms are too often places of violence where questioning has more to do with conquest than inquisition." (Nancy Lynne Westfield)
The date is approaching--August 24, 2010. That's when I'll stand in front of my 19 freshmen students for the first time. As teacher. Instructor. Professor? No, I'm not there yet. They can just call me Maria. I don't know exactly why I have written that I'll "stand in front" of them; I guess that's just a metaphor for me to fulfill my role as teacher while, in turn, they can fulfill their roles as students. But maybe I won't stand anywhere.
I've been thinking a lot about the kind of teacher I will be. I know I have goals and objectives and ideas--all of the things that I want to be. The longer I ponder these things I realize that, despite my deliberate intentions and reflections weeks (months?) before I start to teach English 101, things are going to be out of my control. I firmly believe that I'll learn more than my students will, and this totally gives me goosebumps. But I love learning, and while the prospect of trying to guide 19 young minds through the writing process and hopefully leaving them with at least one or two words of wisdom is outright frightening, I'm very much looking forward to it. I'll be reading and writing like never before. I'll leave comments on papers in the margins with a green or purple pen--I've learned to stay away from the treacherous red ink. I'll have office hours, and, chances are, no one will come to them. I'll have to get to the classroom early to set up the technology because, let's face it, if you're not using YouTube or some kind of new media to teach, you are behind on the times. (Needless to say that I will be having my students use YouTube for their first unit on pop culture!) And I'm sure there will be other numerous things that I've not yet anticipated.
I've heard that the class syllabus is supposed to say a lot about the instructor. Accordingly, the words on my syllabus were chosen carefully. It's the (initial) space wherein I can adamantly announce my teaching objectives until I start to deviate from my initial plans because, as a first-time teacher, it's a given that I will deviate. And here I'm not referring to the content of the course--homework, feeders, unit projects, oral presentations, etc. I'm concerned with the kind of teaching philosophy that is embedded in my syllabus; this is why the words are important. I know I sound really strict, but I don't like that word. Ideally, I want my students to think of me as demanding? Why? Because I want to teach them how to write and how to do it well. I want to be demanding because I care. And I think to be demanding is also to demand a lot from myself: time, energy, time, energy, time.
I would hate my classroom to become a space wherein the banking concept of education manifests itself; that would be horrifying. Ultimately, I know that, for some students, this will be the case, but I will do my best to fight against it. I've had amazing teachers and professors, and there will always be someone that is (hyper)critical and negative, sometimes for the sake of being so. My goal is to not let that someone (if I should encounter a student like that in my class) influence anyone else. Negativity and pessimism can be fatal in the classroom. And, for me, the classroom is a place of meaning; wherein the student can choose to be mediocre only if he/she wants to be.
The date is approaching--August 24, 2010. That's when I'll stand in front of my 19 freshmen students for the first time. As teacher. Instructor. Professor? No, I'm not there yet. They can just call me Maria. I don't know exactly why I have written that I'll "stand in front" of them; I guess that's just a metaphor for me to fulfill my role as teacher while, in turn, they can fulfill their roles as students. But maybe I won't stand anywhere.
I've been thinking a lot about the kind of teacher I will be. I know I have goals and objectives and ideas--all of the things that I want to be. The longer I ponder these things I realize that, despite my deliberate intentions and reflections weeks (months?) before I start to teach English 101, things are going to be out of my control. I firmly believe that I'll learn more than my students will, and this totally gives me goosebumps. But I love learning, and while the prospect of trying to guide 19 young minds through the writing process and hopefully leaving them with at least one or two words of wisdom is outright frightening, I'm very much looking forward to it. I'll be reading and writing like never before. I'll leave comments on papers in the margins with a green or purple pen--I've learned to stay away from the treacherous red ink. I'll have office hours, and, chances are, no one will come to them. I'll have to get to the classroom early to set up the technology because, let's face it, if you're not using YouTube or some kind of new media to teach, you are behind on the times. (Needless to say that I will be having my students use YouTube for their first unit on pop culture!) And I'm sure there will be other numerous things that I've not yet anticipated.
I've heard that the class syllabus is supposed to say a lot about the instructor. Accordingly, the words on my syllabus were chosen carefully. It's the (initial) space wherein I can adamantly announce my teaching objectives until I start to deviate from my initial plans because, as a first-time teacher, it's a given that I will deviate. And here I'm not referring to the content of the course--homework, feeders, unit projects, oral presentations, etc. I'm concerned with the kind of teaching philosophy that is embedded in my syllabus; this is why the words are important. I know I sound really strict, but I don't like that word. Ideally, I want my students to think of me as demanding? Why? Because I want to teach them how to write and how to do it well. I want to be demanding because I care. And I think to be demanding is also to demand a lot from myself: time, energy, time, energy, time.
I would hate my classroom to become a space wherein the banking concept of education manifests itself; that would be horrifying. Ultimately, I know that, for some students, this will be the case, but I will do my best to fight against it. I've had amazing teachers and professors, and there will always be someone that is (hyper)critical and negative, sometimes for the sake of being so. My goal is to not let that someone (if I should encounter a student like that in my class) influence anyone else. Negativity and pessimism can be fatal in the classroom. And, for me, the classroom is a place of meaning; wherein the student can choose to be mediocre only if he/she wants to be.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
One Sweet Day
Sorry, I never told you, all I wanted to say.
Now it's too late to hold you.
'Cause you've flown away, so far away.
Never had I imagined living without your smile.
Feelin' and knowing you hear me.
It keeps me alive, alive...
And I know you're shining down on me from heaven,
Like so many friends we've lost along the way,
And I know eventually we'll be together.
One sweet day.
And all that know is I'll wait patiently to see you in heaven.
Darling, I never showed you.
Assumed you'd always be there.
I took your presence for granted.
But I always cared
And I miss the love we shared.
Although, the sun will never shine the same, I'll
always look to a brighter day.
Yeah, Lord, I know, when I lay me down to sleep,
You'll always listen, as I pray...
And I know you're shining down on me from Heaven,
Like so many friends we've lost along the way,
And I know eventually we'll be together.
One sweet day.
Sorry, I never told you, all I wanted to say...
Now it's too late to hold you.
'Cause you've flown away, so far away.
Never had I imagined living without your smile.
Feelin' and knowing you hear me.
It keeps me alive, alive...
And I know you're shining down on me from heaven,
Like so many friends we've lost along the way,
And I know eventually we'll be together.
One sweet day.
And all that know is I'll wait patiently to see you in heaven.
Darling, I never showed you.
Assumed you'd always be there.
I took your presence for granted.
But I always cared
And I miss the love we shared.
Although, the sun will never shine the same, I'll
always look to a brighter day.
Yeah, Lord, I know, when I lay me down to sleep,
You'll always listen, as I pray...
And I know you're shining down on me from Heaven,
Like so many friends we've lost along the way,
And I know eventually we'll be together.
One sweet day.
Sorry, I never told you, all I wanted to say...
Lyrics by Mariah Carey
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Ever Wonder?
The sun was shining, and it was hot. Many trees had leaves again. This morning, I heard air conditioners. I didn’t like the sound, but there wasn’t anything I could do about it, so I walked to work. Grant was already there. He was always there. He was from South Dakota and had something to prove, I guess, so he made sure to be the first one to work every day, and I didn’t like him but that wasn’t the reason why. I didn’t like him because he was three inches taller than me, and he didn’t fish. I tried to close the door to my office, but he followed me, already talking.
“Good morning, Ben,” he said.
“Good morning, Grant,” I said.
“That was some storm last night.”
“Yes, it was.”
“It made me glad I was inside. Didn’t you think so?”
“I was outside. I had been drinking, and I was walking home.”
He started to say something else, but I opened my desk and pulled out a bottle of cognac and a glass. I absentmindedly poured a little into the glass and drank it. Looking at Grant, I asked, “Do you want some?”
Grant shook his head. I poured another drink and drank it. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea to drink so early in the morning. I read once that people who do that are people who might have problems.”
I poured another drink and raised the glass in his direction. The cognac was good. “I never read that. But, then, I don’t read much.” The cognac really was good. It was good cognac. I was feeling a bit tight from the good cognac. “It’s nice that you do, though.”
“Can I ask you something, Ben?”
“Let’s not talk.”
He cleared his throat. He looked out the window at the sun. Maybe he was looking at a building. He wasn’t looking at me. I sat down. He didn’t move.
“Do you think we have a purpose?”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” I poured another drink. I was going to need it, and the cognac was good.
“Don’t you ever wonder that?”
“Not since I was in college.”
“You never wonder why we exist or what we could be doing?”
“Well, this cognac is good.”
“Why are we here?”
I had to get some work done. He wasn’t leaving. I pointed at the papers on my desk. He didn’t move. I stood up and walked to the window. I took the bottle with me.
“I’ve read a lot, but I still can’t figure it out.”
I opened another drawer of my desk and pulled out two books. “Take one,” I said. “Read it.”
“And then what?”
“And then what what?”
“Are you drunk?”
The cognac was good. The sun was shining. I had to get some work done, and I needed Grant to leave. “And then I don’t care.”
“You much care.”
“I don’t care.”
“But if you don’t care, and you’re the narrator, then how am I to know what to do?”
I took a piece of paper from the stack on my desk, poured a drink, and then wrote a few lines. I handed it to Grant. “Don’t read it in here.”
“Thank you. You’re a real friend.”
The sun was shining when he left, and I sat down. Outside, I heard him read aloud from the note: Read it. Finish it, eventually. Think about it. Respond. Connect it to yourself. Or not. Connect it to the world. Or not. The thoughts are all up to you. But remember Descartes said to only spend a couple hours a year doing hard thinking. And remember that we’re all in the same mess you are. Hence, the magnificent cognac.
I moved my chair and heard him, still outside my door. I tried to speak the words at the same time he did. “But what will I get out of it?”
“Good morning, Ben,” he said.
“Good morning, Grant,” I said.
“That was some storm last night.”
“Yes, it was.”
“It made me glad I was inside. Didn’t you think so?”
“I was outside. I had been drinking, and I was walking home.”
He started to say something else, but I opened my desk and pulled out a bottle of cognac and a glass. I absentmindedly poured a little into the glass and drank it. Looking at Grant, I asked, “Do you want some?”
Grant shook his head. I poured another drink and drank it. “Are you sure?”
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea to drink so early in the morning. I read once that people who do that are people who might have problems.”
I poured another drink and raised the glass in his direction. The cognac was good. “I never read that. But, then, I don’t read much.” The cognac really was good. It was good cognac. I was feeling a bit tight from the good cognac. “It’s nice that you do, though.”
“Can I ask you something, Ben?”
“Let’s not talk.”
He cleared his throat. He looked out the window at the sun. Maybe he was looking at a building. He wasn’t looking at me. I sat down. He didn’t move.
“Do you think we have a purpose?”
“Oh, for crying out loud.” I poured another drink. I was going to need it, and the cognac was good.
“Don’t you ever wonder that?”
“Not since I was in college.”
“You never wonder why we exist or what we could be doing?”
“Well, this cognac is good.”
“Why are we here?”
I had to get some work done. He wasn’t leaving. I pointed at the papers on my desk. He didn’t move. I stood up and walked to the window. I took the bottle with me.
“I’ve read a lot, but I still can’t figure it out.”
I opened another drawer of my desk and pulled out two books. “Take one,” I said. “Read it.”
“And then what?”
“And then what what?”
“Are you drunk?”
The cognac was good. The sun was shining. I had to get some work done, and I needed Grant to leave. “And then I don’t care.”
“You much care.”
“I don’t care.”
“But if you don’t care, and you’re the narrator, then how am I to know what to do?”
I took a piece of paper from the stack on my desk, poured a drink, and then wrote a few lines. I handed it to Grant. “Don’t read it in here.”
“Thank you. You’re a real friend.”
The sun was shining when he left, and I sat down. Outside, I heard him read aloud from the note: Read it. Finish it, eventually. Think about it. Respond. Connect it to yourself. Or not. Connect it to the world. Or not. The thoughts are all up to you. But remember Descartes said to only spend a couple hours a year doing hard thinking. And remember that we’re all in the same mess you are. Hence, the magnificent cognac.
I moved my chair and heard him, still outside my door. I tried to speak the words at the same time he did. “But what will I get out of it?”
Friday, June 25, 2010
In a corrupt world...
Trust only what you experience with your senses. Trust beauty. Trust its creation and enjoyment. Devote yourself to it. Speak up for whatever it is you have put your trust in. Do it because it preserves individual human dignity when everything else seems to be flaking away. It is a duty to find something beautiful in the life that you were given.
I trust artistic excellence because it is uncorruptible. That's beauty.
I trust artistic excellence because it is uncorruptible. That's beauty.
Soy Nica. That's Short for, Soy Nicaraguense
I miss my mother's cooking. It's tasty, and sometimes it's simply unpredictable. Like when she makes gallopinto--I never know if I'm going to want second servings, or if I'm going to chew slowly and tell her I like it so I don't hurt her feelings. Ok, I take that back. If I don't like it, I communicate that to her. She has something to say in response: "Tuve que hacer el arroz rapido para que pudieran comer" [I had to make the rice in a hurry so y'all could eat], "Fueron los frijoles! Yo no tengo la culpa" [It was the beans! It's not my fault], or "Que? What you talking about" [my favorite one]. In my family, gallopinto is hit or miss.
But in my neighbor's family, gallopinto is always a hit. I admit I get a tad jealous. Especially when the dish includes tacos (or "taquitos," because we Latinos have a habit of adding "ito" and "ita" to many nouns, unnecessarily). I'm not talking about Taco-Bell or Chipotle tacos here. These are exponentially better. My front door neighbor es una pura Nica--excuse the Spanglish! It's not only her food, it's the way she expresses herself in Spanish--Nicoya-style. Also, how she says something. I absolutely love it. Sure, her language is vulgar most of the time, but mainly it's just hilarious. And, honestly, I've become desensitized to curse words in Spanish.
So, I was thinking about my dear neighbor. And I realized I'm not hearing many dichos Nicas these days. The translation for dichos would be idioms or sayings, i.e. it's raining cats and dogs (ok, who came up with that?! It's dumb. In my humble opinion). The thing is, I don't take pleasure in English idioms. Dichos Nicas, on the other hand, usually put a smile on my face. And, for that, I've decided to immortalize them here.
Note: lost in translation.
Chavalos/sipotes
¡Te conozco mosco!
¡Alabate pato que mañana te mato!
Kiubo? Kiubole? Que onda, broder?
¡Puchica!
Safate/me safo
Te voy a dar una sopa de muñeca
Cabron o hijueputa
Salvage
Es una tula
Meterse en un (gran) rollo
Los riales
Estar como gallina comprada
Hechar un pelon
Dar garrote
Meter la cuchara
No jodás, las estás cagando
God, I love my motherland.
But in my neighbor's family, gallopinto is always a hit. I admit I get a tad jealous. Especially when the dish includes tacos (or "taquitos," because we Latinos have a habit of adding "ito" and "ita" to many nouns, unnecessarily). I'm not talking about Taco-Bell or Chipotle tacos here. These are exponentially better. My front door neighbor es una pura Nica--excuse the Spanglish! It's not only her food, it's the way she expresses herself in Spanish--Nicoya-style. Also, how she says something. I absolutely love it. Sure, her language is vulgar most of the time, but mainly it's just hilarious. And, honestly, I've become desensitized to curse words in Spanish.
So, I was thinking about my dear neighbor. And I realized I'm not hearing many dichos Nicas these days. The translation for dichos would be idioms or sayings, i.e. it's raining cats and dogs (ok, who came up with that?! It's dumb. In my humble opinion). The thing is, I don't take pleasure in English idioms. Dichos Nicas, on the other hand, usually put a smile on my face. And, for that, I've decided to immortalize them here.
Note: lost in translation.
Chavalos/sipotes
¡Te conozco mosco!
¡Alabate pato que mañana te mato!
Kiubo? Kiubole? Que onda, broder?
¡Puchica!
Safate/me safo
Te voy a dar una sopa de muñeca
Cabron o hijueputa
Salvage
Es una tula
Meterse en un (gran) rollo
Los riales
Estar como gallina comprada
Hechar un pelon
Dar garrote
Meter la cuchara
No jodás, las estás cagando
God, I love my motherland.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
What Prisoners Leave Behind.
Recently, I watched Ashley Lucas perform snippets of her one-woman show, Doin' Time: Through the Visiting Glass. (Sidenote: Ashley is an amazing person. Brilliant. Risueña. Warm. Helpful. Kind. Understanding. Need I go on? Check her out: http://drama.unc.edu/indiv_ashleylucas.html)
The show is a series of character monologues. But these characters are not your ordinary ones because they harbor stories that the general public marginalizes. Why? Because the general public cannot empathize or, perhaps more accurately stated, does not want to empathize with these characters' plights. Why? Because of fear and outright rejection. The characters in Ashley Lucas's show all have something in common: they have a relative in prison in the U.S. I speak for myself when I say that this is the first time I have heard these stories in such a genuine and non-judgmental manner. There is sadness, heartbreak, despair, etc. This is to say that we should not forget that the offender's family suffers, too.
Ashley conducted many interviews with affected families, including letters to prisoners. I applaud her. What audacity! And who would open up to a complete stranger about a sensitive and perhaps clandestine subject matter? Turns out, A LOT. I believe she had over 400 interviews and letters; that number certainly attests to these families' desires and need to share their heartbreaks. Indeed, they rarely have an opportunity to do so. So, Ashley created a safe space--not that this is a physical space, just a space--for neglected and unappreciated stories that must be told. And she allows an audience to really listen to them every time she performs the show. Now, one may ask: what gives her the idea that she can just get into these families' business like this, doing interviews and writing letters? Well, Ashley is the daughter of a prisoner. Of course that must have made it easier for families to talk to her. And even so, why couldn't anyone want to excavate the voices of the acknowledged and/or misunderstood? We are severely wrong if we think we can privilege some stories over others and silence ones altogether.
What I absolutely love about Ashley's show is its showcase of emotion and relationships, NOT criminality. It would be easy to dwell on the offender's crime(s) and to literally dance around the conclusion, "yes, that person deserves to and should be behind bars." But she deliberately omits broaching the subject. It's not about the crime--it's about the wife who is left behind to take care of her children and having to explain where daddy is, all the while with financial struggles and emotional devastation. That brings tears to my eyes.
It is not a coincidence, then, that when I saw some of Ashley's show, I was reading Sister Souljah's The Coldest Winter Ever. (It's meant to be when books come into my life or I decide to start reading one. They have perfect timing) In this novel, the Santiagas stick together--"family sticks together." That is until the father of the family is incarcerated; Ricky pretty much built a drug empire in Brooklyn, NY. One of the most touching parts was toward the end of the novel where Ricky falls to his knees knowing that his living was the cause of family suffering and downfall after years of big-ballin' and happiness made possible by drug dealing and drug money. It's like before this moment he thought, "When I fall, we all fall." What a tragedy when we find echoes of this in reality.
It seems to me that Sister Souljah made a similar artistic decision to Ashley. The protagonist--the narrator--Winter loves her father. Always. The novel's focus is not one of a fallen drug kingpin but about Winter's struggles to survive in the world after her father's incarceration. And she's a fighter because that's exactly what her father taught her to be. The reader also learns what happens to the other members of the Santiaga family. While their stories get filtered through Winter, it is clear that there is pain after the most important man in their lives goes behind bars.
I want to hear more of these stories. Let's not keep them locked up.
The show is a series of character monologues. But these characters are not your ordinary ones because they harbor stories that the general public marginalizes. Why? Because the general public cannot empathize or, perhaps more accurately stated, does not want to empathize with these characters' plights. Why? Because of fear and outright rejection. The characters in Ashley Lucas's show all have something in common: they have a relative in prison in the U.S. I speak for myself when I say that this is the first time I have heard these stories in such a genuine and non-judgmental manner. There is sadness, heartbreak, despair, etc. This is to say that we should not forget that the offender's family suffers, too.
Ashley conducted many interviews with affected families, including letters to prisoners. I applaud her. What audacity! And who would open up to a complete stranger about a sensitive and perhaps clandestine subject matter? Turns out, A LOT. I believe she had over 400 interviews and letters; that number certainly attests to these families' desires and need to share their heartbreaks. Indeed, they rarely have an opportunity to do so. So, Ashley created a safe space--not that this is a physical space, just a space--for neglected and unappreciated stories that must be told. And she allows an audience to really listen to them every time she performs the show. Now, one may ask: what gives her the idea that she can just get into these families' business like this, doing interviews and writing letters? Well, Ashley is the daughter of a prisoner. Of course that must have made it easier for families to talk to her. And even so, why couldn't anyone want to excavate the voices of the acknowledged and/or misunderstood? We are severely wrong if we think we can privilege some stories over others and silence ones altogether.
What I absolutely love about Ashley's show is its showcase of emotion and relationships, NOT criminality. It would be easy to dwell on the offender's crime(s) and to literally dance around the conclusion, "yes, that person deserves to and should be behind bars." But she deliberately omits broaching the subject. It's not about the crime--it's about the wife who is left behind to take care of her children and having to explain where daddy is, all the while with financial struggles and emotional devastation. That brings tears to my eyes.
It is not a coincidence, then, that when I saw some of Ashley's show, I was reading Sister Souljah's The Coldest Winter Ever. (It's meant to be when books come into my life or I decide to start reading one. They have perfect timing) In this novel, the Santiagas stick together--"family sticks together." That is until the father of the family is incarcerated; Ricky pretty much built a drug empire in Brooklyn, NY. One of the most touching parts was toward the end of the novel where Ricky falls to his knees knowing that his living was the cause of family suffering and downfall after years of big-ballin' and happiness made possible by drug dealing and drug money. It's like before this moment he thought, "When I fall, we all fall." What a tragedy when we find echoes of this in reality.
It seems to me that Sister Souljah made a similar artistic decision to Ashley. The protagonist--the narrator--Winter loves her father. Always. The novel's focus is not one of a fallen drug kingpin but about Winter's struggles to survive in the world after her father's incarceration. And she's a fighter because that's exactly what her father taught her to be. The reader also learns what happens to the other members of the Santiaga family. While their stories get filtered through Winter, it is clear that there is pain after the most important man in their lives goes behind bars.
I want to hear more of these stories. Let's not keep them locked up.
What does it feel to be home?
It's like a newspaper on the front porch. A newspaper is there. Everyday. It's a normal everyday thing. Being home feels good.
He looked at me, and I smiled--a smile in the fight for normal everydays and the lovely things that fill them.
He looked at me, and I smiled--a smile in the fight for normal everydays and the lovely things that fill them.
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