Of course, even though the panel and the judges know who they want in each part usually before the audition and definitely during the audition, they make sure to not post the cast list until a good 5-7 days AFTER the audition. So---to give you an idea of what people are doing, they are kissing up as much as they can during our regular technique classes, hoping that it will make up for the stupid ass mistakes they made during the audition. But it's not like it's going to help. The faculty already knows who they want. They are just playing mind tricks on us. Those bastards. I have to admit, I thought perhaps if I just stood a little more in the front, and a little more in the center area then my regular back-side-ish stance that perhaps my chances would be upped!!! I had no expectation though. Maybe this year they could make an exception for me. I could see it now. The cast list up and a little note on my name, "All the 5-year-old's are casted as Mother Ginger Children. Oh--- and Lise- although you are 14 and in one of the higher levels at ABS, we feel because of your excessive lateness, skin color and horrible physical structure and technique that again, you will be a Mother Ginger child, even though you are almost three times the size of the rest of the cast and age and fat." I can just see it now. People will write notes next to my name like, "LOSER!" and "THAT SUCKS!" and "YOU DON'T BELONG HERE" and even "Who is this again? I've never seen her in my life." Crap. Maybe I should just quit before I actually know what part I got. But what if by some miracle I get Sugar Plum Fairy? What if the panel looked at me and saw Her. In her purple tutu, gracefully floating on the stage, glitter shimmering and falling from her eyelashes and fingertips, put on previously backstage to give the effect of an ethereal being or something. God, has there EVER been a black Sugar Plum Fairy? Maybe at Dance Theater of Dark People or somewhere similar. But I really must have killed my chances by coming in late looking like an asshole with dance clothes falling all over the place. Yeah, real smooth, Lise. Try to be professional and come in late, looking like a lunatic. The week went by pretty fast, if you consider fast noticing how slow seconds go by when you actually look at them. Really though, for some reason, if you look at an old clock or an alarm clock, does anyone else notice that the hand or the flash seem to go slower and slower...and....slower the more you stare? It seemed like tick. tick. tick.......tick................tick........................tick.................................................................................................................................................tick[Why the fuck was that last one so long?!?!?] The day the cast list came up was like the day people found out if they were going to be executed or not. Some were hopeful that it wouldn't happen, but more were scared shitless. I was in between the two. More in the zone of, "Fuck, I hope it doesn't say my name under Mother Ginger's children." So I looked. And I don't want to be too excited, so I start from the bottom. I'm more humble that way, and I can hope that I can delay seeing my name. Because the principle roles are at the top. So I start at the bottom. Mother Ginger Children...YES! My name isn't there. It's a miracle!! I have a huge smile on my face, and most of the crazy girls around me are confused. "Why is that girl smiling? Is she blind or something?" Then more up I go. Ok, ok, not a Garland Dancer, not in any Corps. WEE! It is a good day, ladies and gentlemen, things are looking up! I'M NOT BACKGROUND CHINESE! Thank god! I really thought that I might be getting that...OK, so I sneak a look up to the principle roles only because my adrenalin is running and I didn't get the two things I didn't want. This is my chance! I could actually be ABS's first black Sugar Plum Fairy! Damn. You. Elle Chang. FUCK YOU! Just because you're skinny and Asian and perfect and sweet and feet and turnout and AHHH!!!! I'm not even the understudy for Sugar Plum. Usually the story goes the underdog [me] is given the chance to be the understudy for a major role[Sugar Plum Fairy], then the lead girl breaks her ankle randomly in rehearsal[I trip her secretly] then I shine like a beautiful comet in the midnight blue sky[and everyone claps madly]! But I'm not the understudy. Shit. I'm Spanish. I mean it isn't corps, but it's really not a principle role. It is, kinda, but you have to share it with someone. But I know why I got it. My skin color. How fucked up is that? They put the darkest skinned girls in Spanish for no reason! I mean, couldn't I do Arabian? That thing is hella sexy! All the back bends, hand motions, and lifts. Oh yeah. The lifts. That's probably what happened. "Well, Lise is pretty big, so no boy could lift her up. Ok, just make her Spanish then." Well, I'm going to do the best goddamn Spanish anyone has ever seen! [Who has ever seen the Nutcracker I mean.] I will make them think they are in Spain when they watch me! I will give them face, epaulment, and all the turnout they want. And my opposite, Sindy Clawthorn, she can go straight to hell because everyone will be looking at me! Oh yeah, remember when I said they put the other dark skinned girl to be Spanish? Yeah---she just visited the tanning salon like the day before the audition. Lying bitch. YOU’RE NOT THAT DARK!!!! Embrace you pale-ness!!! Be who you were born to be. WHITE! Next time on I Think I've Pulled Something - Rehearsal Can Just Besito Mi Koolo (Kiss My Ass)!
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So there I was standing in a room, half dressed in street clothes and half dressed in dance clothes, running a good ten minutes late, looking like a weird dancing hobo. As dancers we know exactly how to dress and undress in a small amount of time. I have rehearsal in 5 minutes? Give me 2 seconds and I’ll be naked, 15 more seconds I’ll be redressed in articles of clothing I found on the floor/street and 7.5 seconds I’ll have my hair done. Us dancers also know how to undress out of our street clothes while running to class. With a bag in one hand you pull off your sweater and pants with the other hand, using your right foot to pull off the left shoe, hopping mind you the whole way down the block. People stare, but that’s how we dancers roll. The other auditioners were standing identically, fifth position, buns sticking out of the tops of their heads like fucking muffins and ribs sticking out from this morning’s ritual "before audition" throw up. I stare blankly at the anorexic morons and think, "What the hell have I gotten myself into?" Mr. Johnstein, the ballet master holding the Nutcracker auditions today has a look on his face like, "This is exactly why black girls shouldn’t do ballet." What he actually said was, "Well, well it does not look good to the panel when a prospective Sugar Plum walks in late now, does it?" "I’m so sorry, Mr. Johnstein, but I was…the cars…you know…and that other thing…then….didn’t mean to---"I can’t believe it. I couldn’t even come up with a decent excuse. I set my bags down, take off the remains of street clothes and head to the barre. The class was simple. You know, the nice variety of plies and degages. Seriously, ballet class is just a challenge for the teacher to make every combination different while using the same three steps: plie, tendu and degage. Ronde jambe? A degage in a cirlce. Frappe? A really weird bend tendu. Fondue? A plie with a tendu at the end. If you ever think about it, usually the teacher just puts those three steps in different orders for the whole class. Ballet is a joke. As we get to center, I feel like my chances of being in the Nutcracker are like the chances of my uncle getting out of jail. Which are none. He robbed a Circuit City in the middle of the night with some of his friends, and actually didn’t get caught. But then the idiot robbed someone’s house and did get caught. What an tard. He should of just stuck with big businesses during midnight instead of personal houses. I mean, don’t places like Circuit City and Best Buy have more money in them then like a single mothers house? Jeez, if I’m thinking about this so much I should just rob a goddamn store right now. We do adagio, some petite allegro and then we get to the real stuff. All the girls stand to the side and the panel tell us to come to the center to audition for the part we want. Which is kinda stupid and self-righteous actually. Nobody wasn’t to be a background dancer for Chinese, or just one of the Snowflakes? All the "good" girls wait till it’s the principle roles. Of course, because I’m so humble [and because I have to make up for the fact that I walked in late looking like a ballerina bum] I auditioned for ever role. Though Sugar Plum Fairy was by far the hardest one. Not only were the steps really hard but it was at the end of the audition, and after being on pointe for 3 hours listening to a Russian pianist play Nutcracker songs over and over again it could potentially make you go insane. The end of the audition was quite fun. As I took off my pointe shoes, girls were talking about how well the stayed on balance, or how fat they looked. I barely had any friends at American Ballet School. Only me and my blistered toes. They were all so good to me, except we probably didn’t have the best relationship. I did abuse them once a day, all week, to point where they were bleeding and sobbing, so maybe they don’t feel the same way about me. But I love them! I really do! I don’t mean to hurt them intentionally! [Am I seriously talking about my toes like they’re people? Crap, ballerinas are crazy mofo’s]. So now we have to wait. For the fucking cast list. Or shall we say the Paper of Death. That god forsaking paper that decides our fate...at least our fate in the Nutcracker. God I hope I don’t get background Chinese. Not like I’m racist or anything, but the Nutcracker makes the Chinese dancers look insane! They smile like there’s no tomorrow and you stick your index finger out like your going to press an invisible button. You do mad hops around the stage like some retarded frog. God, do Chinese people actually do that? Never mind. Next time on I Think I’ve Pulled Something: Finale - The Casting and The All the Drama After "The Casting."
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Can I just start off by saying that perhaps the WORST part about being a dancer isn’t always the struggle to be thin, or the busting-blood-blusters on your swollen-sweaty toes, but having to go to the bathroom when you have 15,000 layers of dance clothes plus street clothes on?! I mean really, they should make a little compartment for your valley down there when you need to go, because seriously I don’t have the time to realize that after partaking in an hour long ordeal of making my bun, putting on my tights, leotard, pants, shirt, belt, jacket, shoes, socks and scarf that I really need to take a major shit. Yeah, I did say major. I don’t mean a, "I guess I could wait a little longer" type-o-shit, but the, "HOLY CRAP! This baby is coming out whether I like it or not!" And this was no day to have a major shit about to come out of my rectum. Today was the audition for the parts in the American Ballet School’s Nutcracker. Every year at around the same time the school goes into full uproar about the seasons most cherish event. Nope, it has nothing to do with religion, Jesus, or even being with family. It about who’s daughter in which role AND how close you sit in the auditorium to the front of the stage to see the children’s sweat fly from their foreheads. Even if those seats are going at $150+. Crazy money is made during the Nutcracker. The costume fee’s, the seats in the house, the make up, the flowers, the tiara’s, and just random necessities that really aren’t THAT necessary. But—back to my sad, sad story. So I realize I have to take an Armageddon-like crap with hundreds of layers of clothes on, but I’m almost late for the audition. For one thing, if I’m late for the audition not only would I get a beating from Ms. Dravinsky and The Punisher but also my mother. Yeah, I know, she isn’t the abusive type, but you must understand that my goal in life at this moment is to get a principle role in the Nutcracker. Every year before this one I was usually one of those crazy little kids running from under Ms. Gingers skirt [Ok, ok, hold the phone. Does anyone else find this a little be perverted and pedophile like? I mean seriously, what kind of a person, or mother for that fact, would keep her children under her skirt?! Does she want them to be snooping around their birth place? I mean I’m seriously scarred for life after being one of those kids for the past 5 years. I’m never, ever going to be a lesbian. I’ve been in to close of contact with vagina’s for my liking. Oh—except they year they thought it would be funny to hire a man to be Ms. Ginger. Now I’m REALLY scarred for life!] Wow, I’m really ADD today. So anyways, I must make a life threatening decision. To take a shit, or to run like hell to ABS and probably crap myself while doing petite allegro [you know, with that kind of gravitational force it could come out!]. I decided to take my crap, then grab some money to take a taxi. I mean I don’t want to ruin my chances for Marzipan if I have diarrhea running down my tights! My mom wouldn’t mind....too, too much hopefully. So I striptease out of my clothes, explode on the toilet, assemble my outfit which took about 12 hours, fix my bun, and ran out of the apartment. Yeah, it only took like three large steps to get out of this place, it’s the size of a matchbox, but I’ll talk about that later. I grab a twenty, hail a cab, and head to ABS. My stomach is churning from the recently exported crapola I just took, and I have those annoy ass butterflies you get before something major is about to happen. I was about to audition for a principle role in the Nutcracker. Chinese, Arabian, Marzipan, anything! Something besides being an extra or the child-molested child of Ms. Ginger. I get to ABS, get my number, and wait. For my nuts to be cracked. In front of everyone. Next Time on I Think I’ve Pulled Something: Act IV - The Audition
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Most of my bruises finally healed by the time for the next class. Ah—who am I kidding? Those bruises never really healed because I got a new wacking everyday! Ms. Dravinsky was not shy to use The Punisher on a regular basis. She was perhaps was the most abusive teacher around. And she liked that title I think. The class started to get easier though. I started to realize the pattern in class. After plies comes tendu. After that comes degage. So on and so forth it went, but seriously why the hell would all the things be named in French! I’m not French!! So everyday I would silently protest my non-French background by spacin out during class and checking out my leotard for ketchup stains [My mom treated me to McDonald’s before class, what a great meal that would provide you with the best energy to get you ready for class! Hamburger made out of rat guts and a soda immersed in tooth plaque, and washing it all down with fries deep fried in the urine of a cow! *YUM*]. So during my mini-acid trip during class, Ms. Dravinsky would shout out random phrases made out of a language I didn’t understand! That’s not fair! Really, the only French I spoke was "Wee!" only because I would declare going to the bathroom by saying to my mother, "Wee! I got to go wee-wee!" How articulate and cultured I was at 6! Center was the worst though. I mean, with barre I figured out that if you really didn’t know what was going on, you could just look at the girl in front of you, which for me was Ellie Chang who ALWAYS new the combination. How is that possible? Ms. Dravinsky would say the random French phrase once with a weird look about her face, which I tried to avoid, and Ellie had it down flat! I mean, with a serious, "I’m a ballerina" face too! I despised her for her competence. But at center, oh boy, it’s going down. Ms. Dravinsky would purposefully put in front and center, not because I was a beautiful young dancer but to assure herself that I would not cheat the combination and look at the girls about the room. I mean, I could still see them in the mirror, but Ms. Dravinsky would stare at my eyes to see if they fluttered about. Which they did, and then WAM!! Right on my shoulder goes The Punisher. Ok, ok. I wasn’t too bad at center. I mean, for little 6 year olds how hard could adagio be? Are legs weren’t long enough to have good extension, so it was more about port de bras then anything, and my semi-chubby arms looked more like sausages flailing about then beautiful swan wings. But Ms. Dravinsky got on my last little 6 year old nerve. She told us a petite allegro combination complicated enough for a young Mozart, and I said, "What was that?!" Yes. Notice I used both a question mark and an exclamation point. It sort of yelled it at her, then made it a question. This was the wrong answer—I mean question. "LISE! DID YOU JUST RAISE YOU VOICE TO ME IN CLASS?!?!??!?!?!" Notice all the question marks and exclamation points. I saw dust flying off her old haggy face and public black curls decided to commit suicide and lept from her horrible head of dyed fake hair. I wasn’t scared though. Not too much at least. "I just didn’t understand what you said! I mean, it was in French." Pause. A rumbling shook the building, and it wasn’t an earthquake or a subway. The Punisher vibrated wickedly and Ms. Dravinsky’s eyes widened to a size I thought was unimaginable for a human being. "FRENCH! YOU DON’T SPEAK FRENCH!??! THAT IS NO EXCUSE! LOOK NEXT TO YOU! ELLIE CHANG CAN’T SPEAK FRENCH, BUT SHE UNDERSTANDS WHAT I SAY DURING MY BALLET CLASS!!" And with that, *POW* *WACK**SLAP* ! The Punisher and I were becoming very good friends at this point. So, because I don’t speak French and Ellie Chang can, I’m a non-French, abuse victim, ketchup stain, sad little girl. That’s the beginning of my beautiful life of dancing with American Ballet School. I danced this way, with the same teacher, and the same girls, and the same Punisher for 8 years. I know, quite depressing because it never got better. My self-esteem got lower, but my tolerance for beatings got better. My understanding for French ballet terms became broader, but my detest for Ellie Chang broadened as well. I improved, I think, because I was hit less and less throughout the years. That I am thankful for. But my last year at American Ballet School would be a turning point. Literally, turning on pointe. Next time on I Think I’ve Pulled Something: Act III - You’re Cracking My Nut!!
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No one really expects a 6 year old to balance, right? I mean, there doing pretty good if they don’t bite you or they listen to you and actually take a crap in a toilet, not in your bed. Who really expects a 6 year old to be in first position, have a bun, and not whine? Beats me. Well, I bet I can probably answer my own question: ballet teachers. Ballet teacher expect 6 year old’s to pay attention, do things properly, and dance. People in the 21st century don’t care about 6 year old’s dance ability! They have better things to do then go around and make sure everyone is pointing their foot right! They usually have to save the planet, or something. But not Ms. Dravinsky. Not her. Her pleasure in life was to torture little children into such a state of trauma that they will never be human again. Ok, so maybe she wasn’t that awful, but she was still a witch with a ‘B’! She had a little friend with her the first day of my first ballet class at my FIRST ballet school [a lot of first things, huh?] To her it was nothing more then a code for disciplinary action, however around the students it went by a different name. We called it, "The Punisher." Sounds like an Arnold Swarchenegger movie, right? It was almost at bad as those movies, too. It was a ruler by day and a murder of hopes and dreams by night, or early evening because class started at 5 o'clock. So here is some imagery. I walk into my first ballet class, decked out in the finest ballet outfit you can imagine! Perfect pink shoes [blah], footed pink ballet tights [double blah], and a beautiful see-through pink leotard especially made for 6 year old girls [yippy.]. I walk in, bun intact, and see the most hideous sight! Well, besides the time when I was looking under my bed, and this sweater thing came at me and I though it was a monster, and when your 6 things like this can really kill a little girl! This woman, if you could call her that, was a grandma demon of sorts. She had skin that barely draped from her bones, mind you I didn’t say muscle ANYWHERE, with a kind of dusty appearance. Her blue and green vains run about her like a confused highway, and her liver spots were so abundant you wondered whether she had a tan. Her fingers smelled, don’t asked why I smelled them from a distance, but I did, and her face was heavily coated with cheap and unattractive make up. Her dyed black hair was pulled away from her face, but the frizz that surrounded her made it look as though a black pubic halo surrounded her. Yep—that the worst image possible for a young child to see. My mom drop me off, weary of this woman’s appearance, thus her authority, but gave me a kiss anyway and left me for my doom. I grabbed a spot at the bar, and checked out the other girls. They all seemed pretty ok with the fact that a old and ugly hag was teaching them, but maybe they were just used to it and I was just a little too creeped out. The class was pretty much usual—for everyone else. It was my FIRST CLASS! All I ever did before this class was sing, "I’m a Little Teapot!" and skip! How should I know the difference between a tendu and a fondu!!! Jesus, come on old lady, I’m only 6 years old!! Please!??! Well, it didn’t stop her from using "The Punisher"on me after frappes. I remember her words well, "Little girl! What are you doing? You look foolish throwing your leg around like that, what are you? STUPID!" and BANG! My life flashed before my eyes. Yeah, 6 years of life flashed before me. The swing set, my parents, that monster again [AH!], last nights dinner. Good times. I got the biggest bruise of my life right on my back. I felt like I was in Japan or something, with this kind of student cruelty! I kept on going though, even if I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I had guts back then, even at 6. I don’t know if I still have it now, but made I can conjure it up a bit. So we went across the floor. I fell. More then once. More then four times, actually. Thus gave me the oh so beautiful nickname: Clumsy Lise. The name doesn’t rhyme, but I guess everyone else found it funny. So hence the chapter title, "Enter the Clumsy." A small chorus of little girls would whisper this phrase every time I entered the room. Great way to start off class, right? My first class. Want to forget it, but never can. It can only get better from here, right? RIGHT?! Next time on I Think I’ve Pulled Something: Act II - But I’m not French!!
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I never was really into the whole ballet thing in the beginning. I hated the color pink with a heated fury, but my mom thought that it would "perfect my training." Like she knew what she was talking about. So she packed up my pink tights, my pink leotard, which was see-though by the way, and my $10 pink ballet shoes from Payless and headed to the American Ballet School, where little girls dream come tumbling downward, along with their self-esteem. Registration was August 31st, a day that I won’t forget. Imagine: little girls barely tall enough to reach your waist in a line with their noses in the air as if they owned the place. I forgot to mention that I was the only girl there that wasn’t as white as the walls. I stuck out of that place like a soar thumb, or for me lets say stuck out like a sprained toe. My mom was holding my hand and I was just giving the place a once over, checking out the other competition in the school. Not that I could tell the difference between the other girls. They were all white, skinny, and snotty. I was skinny at the time, brown, and just stupid. I don’t understand why I was doing that at the time, the once over thing because I was only about six, but you never know with little girls. They are the devils in cute pint sized packages, a bitch about to be born. Or even pre-pre-preteens. My mom brought me to the register, after waiting in line what seemed to be about three days, but really only was 45 minutes, and the receptionist seemed annoyed. But really, who wouldn’t be? Sitting on your ass all day long, listening to little girls whine? You’d have to pay me big bucks to do that crap. Anyway—the woman with a navy blazer on and wire-rimmed glass said in a nasally voice, "NEXT!" though it wasn’t necessary. We were already there. My mom said to the woman, "Hello, my name is Jonna Hisen, and this is my most talented daughter Lise." The receptionist looked at my mom’s face, stood up from her chair, then looked down on me with a stern look on her face. She gave me the creeps. The woman then sat back down and said, "Has she had any formal training before?" with an air of disgust. The look on her face really said, "She’s the wrong color for ballet, ma’am, and has no real facility. Maybe you should think about taking her to an art class, or soccer, or something," however it seemed as though she was specifically told to take as many kids, and checks, as she could. "Well, of course! My daughter has been dancing since the age of three. Her teacher, Ms. Whitestone, said she was ‘the most talented of the bunch’. She has natural ability, musicality, and---" as my mom looked for other impressive things to say to this not-so-important woman, "her father works for Barber and Barber Inc.," she added with wink. The reception narrowed her eyes, took out a ball point pen, and asked, "How will you be paying for this? Cash, check, or credit?" Dad firm always seems to come through. I didn’t know at the time that this would be the beginning of a most dreadful career. I had no clue that the next eight years of my existence would consist of coming to the glass doors of the American Ballet School, putting my little paw on the barre, and doing the same fricken plies over, and over, and over again. August 31st. Maybe it should be celebrated as a holiday. Mourning Day. Unwanted Opportunity Day. Holy-Crap-Did-I-Just-Really-Sign-Up-To-Become-A-Dancer-For-The-Rest-Of-My-Life Day?! Because really, who backs down? Who has the will power to just drop it and say no? After years of training, who can say, "Well, that was fun. Thanks mom and dad for wasting all your money on my dancer lessons, dance clothes, and really expensive costumes I will never wear again!" I’m not sure. Maybe one day I will get there, but this is all I know now. After that day my life would be totally altered as we, or I, know it. It would be, as I like to say, the beginning of the end. The day I met my maker. Actually, the day I met my maker would be September 5rd, but that’s the next chapter. And so it begins. With my first class. With Ms. Dravinsky.
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"And that’s when I knew I probably would never be able to have children." A quote I mostly like associate with my love for dance. Pulling a groin muscle, or as I like to call my ‘vahina’ mucsle, while wacking your leg in a battement can seriously make you consider if a family life is in your future. And while this sprain is not apparent at the time of initiation, it will be by the next morning, when you wake up and consider whether or not you will be able to walk that day. My name is Lise and I’m a dancaholic, similar to an alcoholic just remove the booze and at pointe shoes to the scenario. I have been dancing most of my life, although I don’t consider jumping around like a troll with a boa at the age of three dancing. That’s mostly parents getting their children out of the house so they can get some peace and quite, or most likely to have some desperate sex for the 45 minutes that their child is away. I never really knew how parents could keep the passion when they have children. I mean really, when do they do it? We are always home, and they had separate schedules, so they were rarely home together at the same time. Well, nevertheless, I didn’t mind back then that I wasn’t really dancing I suppose—I smiled anytime I was performing. But no real technique was there, even if the teacher suggested there was some. No winged foot, no use of the turnout muscles, no epaulement, nothing of that sort. But I was dancing. And that meant the world to me, even at three. At this age most other children where eating worms and pooping out recently discovered items like pennies and legos, however Lise was not like any other child. Lise was "talented." Lise had the ability that would transcend America, perhaps even the world. Really though, like my parents could tell the different between talent or not. My dad was a lawyer for this random firm uptown and my mom owned a boutique in SoHo. The only talents my parents possessed were 1.) arguing and 2.) selling overpriced clothing. However, they felt that my "talent" would bring others to tears, just like what happens to mom every time I dance. I pretend like I’m embarrassed when she cries, telling her to get it together, or just laugh at her, but it really means the world to me that she love me so much. But if she loved me that much, SHE WOULD HAVE KEPT ME FROM DANCING IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!
My journey through a dancing life all begin back then, at three, but because I myself don’t consider it dancing, I won’t start it there. This is my intro into the real juice, the reality of it all. When I started dancing at the American Ballet School.
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I've decided that being a dancer means more than just pointing your foot, so I have come up with the idea to create a blog, or a collection of short stories I've created. Hopefully someone will see these and turn in into a book, but that's another story. "I Think I've Pulled Something" is a fictional story about a dancer, Lise, and her journey through life as a dancer in the Big Apple. This is some what a funny look at a dancers life, but it really give the truth behind all the shizz that goes down in the small dance world. I hope you all enjoy, and laugh a bit while your at it! OH! And to tell the difference between my own personal entries and the "I Think I've Pulled Something" entries, my entries will be in regular boring black and white, but "I Think I've Pulled Something" entries will be in blue. Awesome.
Yours,
-E.
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