Strongly Worded

The Color of Sound

Stronglyworded readers, I am just so cultured I can't even stand it. On Friday night I saw the Broadway musical Wicked, which is the unofficial prelude to The Wizard of Oz, a biopic of Glinda the Good Witch and the Wicked Witch of the West, and their pre-Dorothy friendship (who knew?). It was a beautiful production, and clever in a Harry Potter way. My friend E. and I scored $35 box seats, deemed "slightly obstructed". We could only see about 75% of the action at any given time. So during intermission E., schooled by years of ushering, zipped down to the sixth row, where we co-opted two empty seats far superior to the ones we had paid for. Very impressive.

Yesterday, I taught my second work-related class, and got very good reviews, thank you very much. The chick with the issues about the disrespectful course materials has apparently overcome them. I was completely spent when I got home, but was lured by last-minute tickets to see the Color of Sound, which is a concert based upon the premise of synaesthesia, in which the stimulation of one sense (like sight of the color teal) gives rise to the experience of another sense (hearing pure tones, like bells). Apparently one person in every 2,000 has this ability. A woman in the audience did--she sees colors when presented with numbers, and claimed to see green when the conductor presented her with the number seven. (I don't exactly understand that--did she "see" a green-colored numeral at the mention of the word? Or does she see seven objects of any color in a green light?).

The chorus performed a "color wheel" performance (one song for every color), while an artist interpreted the sounds into a painting that was later auctioned off for $750. This all may seem far-fetched, but the concert was very, very skillfully presented, and informative (the conductor explained a lot about tone, pitch, and sound). With coaching I really started to experience yellow when the chorus sang a light, cheerful piece, and red when they sang another that was buzzing and resonant. Amazingly, the artist kept pace with the concert. By the end, her painting incorporated all of the colors in a cohesive depiction of a tree.

Today's weather is brilliant, and yet I am uselessly revved. I have Stepped N Scuplted at the gym, prepared and eaten lunch, talked to my mother, and blogged. Now what?

Posted by Dori at 1:49 PM 0 comments

I Deserve the Hugest Medal

Those proposals? Out the door, baby.

Posted by Dori at 5:52 PM 2 comments

Procrastination Nation

Friends! I have so much to do. The worst: I have to finish and submit three funding proposals by Friday. The folders with the guidelines and DUE DATES have been shuffling across my desk for weeks, and the word PROPOSALS (in caps) has topped many "to do" lists. And yet, every time I open up the folders and stare at the mind-numbing questions (describe target population, project, goals, timeline, evaluation ...) , I write a sentence or two, experience a wave of nausea, and promise myself that immediately after I finish the coffee/banana/blog-reading/ amazon-browsing/ hand-wringing/compulsive e-mail checking, I will plow though the questions and finish off those bastards (the proposals, I mean).

I haven't felt so viscerally opposed to a task in ages. Some equestrians believe that a horse has only so many jumps in him--so the number drops every time it clears a gate or a fence or whatever. I'm wondering if it's the same with proposals, and there is a finite number of times one person can describe the same goals, objectives, target population ... before she no longer can. I am so tempted to submit the proposal with just one sentence: my goals are to get money (not funding, not "support", not "partnership") to pay for staff and rent, photocopies, and utilities; so give us some fucking money.

Friends, it's Wednesday. I woke up early to do all my procrastination at home so that the instant I set foot in the office, it's sustained proposal time. No phone calls. No email. No nothing. Just goals, objectives, and so on.

Posted by Dori at 7:36 AM 1 comments

Valuable Input, My Ass

So. Yesterday I delivered a work-related training. It was extremely stressful. I have a decent amount of experience teaching (I did a teaching internship as part of my B.A. in Education and Child Study, and I've taught ESL, professional development stuff, and also workshops for homeless people). I also have a decent amount of meeting facilitation experience. But I've almost always worked alongside a co-teacher or co-facilitator, someone who can deal with the crisis with the caterer while I'm "on stage", or someone who can fill in when my mind has drawn a blank and I can't remember some key fact about the Industrial Revolution, Imaginary Numbers, or what APY stands for.

Alas. Saturday was my first solo experience. Luckily I had Jassy, my beloved office neighbor, to help out with registration and timekeeping and other logistics, but the actual content was all me. I had 35 adult learners in a room from 9 a.m. to 3 p.m., and even though we had two guest presenters, I was responsible for getting an accredited curriculum into their hot little heads.

For the most part, it was fun. The people in the class were friendly and funny, and the group had a nice rapport. I had enough materials, chairs, and snacks for everyone, even though several people attended without registering in advance. I heard participants talking in the bathroom amongst themselves, and they said positive things about the class. There was one major glitch with a complicated mathematical formula, which several of us tried to explain unsuccessfully. After 15 minutes of group struggle, I ultimately praised our valiant "cooperative learning efforts" and everyone laughed and I referred them to a website which automatically generates the right figures. At the end of the class I asked everyone to complete a quick evaluation sheet, rating their learning and effectiveness of the presenters. At the end of the form, I'd typed: THANK YOU FOR YOUR VALUABLE INPUT!

I was exhausted by the end (having spent ages preparing for the class, and ages agonizing and worrying about it), and I sat in my car with the completed evaluations. I am proud to report that I got 4's and 5's (on a scale of 1-5) from everyone. The lame guest presenter got low marks, the good guest presenter got high marks. I felt that the evaluations, in general, reflected the quality of the day.

BUT. One person wrote: "I feel this class was extremely unprofessional and disrespectful of participants. We were constantly asked to flip back and forth between handouts and the unnumbered pages in the binders."

My heart sank and tears welled up in my eyes. It is true that was a lot of flipping back and forth, because the material was compiled from many sources with many different page numbers. The content is actually much more cohesive than it was when I inherited it, but of course nobody knew that.

This chick (I'm assuming it was a chick--just based on the handwriting) was the only person with a negative comment. 34 of the 35 participants said everything was fine. But of course it was this bitch, #35, that has completely killed whatever pride I took in my major overhaul of the curriculum. Class #2 is next weekend, and I don't know how I'll cope with the knowledge that one of my lovely, smiling "students" is crazy and mean and considers me unprofessional. There are few other criticisms that would hurt me so much. (And! Before you go there! if you're about to reassure me that it's just one crazy person and I should pay no mind, I have to retrort that if one person had written something really positive, you'd encourage me to take it to heart.)

I left the evaluations in the car, I can't have them contaminating my space. And I'm seriously questioning the value of asking people for "their valuable input".

Posted by Dori at 11:33 AM 3 comments

I'm My Own Roommate

I never thought the day would come when I thought wistfully about roommates. Last night, I attended my brother's "Tuesday Night Dinner", a weekly event which involves his roommates and a set of neighboring (female) roommates. Yesterday they collectively made burgers with an insane array of toppings (caramelized onions, guacamole, bacon, blue cheese, Swiss cheese, American cheese ...). They also made sweet-potato fries which weren't finished cooking until long after I'd left. It was fun. Everyone gathered in the girls' big apartment with its eat-in kitchen AND dining room AND living room. We bonded over communal food, and when the phone rang, one of the roommates answered it and told the caller when she expected the other roommate to arrive.

This made me wistful because, if you live by yourself (as I do):

• Your apartment will be small, because you can't afford a home with an eat-in kitchen, dining room AND living room.
• All the food in the fridge is yours. Consequently, on many occasions, there will be no food.
• If people call you and you don't answer, they won't know where you are or when you're due back. In fact, you could be dead on the floor for days before anyone noticed. (Even then--who would notice? Co-workers? What would they do if I didn't show up for days, unannounced? Would they know who to call?)
• When you come home after a long and annoying day, there definitely won't be a billion-calorie meal waiting for you.

I understand the extensive flip sides of all of these things (the apartment will be large but filthy; the food in the fridge may be plentiful, but rotting; if people call and you don't answer, your roommates may know all your business and may or may not pass on your message; if you come home after a long and annoying day, you may have to make conversation with unwanted guests).

I've ALWAYS lived with roommates, and the only truly lovely roommate experience I had was during my first year in Boston, when I loved my roommates and we bonded in the kitchen and hung out in our PJs. (I also loved my college roommate, but we had to share a bedroom and that in itself was annoying).

So. My theory is: I'm going to spend the rest of my life with a "roommate"/soulmate, so I may as well enjoy my solitude now. And for the most part, I do. But last night was a little reminder of what I have given up.

Posted by Dori at 10:12 AM 1 comments

Manic Panic Monday

So after a restorative long weekend, I found myself panicking on Monday morning when I sat down at the computer and discovered that the wireless mouse batteries had died, the convenience store across the street was closed, the brand-new printer ignored printing-related commands (while deigning, however, to huff ands puff and “warm up” before claiming “paper shortage!”). Then the copier produced a smattering of black dots on every damn page.

I wanted to call in-house tech support, but then remembered—there is no tech support at my current workplace. I wanted to cry, but realized that the longer I prolonged the inevitable menu of “troubleshooting” options at Samsung and Ricoh “customer support” call centers, the longer it would take to actually do work.

Ricoh sent a technician within a few hours. He nodded sagely at the copier’s “drum” and pointed out little mini dents (caused by letterhead watermarks—WTF?) that would hopefully be removed once he ordered a bunch of parts that would arrive within 3-4 days (I have to make 6,000 copies between now and Friday). The Samsung rep did no troubleshooting and failed to stand behind his product. “You should just get a new one,” he advised, which then kicked off 30 desperate minutes of menu options and “customer care” from Gateway (through which I bought this printer). I’m supposed to get a replacement (and have the pleasure of reinstalling it) on Wednesday.

This makes for a very boring blog entry, but that’s what I have to report, my friends. This bullshit terrifies me. I get so stressed and worried about all this stuff and how dependent I am on technology.

And yet I will share one little technological gem that is bringing me joy these days. There is an e-mail service that reminds you to move your car on street-cleaning days. So I’ve just gotten a perky little message entitled “The Streetsweeper Cometh”. I just love that. There are so many less-creative ways to say the same thing, and yet that’s what was chosen (probably by some disgruntled liberal arts college English major whose thesis on marine references in Twelfth Night languishes on a shelf somewhere).

Posted by Dori at 9:58 AM 0 comments

Spring Has Sprung

K.'s grandmother had this saying:

"Spring has sprung, the grass is riz, I wonder where the flowers is?"

I don't entirely understand why a Pennsylvania-born, golf-playing Jewish woman would ever say this, but I always think of it around this time of year. While the grass hasn't quite "rizin", the flowers are blooming everywhere. Many of them are daffodils, my absolute favorite.

I love spring in the way I love hor d'oeuvres and foreplay. Summer is my favorite season; now is the delicious first taste. This weekend I ate 75% of a strawberry rhubarb pie (my favorite). I made my signature lemony leek soup (with basil matzoh balls) in honor of Passover. Today I packed my down coats in a space bag, and banished them to the basement. And I purchased two lovely summery dresses (one is slightly reminiscent of J-Lo, the other of Maria Von Trapp).

These frocks need hangers, and thus, I've embarked on another springtime ritual, the wardrobe "trans-ish". In an apartment with only one real closet and one very cramped "closet area", wardrobe editing must be ruthless. And yet, there are a few garments that show up every spring and fall, which are just begging for a trip to Goodwill ...

They fall into several categories.

1) Close, but not quite.
I have these beautiful gray wool pants from Marks & Spencer in England (circa 2001), with a cool leather cord belt. I got them in England. And if they fit, they'd be really nice. But they are wool and a little itchy, but more importantly, they are too short. Whether they looked high-water at the time of purchase is irrelevant, they look too short now, and I wear them maybe once a year, feeling unfashionable all the while. These pants take up a precious hanger in my "closet area". Somehow I can't let them go.

2) 1997 was a really good year.
I haven't yet parted with my black wool coat that I got in Spain (junior year abroad) in 1997. The coat looks threadbare in general, plus two buttons are missing and the pocket is shot. Similarly, I have separation anxiety about these leather boots that are also from Spain and also from 1997, which are wicked uncomfortable and discolored by ... um ... one year of punishing wear and eight years of sitting in the back of my closet. But I love them unreasonably because they harken back to a year--the only year--in which I actually went clubbing and wore leather high heeled boots. Oh and also ... there's this very pretty, very tiny blue tank top with velvet spaghetti straps, which I wore a lot in Spain, in 1997, and have absolutely no occasion to wear ever again, and yet this "shirt" is so tiny and takes up so little space in the drawer that it appears and reappears year after year.

3. What not to wear
Then of course, are the things I feel bad about tossing, not because they've become old and decrepit or unstylish, but because I never should have acquired them at all. There's this coral top I bought during a misguided trip to H&M (and wore once). A Pepto-Bismol-pink cowl-neck sweater from the Gap that I feel obliged to keep because I paid full price for it, even though it's all nubbly and the fabric makes me sweat.

4. Maybe someday I'll be That Girl.
I've been hanging on--for years--to a fleet of designer suits that I inherited from a high-powered-lawyer-turned-mommy. Who knows. Maybe someday I'll be chic and powerful too.

And I have probably 4-6 evening gowns from the same source. One is long, tight, lace-covered, and purple. Maybe if I fell in love with someone rich, or won the lottery, I'd have occasions to go to debutante balls or elaborate charity benefits, and then this dress might get some play.

Until then, you wanna go shopping?

Posted by Dori at 7:05 PM 4 comments

More on the Brilliance of Prep

I finished reading Prep last night. It is over 400 pages long and I read it in 48 hours. I was mesmerized. I can’t stop thinking about it. Not only is the writing completely exquisite (I wish I had marked all the passages I particularly loved, because I would love to quote them here), but it’s just so true.

It is both exhilarating and painful to read 400 pages about a boarding school student’s unwavering self-criticism, and the drama and anguish that govern every single decision she makes. When she reheats a bowl of soup in the common room, she is relieved, when a cute boy comes in, that she’s eating soup and not something greasy and unfeminine like an Italian sub.

I had a horrible adolescence. During the summer between sixth grade and junior high school I was demoted in every way. I went from being a cool sixth-grader who was known in the school to a complete nobody with frizzy hair and bad clothes. In junior high, I was so unhappy that I wrote poems about death in the margins of my notebooks, and after school I’d sit on the floor of my bedroom with a Lysol bottle and contemplate drinking it. I obsessed about my weight and I’d address my cravings by chewing on chocolates and then spitting them out. I did ritualized exercises in a futile attempt to reduce my thighs. And, like the narrator of Prep, I agonized about every single social maneuver, and I still feel a deep sense of shame when I remember how poorly I complied with social norms.

My school was uber-liberal, and we had a nationally-ranked Ultimate Frisbee team, a Gay/Straight Alliance, and a male homecoming queen. But it was still (and I only realize this now), rigidly classist. I owned one prized outfit from the Gap (which also fills me with retroactive shame, because the top was orange and the matching shorts featured a tropical print). Yet I’d go by the store periodically and pick up the coveted blue drawstring shopping bags, because everyone carried their gym clothes in Gap bags. People mocked Kmart, and whenever I went in the store I’d have a cover story ready. If you were caught by a classmate shopping at Kmart, you were supposed to say you were just there buying gum. People talked about how it would be a cruel, cruel practical joke to page someone over the store’s PA system. “Attention, Kmart shoppers! Dori, please come to the service desk.”

When I think about this now, I realize how much worse it could have been. I had the baseline components for fitting in. I was white and normal-looking and my parents were highly educated and middle class. It helped that I somehow earned good grades despite my profound hatred of school. I also joined things—school newspaper, after-school chorus (!), committees. I never stopped hating school, but by graduation, I’d carved a tiny niche for myself, and people wrote kind things in my yearbook. I won awards for my newspaper articles and for excellence in sewing class (!). Even though I didn’t play sports or act in plays, I was known in the school. People thought I was sassy. I was voted “most talkative”.

Things were marginally better in college. And when I lived in Spain after graduation, I hit my social stride and started feeling more secure. I was stunned to discover that people enjoyed hanging out with me and did so voluntarily. I hosted my first-ever dinner party and my first-ever general party.

I moved to Boston and got to know lots of wonderful people. Now I’m 29. And reading Prep reminds me that, while I’m much better than ever, I have still not vanquished the constant self-consciousness that plagued me in high school. I am still embarrassed to eat lunch at work (in my tiny office!); same goes for using the bathroom. I’m embarrassed about all my health issues, and every time I go to the doctor I’m afraid that (s)he will sigh afterwards, and think I am crazy. I’m embarrassed to go out to eat by myself; to rent trashy movies at the video store (I am cowed by the judgment of the clerks!); and to call people on the phone, because I always think they’re busy with cooler people, or else they’re having sex, and I imagine them glancing at their caller IDs and then sighing, turning the ringer off, and feeling obligated to call me back.

In fact, I’m embarrassed to be admitting all this, but there’s something cathartic about getting it out there. Perhaps that is where Prep (which is fiction, but still) originated too.

Posted by Dori at 11:42 AM 2 comments

Media Orgy

So in the past few weeks I've been voracious. I've watched:

The entire (somewhat disappointing) 5th season of Six Feet Under.

The Confederate States of America (A mockumentary about what would have happened if the South had won the Civil War). I saw it by myself because none of my friends were up for it, and they were right, it wasn't as clever as I expected.

Walk the Line. Good flick. I even downloaded Ms. Witherspoon's adaptation of June Carter Cash's adaptation of Bob Dylan's song: "It Ain't Me".

Chutney Popcorn. Unconvincing movie about a lesbian surrogate mom of Indian descent.

Watermarks. Beautiful, beautiful documentary about a Jewish women's swim team in Nazi Austria.

The Constant Gardner. Confusing thriller with a hot cast and a point of view about the African AIDS epidemic.

June Bug. Strange, disturbing, yet beautiful account of the love between a Southern-hick-turned-hipster and his native-born-hipster wife, as seen under the watchful eyes of their endearingly wacky sister-in-law.

I've also been reading.

I gobbled up Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires, which is the third book in her 3-book series about her foodie evolution (she was the New York Times' restaurant critic for about a decade, and she now edits Gourmet magazine.)

Then, my friends R&J lent me Prep, which is this incredible, excruciating account of life at a ritzy New England private school. The writing is amazing in that it locks you into the recesses of teen anguish and you cringe and pant right along with the Indiana-born narrator. I've read over 200 pages since I acquired the book on Saturday night. Now I'm sorry that I'm reaching the end.

Posted by Dori at 5:31 PM 1 comments

Brotherly Love

Last night my brother made me a (belated birthday) dinner. Our shared appreciation for eating and cooking might be the only thing--other than our DNA--that we have in common. (He is three years younger. He's a musician. He uses terms like "fiending", "raging", and "peace out".) When we hang out, we discuss movies, TV, and music. He'll ask if I know XYZ band. I'll (invariably) say no. I'll ask if he's seen ABC movie. He'll (invariably) say no. Then he'll share long accounts of his professional, musical, and romantic exploits. Then (invariably) I'm expected to pick up the check.

But last night, my brother bought all the ingredients and cooked the delicious dinner at his own apartment, which meant no prep work or cleaning or paying on my part. He made some tasty guacamole, chicken with parmesan and a spicy tomato-pepper sauce, a kick-ass salad with homemade vinigarette, and fluffy garlicky mashed potatoes. We nostalgically shared a Carvel ice cream cake.

After we devoured the meal, we watched The Constant Gardner On Demand. My brother insisted on smoking some pot "since it's Friday night". We watched the somewhat confusing movie together and when I left around midnight, I could tell it was not a moment too soon. My brother can stand me only for short bursts. After about an hour, he starts (inadvertently, unintentionally) tapping his foot, responding to his constant deluge of cell phone calls/text messages, cleaning obsessively, or reverting to illegal substances. It's painful for me. I'm not sure whether it's me that triggers all this, or whether it's just a result of his inherited, hard-core anxiety; borderline ADD; and aversion to therapy.

This morning I got a call from my mom who loves--loves--when we spend time together. She is constantly trying to find ways for us to bond, and when we do meet up, she'll call immediately afterwards for a report, hoping, I think, that each encounter will kick off the rest of our relationship, the one in which, in addition to loving one another, we are actually friends. Last night's dinner made her so, so happy. I didn't have the heart to tell her about the pot, the restlessness, the total absence of common conversational ground. She suggested that I take my brother grocery shopping. (Now that I have a car and he lives close to this very lovely supermarket to which I am too scared to drive.) "It'll benefit you both", she said. When I demurred (unclear about how exactly, this would benefit me), I could see her throwing up her hands, from all the way across the state. She thinks (and says) that I don't make enough of an effort.

She's right, and I'm full of guilt about it. But at the same time, I'm frustrated. I love my brother. I know he loves me. We're there for one another. But right now, we're just not everyday friends.

Posted by Dori at 3:24 PM 0 comments

An Open Letter to (a few of the) People Who Are Annoying Me

1. Beloved co-worker: stop grunting, sighing, and moaning. I can’t stand it. My job is no cakewalk, either. Suck it up. Please.
2. Landlords: stop turning the heat on at 1:30 a.m.. I cannot fathom why you do this. I go to bed under my fluffy down comforter, only to be awakened EVERY SINGLE NIGHT at precisely 1:30 a.m. I am furious. I open the window and switch to my sheet-and-Mexican- blanket-combo, and then, around 3 a.m., when the banging and clanging of the radiator subsides and I wake up with goosebumps, I shut the window, revert to the comforter, and sleep for a few uninterrupted hours. Please. Stop. This.
3. Similarly: you who decided that last night was a good night to test the City’s fire-fighting system by driving a fleet of fire-trucks down my street and idling for almost half an hour (at 2:30-3:00 a.m.) and then flashing your lights into my window—you’ve incurred my wrath.
4. Similarly: you who decided to extend street cleaning “for my convenience” so that it now lasts from December to November (instead of April to November): you are a greedy bastard because you know you’re only in it for the towing fees and parking tickets.
5. Small, mean, impatient driver that honked at me this morning--a fucking nanosecond after the light turned green and I had not yet torpedo-ed out of the intersection: fuck you and get yourself some fucking valium.
6. Whatever technological glitch is blocking craigslist from my work Internet: I can’t understand your cruel, nasty logic.
7. Ex-boyfriend: it is very kind of you to stop spontaneously stop by my office and buy me coffee. However, it is NOT kind of you to gloat about the glory of your latest professional triumph and your latest sexual conquest, and to critique my relationship skills and make other backhanded, bitter comments.
8. Other ex-boyfriend: stop dashing my career aspirations. It hurts my feelings and is not in keeping with your team membership.

Posted by Dori at 11:47 AM 0 comments

The Vortex Beckons

I have been thinking for the last few days about this post.

On Monday night, I attended my first meeting of the local Transit Equity Partnership, a local advocacy group working on expanding/improving public transportation service in my neighborhood. It is an issue I feel strongly about, and I was excited about getting involved, until I discovered that the meeting was just everymeeting. Meaning, there were elections, in which the sitting president acted all modest about how she'd be "willing" to serve another term "if nobody else wants to do it." The (male) vice president acted all indulgent and generously acknowledged her hard work, while making it clear that he was the authority on all things. There was a long discussion about the martyrdom of taking minutes. Honestly, I think I will vomit if I hear another discussion about this. Take fucking notes and type them, dammit. It's not that hard. I was disappointed to discover that the members of the Transit Equity Partnership were not that cool. A bunch of older guys with glasses and egos. Some younger women with initiative but no power. Same old, same old.

Then, the next day, after I told my (married) co-worker about my fruitless encounter with Dr. Surgeon II. He shuddered and said, "I just can't imagine what it would be like to be dating. Ugh. How awful." That encounter inspired a whole treatise on "What Not to Say to a Person who is Striving to Find His/Her Soulmate." If I had the energy to write it, said treatise would be in the tradition of What Not To Say To A Cancer Patient, What Not to Say to a Stay-at-Home Dad, and What Not To Say to Someone Who is Coming Out. Of course, in writing it, I’d worry about offending well-meaning people who are trying their best to be helpful.

This fear (and a great lunch conversation with my beloved office neighbor, who is a therapist), prompted a discussion on being well-meaning, and the ways in which we are all well-meaning and yet clueless in many different ways. I identify, for example, as a well-meaning white person and a well-meaning straight person, but perhaps I should be thinking more broadly about ways in which my good intentions might go awry? This topic would make a compelling blog entry, but again, one that would require energy.

All of these ideas were swimming around in my head, as I faced a computer for approximately 40 hours over four days, and alternately moped around, procrastinated, worked, and watched bonus clips from Top Chef, which has replaced Project Runway as my drug of choice.

So. It is now 2:38 on a Saturday, and rather than write an analysis on everymeeting, a treatise on soulmate search, or an in-depth account of my last few days as a 28-year-old, I have eaten a revolting combination of left-over party food (from last night's soiree), watched some shameful television, painted my toenails, and moped some more.

Because I have not yet mustered up the energy to dress and leave the house, I worry that I am being sucked into the vortex of gloom, because I am feeling just sad and bored and tired, emotions that can form a toxic cocktail of depression.

Posted by Dori at 2:19 PM 2 comments