The New Princess

Listening to AM radio this morning on the way home from driving my daughter to school, I caught wind of the petition by a young Virginia woman who wants Disney to create a plus-sized princess. Her petition already has more than 22,000 signatures. And a whole lot of people piping up, and sparing no expense whatsoever, to be cruel and heartless on the subject.

This very brave girl, Jewel Moore, is a plus size girl herself and wanted to see Disney model its princesses after real women. Just like her. It’s a simple request, one would think, since the average weight of a real woman is 165 pounds.

The cartoon and animated characters we see Disney create today weigh probably all of 90 pounds soaking wet. And like one comment I heard this morning, their eyeballs are bigger than their wrists. So true. Never thought about it before, but yes, they certainly are.


I heard the radio host getting very distressed about the fact that Disney princess are cartoons, dammit, animated characters based on an idea in the drawing room at the studio and why should women want to model themselves after a character that isn’t even real?

Point taken.

But here is another point.

As an avid watcher of the Disney Channel, I  can assure you that the channel’s marketing campaign aimed at young girls titled “I am a Princess” would not be nearly as effective if girls didn’t want to model themselves after the kinds of characters created over the years by Disney. The campaign is about the character traits and attributes — kindness, strength, perseverance, etc.. – that every Disney princess embodies.The campaign uses real girls. Girls with braces, pigtails, acne, tall girls, short girls, thin girls and not thin girls. Girls who can achieve greatness just by believing. I’ll admit, it made me choke up. I like it. It has a great message.

I immediately thought of this when I heard the comments from the show’s host, callers and even an exchange by two female members of a morning news show (it might have been Fox and Friends but I couldn’t find it during a search.) I will spare you the ugly details, but the naysayers equated plus size with obesity, heart disease, laziness and diabetes. They said it sends a bad message and other comments that would lead one to believe that because you don’t fit into the skinny model, you should not be a princess. One very snarky comment by a woman was “Why don’t we just create Diabetes Princess?” It was so cruel. To think that because one is plus size that she, or he, is lazy and doesn’t take care of their health is just plain ignorant.

There are plus size women, and men, who can go to the gym everyday and work hard at keeping good health. And then there are those who can work hard at doing nothing, smoking cigarettes and eating junk food everyday and because of some metabolism glitch, not gain a  pound. And the masses can see the two people next to each other and assume the one with more pounds is the unhealthy one.

Didn’t your mama ever teach you not to judge a book by its cover?

I think Jewel Moore has an excellent idea. Real women as princesses. How about a Disney Princess modeled after Queen Latifah? Or Emme, who is not only one of the most famous plus size models in my memory but I think she was the trailblazer for the term. Or one after Kate Middleton or Diana? Or Oprah or Eleanor Roosevelt?

It doesn’t matter her size. A Princess is a Princess. She is smart, and kind, and helpful, and strong, brave and determined. Someone who doesn’t give up. Someone who can change the world.

Someone like my daughter.

So I say this:  Jewel Moore, you’ve taken that first step with your petition. You are a Princess and even if Disney doesn’t create a plus sized one for you, you have the opportunity to do it yourself. Write a book,. Create a graphic novel,. A comic book series. Write a song. Make a You Tube video. I am sure it will go viral.

Just like the Disney Channel’s I am a Princess campaign says: You can make a difference.

Here is the petition:


A Party With Out the Bag

I have officially become a rebel. A square peg in a round hole. A non-conformist.

Call me what you want, but I am ditching the party bag.

ditching. the. bag.

Was that a GASP? Did you drop your coffee on your keyboard? Did you think, how could she?

Listen, my daughter is having a birthday party tomorrow. I booked the roller rink, sent out the invites, need to get the cake, etc. etcetera. RSVPs in. All set. And then.. BAM. I start having anxiety about the stupid party bag.

The dreaded bane of my existence. A little bag filled with a bunch of crap that almost never makes it out of the back seat of my car. And if it does, the contents more than likely end up in the dog’s mouth or underneath my foot, which of course is then followed by my cursing up a storm after having stepped on a very cheap, and sharp, plastic kazoo.

For the record, I HATE party bags. Always have. I see no point to the party bag. You host a party, shell out all the cash for this, that and the other thing. Give them cake. Ice cream. And experience. The pleasure of your company. Yada. And then  you are expected, even encouraged, to present your guests with something for coming to your party that you threw and paid for.

I don’t get it.

Of course, if the party bags were like the ones they give the Hollywood A-listers at the post Oscar celebrations, that’s a whole different story. Fantasy land this is not. Just small town Connecticut. No iPad minis or GoPros in these bags. Maybe some Pinterest-worthy party bag assemblage by some crafty moms. You know who you are. And we know I am not one of them.

Have you been there? The Love-Hate relationship with party bags and their breakable contents. The cute little temporary tattoos that no longer look cute when they are on your wall. The old-fashioned silly putty that was fun when you could copy comics from the paper but is no longer fun when you are waiting for the dog to poop out the neon green blob you begged your kids not to leave around for him to get. The little rubber ball attached to a band that you are supposed to hit with a paddle only it breaks the first time you try.

Am I right?

I am. It’s been a long haul with the bags.

I am taking this first step. A baby step if you will.

Come to the party. Roller Skate. Have fun with your friends. Eat cake. Go home.

And next year. No presents. I tried to convince my daughter that this year, in lieu of presents,we should have the kids bring donations for the local food bank. I told her all the other kids were doing it and that her birthday is so close to Christmas and all that.

“Next year Mom.” That’s all she said.

Fine. A little compromise then.

I told her that I was ditching the party bag. Her eyes welled up. Big brown blurry discs of pure sadness. I. Am. The. Meanest. Mom.

She didn’t even have to say it.

Eh. She’ll get over it.

And so, I am certain, will the 10 little 8 year-olds at the party tomorrow who leave. Empty handed.

Life, Boobs and Meds on an Empty Stomach

I can’t actually call myself much of a blogger anymore since I looked back at my stats and, gasp! the last blog was in October. Yikes. How times slips by. But thismomisalwayswrite is still my blog and I can come and go as I need to. It’s been an outlet for me. Where I try to be witty at times, poignant at others and then just darn corny at others. Cant help it. It’s just me.

In any case, so much has happened in the last several months, I don’t even  know where to start.

I guess the beginning would be good.

We can really talk first about Sandy. The hurricane. Remember her? Darn bitch too if I can be truthful here. Caused soon much physical damage, and pain and anguish to so many people it just is unimaginable. Sure up here in the sticks, we lost our power for a while but we a did get a generator the day before and a kind electrician trudged through downed limbs and floods to hook us up the day after. And I picked up my mom who lives near the Connecticut shoreline and she stayed with us for a while until her town’s power came back on. No biggie. A Halloween Trick or Trunk event where the town’s park was lined with decorated cars and people gave out candy to kids was a sure light in our darkened town that Halloween night.

But then seeing the photos of Staten Island and Queens and Far Rockaway, a place that my own mom had lived for y ears,completely decimated, and I just couldn’t bear not to try to help. A teacher at our town’s middle school grew up in Breezy Point and did an everything drive for residents out there. Me  thinks I bought out the whole Kmart store and packed bins of whatever I could think of and dropped them off in the lobby of the school that was already so full of things from people willing to help. A beautiful thing in the aftermath of the awful.

Ands then there was the other Sandy. Sandy Hook Elementary School, just a few short miles away from here. Words can not even begin to express the sadness and grief the world is feeling. For most of us around here in our little Connecticut neck of the woods, it was not a six degrees of separation situation. It was one degree. Everyone knew someone affected by this awful tragedy. A child, a teacher, a principal, a mom, a dad, a first responder, a friend, an ER doctor, a funeral director. Someone. And the dark grey cloud has been over us since. Yes, life does go on and the kids are now back in their new school thanks to the kindness of neighboring Monroe. And everyday gets easier. Maybe. I don’t know and can’t even imagine. But yes life does go on. We pray everyday for the sadness and heavy burden to ease.

So that brings this to my own life. As I type this latest blog, I am resting in bed after surgery. I was diagnosed in early November with breast cancer again. Not a recurrence. So that part is good. It’s a new breast cancer, in the other breast. It’s been 15 years for me, so needless to say, it was a shock to hear the words again.

For those who know me, since I came out of the closet so to speak as a breast cancer survivor prior to my first Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in 2007, I have been a diligent and perhaps at times annoying advocate for early detection, breast exams and mammograms at 40, regardless of what new AMA directive came out. Every year I wish my friends, family and those brave enough to be my Facebook friends a Happy Breast Cancer Awareness Month in October with a little reminder to get checked: how ever you need to. Dense breast ultrasounds, regular mammos whatever.

I even had my annual mammo on 10/10/12. Looking back, that sounded like a lucky number. In early November, my breast surgeon’s office called to remind me of my annual appointment with her. I hadn’t written it down, forgot about it and almost canceled. I thought better about canceling because she is the lady and I may not get back on her crazy schedule for a looooong while. So I went.

And when I got there, she threw my mammos up on the xray film thingy and said “They missed something. Here.” I didn’t have my cheater readers on so I couldn’t make out the microscopic things she called calcifications up there on the film. She even called the radiologist while I sat there and basically asked him WTF? How did you miss this. (She’s awesome by the way. I love her.)

In any case, she immediately set me up for a stereotactic biopsy the following Monday. In case you don’t know what that is, you lie on a table, boob through a hole, they squeeze it in a mammogram machine from underneath and then take samples. Yeah.

So that was fun to look forward to. But while she was examining me in her office, she found a lump, one that I had been feeling but thought it was one of the gazillion fibroid adenomas she’d already biopsied. Nope. New one. Damn. “Have five minutes and we’ll test it now?” Sure. I had time and she, being so diligent herself wanted it done. So one core biopsy (like a staple gun) later, an ice pack in my bra and instructions for Monday at the hospital for the stereotactic and I was good to go. She was pretty confident that this little thing was nothing. She was more concerned about the two other ones she’d get next week. I’d have the results from the core then.

Just so you know, procedures before a weekend suck. Your mind goes to dark places, yup. Dark.

Anyway, Monday came and my daughter was sick. I begged and bribed her to go to school so my husband could drive me. No go. She really was sick. So off I went alone with my very now blue and black and yellow boob from the core biopsy.

I don’t need to go into details. An upside down mammo with your boob in a hole and neck in a funky position — could only have been designed by a man. Maybe a nicer man would have used tempurpedic, but that’s for another discussion.

Anyway, after the first lesion was tested and my doc was getting ready for the second, she sat down in front of me and gave me the results from her office biopsy. “You have cancer again.” It threw me and my initial reaction was a few tears and then anger. Get these things off. Now.

She didn’t even get to the second lesion. I was going to have a double mastectomy with reconstruction and that was that. It was something that I had been thinking about as the one that I had radiated 15 years ago was smaller than the other, which was really now a B long. It hung there and I had to pad my bra to get some symmetry. She asked me every time I saw her over the years about reconstruction and I just didn’t want to do it. I had an excuse every time. Want to breast feed, kids too young, don’t want to go under anesthesia if I don’t have to, there’s nothing wrong with the good one (except the droopiness) blah blah blah.

She looked at me while I sat on the table, wiping away a few tears and told me, “Now you have too. I am making you.” And that was that. My decision was made.

The hard part was the timing. Just my husband and I knew as we hosted Thanksgiving with smiles. And lots of wine. And then we waited to tell the kids. There was always a reason not to. We decorated the tree, my daughter’s annual Nutcracker, my sister’s visit from LA, a party. Just not the right time. And then on December 13, we sat them down and told them about it. My daughter cried a little and my son hugged me and said he would say lots of prayers. It went smoothly. We had prepped each one of their teachers at the parent/teacher meetings as well as the school social worker so we were good to go. I had the best night’s sleep I’d had in a month.

And then Sandy Hook happened and everything, I mean every single thing paled in comparison. I cried for days for these people, did what I could to help with the things happening in our town and tried to tell my own kids that things like this don’t usually happen. That school is still safe and a police officer would now be there making it safer for them. I could not hug my kids and every friends’ kids enough. So close. Too close.

The grief and sadness I felt for the people of Newtown was the one thing that took my mind off of what was happening here at home. It was easy not to tell people about me. And it was good not to think too much about it.

But eventually people were finding out and I felt I needed to explain. So cowardly I did it in an email! Not really cowardly but hey, it was now three days away and I just wanted people I cared about to know. And for them to know that it was caught early and a sentinel node biopsy would determine whether surgery would be enough.

And thankfully it is. Negative node, surgery, lots of pain and some new boobs that will soon stand at attention. Yay!

A downside is the type of surgery I had, latissmus dorsi flap that takes a back muscle and tunnels it through to make a new boob on the one that was radiated 15 years ago. (I know .. TMI.) I haven’t looked but my husband was kind and said the scar wasn’t that long. And one of the visiting nurses said “wow that is a big incision.” Yikes.

So there are a lot of things happening. Recovery, from the cancer, from Sandy Hook and trying to get into a comfortable position. Through this ordeal, all of them really, I have learned that Hillary Clinton, though I don’t agree with most of what she has to say, was on the money when she said “It takes a village.”

The support for Hurricane Sandy by strangers and the world over was really awesome. The continued support for the victims of the Sandy Hook tragedy is something I have never seen. It makes me cry every time I see someone reaching out to do something. (And if Extreme Makeover ever sees this, please please please raze that school and give those kids a new place to start over.)

And for me, the continued support I have received from friends, family and neighbors is enough to swell my heart to full. I feel like George Bailey. The richest man in town.

And the very latest thing I have learned is two fold: Do not attempt to blog while on Valium and take meds on a full stomach.

I promise this won’t be a blog about breast cancer, but since it is about my life, and there is that, well, bear with me. 🙂


School Daze

The house is quiet. The only thing I can hear is the tap tap of the rain on the windows and the hum of the refrigerator. (Thankfully it is on. We awoke this morning to no power. They said Post Irene power outages could happen. They were right, whoever “they” are. Sunday morning, too.)

But today is a special day. Today is the first day of school. The day when my baby girl joins her big brother in elementary school. Kindergarten!

Up early, all smiles, breakfast served, lunched packed, happy children, super mommy. It was a good dream.

But when I woke up to a gray rain and a dark room, as I fumbled for my book light, got my watch and realized we had no power, and no way of knowing if the outage was ours or townwide, it kind of threw a wrench into the morning routine.

I hadn’t heard any of the upper school buses go by, so it wasn’t until one zipped by at 7:06 am that we knew school was a go and the power outage was local.

My daughter came down, my still sleepy-eyed and bed-headed in-a-few-hours-a-kindergartener little girl, and wrapped herself up in my bathrobe. I thought I was ready to let go and send her off today, but at that very moment, when I realized those kinds of snuggles won’t be happening much after 8:15, well, what can I say. I squeezed tight.

I woke up my son who followed me down stairs, in hand his new Nike skate shoes still in the box, his clothes in a neat pile, all picked out. But he was bummed out. Not that it was the first day of school, or anything. But no power meant he couldn’t have his Toaster Struedel for breakfast. Now THAT sucks.

We made do with boiled water on the Coleman propane stove — we are now pros from Irene’s four-day power outage. A little oatmeal, some hot cocoa and my son was in better spirits.

I made the lunches quick as I could without opening the fridge for too long. They were done and we were ready to head out the door. My son looked handsome in his chosen digs and my daughter, well she was just happy to have her Skechers Twinkle Toes light up sneakers. We were happy, too. They added a little light to our dark morning.

We headed to our driveway and took some photos, and waited for the bus in the intermittent drizzle. And waited. And waited some more.

Finally, at 8:20 we kind of thought the bus might not actually come and, since school is supposed to start at 8:25, we drove them.

They were reluctant passengers.

And I was a reluctant mom. 

It’s not fair that I don’t get to see my kindergartener get on that big yellow bus as she begins her school career. We had that milestone with our son and I remember clearly what he was wearing and how he waved and his bus driver’s name and me bawling my eyes out in the driveway as I waved after him.

But now because of some bus snafu, we had to drive them today.

And when we got school at 8:24, my son jumped out and waved and then my daughter was whisked away by a staff someone who walked her into her new school. No looking back. No kiss. No tears. No nothing! It happened too fast and I was left in the drop off circle with my husband shaking my head and feeling gipped. NOT FAIR!

Tomorrow is another day. I’ll store up my tears until then when I can see her wave to me from that yellow bus. Until the moment I see her sitting next to her big handsome fourth grade brother on the bus –who we made swear that he’d protect his baby sister from any and all bad things that could be said/done/thought by other kids on that short bus ride around the corner to school.

Tomorrow I’ll cry.

Happy First Day of School.

Some Fun

You know you have had a long week when:

  1. You realize you are about to pour orange juice into your son’s cereal.
  2. Your son asks pointedly why you are wearing a pair of ugly gray sweatpants that look like ones his classmate in third grade wore to school yesterday. And you hesitate more than a minute before you climb the stairs to throw on the same jeans you’ve worn all week.
  3. You realize the smell is you. You forgot deodorant. Again.
  4. You can’t remember lunch. You think it was a Snickers Bar.
  5. The sound of the incessant croaking of tree frogs doesn’t bother you anymore. In fact, you are humming right along to it.
  6. You are thankful it is raining, again, so you don’t have to go outside and play.
  7. You don’t fight with the kids to brush their teeth before bed. You’ll get that nasty plaque in the morning.
  8. You rationalize not brushing your own teeth before bed. “I’ll get that nasty plaque in the morning” and when you forget you don’t even get mad at your children for telling you that your breath smells worse than the dog’s.
  9. Your hair is a wreck so the baseball hat becomes your new hair accessory. Day 5.
  10. The mascara you put on at 8:30 a.m. to try to not look tired ends up on your cheeks by 10 and you realize that at 11:30 when you pick up your daughter at school that you still haven’t wiped it off.

Next week will be brighter. I am sure. But I’ll keep a pack of handiwipes nearby just in case.

PS. Mom is doing ok. The week was not that bad. Just having some fun and trying to get back to other things, too. 🙂

Whose Project Is It Anyway?

I can’t help myself. I have tried. But when I get the crayons, paints and glitter out, my instinct takes over. And my bad habit of taking over my kids’ school art projects comes out to play.

I realized it has been going on for years, probably since my son’s preschool Valentine’s Day exchange. I suggested we take black construction paper and cut out stars and planets and finish with “You are out of this world.” Pretty clever, no?

Well, I cut out the planets and glued all of them of 10 black sheets and wrote the greeting. My son signed his name 10 times and that was that. Same thing happened in kindergarten and first grade when he brought home projects. It was fun and I saw no harm in it.

Well, this year, my preschool daughter had a “family project” around Christmas time. She was to make her own gingerbread person with help from the family. So I helped. A lot. We spread out on the coffee table in front of a roaring fire, she and I. We placed our items to use on the table. Pattern. Check. Felt. Check. Glue stick. Check. Yarn. Check. Googly Eyes. Check. Stick on gems. Check. I had been to Michael’s Crafts that day and picked up some self-stick glittery foam as well. Check.

So sitting by the fire, we created a beautiful gingerbread princess with long flowy yellow yarn hair. She had bling — rings and earrings and a bracelet — and a crown. I cut out her dress. I cut the yarn for her hair. I made the shoes. I let my daughter decide what color gems she should have on  her crown, which I had also cut out. My daughter meticulously placed the little faceted fake gems on the sparkly crown. And when she wasn’t looking I moved them to where I wanted them to go. All in the name of “fixing” her. What? They looked better.

Well our gingerbread princess was beautiful and I was proud of myself my daughter.

Our family project was complete and we returned her to school. A few days later as we were  rushing in, I noticed all the gingerbread people hung up in the hallway. After I dropped my daughter in her class, kissed her goodbye, I went to see the wall on my way out.

Ok this is really embarrassing. I was actually mortified. Ashamed of myself.

The other gingerbread people all looked like they were done by preschoolers. But my daughter’s  — well it was clearly done with way too much help from her mother. She stood out on the wall among the other gingerbread people who were colored with crayon, had decorations and embellishments glued willy nilly. Some of the kids even cut out their own patterns. You could tell those by the ragged cut of a preschooler’s little hand in a pair of unfamiliar scissors.

Apparently family project does not mean have mom do it.

OK, got it this time.

So I thought I had learned my lesson. But then my son comes home with this book report project he has to complete. It’s called a Can Character. Take a coffee can, design it around your character, and fill the can with index card facts about him or her. Then you do a report on him. Actually a very cute way to do a book report for third graders.

My son chose Ulysses S. Grant. Did I mention he is a Civil War buff? So proud I am.

He brought home his book and sat down tonight to begin his work.

I got him paper and then went back to what I was doing in the kitchen. He was looking for crayons. I told them where to find them and went back to doing what I was doing in the kitchen, stealing looks at my son as he began his project.

“Hey mom?”

Well, that was all I needed. Before I knew what was happening I was at the table drawing my own version of General Grant and was detailing the grey in his beard when I looked at my son. He stood there, crayon in hand, watching his mother take over his school project.

“That’s good mom. Can I use that?” he asked.

“Uh, er, um. No. I was just showing you how to draw a person is all.”

This is NOT normal, is it? Am I an as yet undiscovered stage mom? Pageant Mom? Will I be that mom who yells out the answer during my son’s spelling bee?

So I backed off.

I guided my son as he drew his own. It was not bad. I “helped” him with harder parts like the ear and a wisp of Ulysses’ hair that curled just so, but for the most part it was all his.

I “suggested” he draw an American Flag on the paper as well. So I just sketched it out for him. And drew the stars. And the flag pole. And got the correct color red and blue and then gold for the stars.

Oh boy.

According to wikipedia:

Helicopter parent is a colloquial, early 21st-century term for a parent who pays extremely close attention to his or her child’s or children’s experiences and problems, particularly at educational institutions

Oh, I shutter to think.

It’s just an art project. What’s the big deal?

Fine. The next time I won’t help AT ALL. I will force my husband to tie my hands behind my back so I can’t color, cut, glue, glitter, embellish. I will just sit there. I won’t say a word.

Yeah. That’s it.

Helicopter parent. As if.

Gotta run. I have flashcards to make. Er, I mean my son has flashcards to make…

What’s Mine is Mine and I’m Not Sharing

Today I received my Girl Scout cookies and I am so not sharing. With anyone.  I am keeping these two hard-earned gorgeously green boxes of Thin Mint cookies all to myself.

You may think I am selfish (or even a tad bit gluttonous) but I am not. I am just a mom who needs her stash. And the little chocolatey mint crisp wafer dipped in more chocolatey goodness, well, I am a happy mommy when they are mine. All mine.

Now here’s the thing. My kids get special treats all the time. I spent half the winter baking, did I not? They were happy. Had lots of homemade cakes, cookies and brownies. There was Christmas and all the goodies that come with that. Then Valentine’s Day and they ate all (or most) of the treats bestowed upon them by their classmates.

My kids are not deprived of anything special or sweet.

So, one day in a moment of weakness, when I thought they were busy doing something else, I went for some chocolate and they saw me. They found me out. My secret stash of Cadbury Fruit and Nut Bars was no longer secret. And they wanted in.

I told them to beat it and under no uncertain terms were they to invade mommy’s secret candy. This was met with some fake tears and chants of “You are a mean Mommy!” But I wasn’t giving in.

At first.

Then they broke me, and before I knew it, I’d be splitting my little row of three and would hand them each one little square of that velvety milk chocolate raisin and almond concoction. I’d have the other and warn them to NEVER take mommy’s chocolate bar.

And then, on another day when I needed it the most, when 4 p.m. came around and I went secretly into my little corner kitchen cabinet, behind the spices, next to the container of salt, and behind the bottle of Tabasco Sauce, there was just an empty wrapper.

Someone did not heed my warning.

It would do no good to scream and tear my hair out or try to make the culprit confess. There would be no chocolate for this harried and tired mommy that day. I would just have to keep on keeping on. Without my chocolate fix. (Are you crying yet?)

So off to Stop n Shop I’d go for more — they are usually 10 for $10 and though I really should buy 10, it’s the principal of it and I just can’t.

I have tried to hide my chocolate in new, out of reach places. But the only person tall enough to reach that out of reach place stands defiantly in front of me while he eats my chocolate. He brings home the bacon. I can’t deny him.

So back to the Girl Scout cookies.

I am not going to share. I put them in a VERY safe hiding place. And I have already eaten a whole bunch. And they were really good. I may try to hide the second box, currently camouflaged in the back of the pantry, in the freezer, cause, well, have you ever had a frozen Thin Mint? Just so darn good it’s scary.

And the thing is, if the kids don’t find me out by Easter, I can just eat away by myself. My husband gave up sweets for Lent, so that is that and he gets none. With a special hide out for my box of cookies, I can relish in bite after bite of that minty chocolate goodness.

So you can continue to think I am a selfish, candy-hiding, half-crazed chocoholic. I can try to rationalize it by stating that every mom deserves her special little thing that makes her a happier mom. Or chocolate makes me smile. blah blah blah.

But I won’t. I am what I am and I need chocolate.