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The Coconut ChroniclesThe continuing adventures of the Princess, the Prez and Emily the cat May 27 Auckland Express Part IIHello again from the Big Blue! Welcome to “Auckland in 36 hours - Part II” I was on my way to Ascot Radiology Clinic, where I would first have a mammogram and then meet with a doctor for an exam. Since the clinic knew my situation, everything was put on a “rush”, which was lovely of them.
I’ve discussed the unpleasantness of mammography before and every woman reading this who’s ever had one knows exactly what I’m talking about, so I won’t waste time with a long description. (Men, just go clamp your hand in a vice for awhile to approximate the experience). However, there was shock and amazement this time around. Not only was the nurse so fast that her movements threatened to reverse the earth’s rotational direction and send us backwards in time, but they also had some fancy new machine that flexed, just a little, and didn’t give the full pancake effect. Bing, bam, boom, squish, it was over just as quick as that. From there I popped right next door to see Dr Marli, a pleasant woman in her mid-forties and an expert on breasts. (Yes, my husband would tell you he is also and expert on breasts but take that with a grain of salt). Photos of the girls were already up on her large computer screen. I’ll tell ya what, they’re just not as attractive when you’re looking through them.
Dr Marli went on to explain to me, with the help of the visual aide, that my breasts are abnormal. (Dr Marli, by the way, is a comedian). “The way we look for cancer, with mammograms, is to look for white spots.” We both stared at the photos of my girls; almost every square inch of them was white. This is because I have dense tissue -good for looking perky at forty years old, bad for detecting cancer. She said, “Let me show you what normal breasts look like.” (No, she didn’t take off her top, men, get your minds out of the gutter!). She opened a random file and showed me someone else’s mammogram. All grey, no white.
Essentially, my photos were almost useless. On to the exam. Finding the lump was no difficult feat, even among the dense tissue, so we moved right to the ultra sound.
Whoever finally wised up about warming that gel they put on you for ultra sounds deserves a medal, let me just insert that right here.
Lump came into view, lump went out of view. Dr Marli checked both breasts, as she hummed and hawed about my troublesome tissue. “Hm, I don’t like that.” These are words one never wants to hear under such circumstances. When I asked what the problem was, Dr M moved the scanner thingy over to my left breast and focused it on a small cyst. “See that, see how the edges are clearly defined? That tells me it’s a cyst; that’s what we like to see.” She then moved back over to the lump, which I noticed, not happily, was not clearly defined and not within the What We Like to See category. Damn.
The question was what I wanted to do about it. We decided a needle biopsy would be the way to go, followed by another ultrasound once I returned to Canada if the results were negative.
Bing, bang, boom, poke, the biopsy was done and I was on my way.
I don’t know if I just happened to get really lucky or what but I was utterly impressed with the Kiwi medical system. As a foreigner, I had to pay for all my tests and services but all totaled that only came to about five hundred Canadian dollars. Cheap as! (As they say in this part of the world). The quality of care, skill and friendliness of everyone I dealt with is the best I’ve ever received from any medical provider. Despite the stress one inevitably feels when facing the possibility of the Unfriendly C, I felt that I was in very good hands.
At last the squishing and poking was over. The results would come in soon enough, the rest was out of my hands. Time for another bubble bath!
That evening, I was scheduled to have dinner with an old guest/new friend, Jo. She agreed to pick me up – probably for the best since I was now on, roughly, hour thirty-six without sleep – and take me out for a meal of my choice. That was easy: steak. Poor girl, she was in meetings until way late, then drove across town in the rain and traffic to get me, then back into to town for dinner. The effort was much appreciated and it was so fantastic to see a friendly face and have someone to chat with about life on the Rock and all those sorts of good things.
Jo took me to this quaint little French restaurant in downtown Auckland. I’d love to describe my meal in intimate detail but I’m afraid that will only depress me. Suffice it to say there was fresh bread and tasty dips and filet mignon, perfectly cooked, and salad and…
Oh man, I need a moment to compose myself.
I asked our tres French waiter for a martini but he didn’t seem to understand the concept of cold gin in a glass and kept insisting they only had a French type of martini that wasn’t actually a martini at all. Since he was so good looking, I went with the not-quite-a-martini martini, which was very tasty but more like a not-at all-like-a-martini martini.
I’d planned on ordering dessert but couldn’t even finish my main course, (le sigh), and was starting to nod off at the table. Jo, (after secretly paying for my meal, cheeky girl), drove me back to the hotel – before her ninety-minute commute home (saint) – and I crawled into my big, fluffy, temperature controlled, ant and mozzie free bed…and passed out.
Only to wake up at 4am, dazed and confused.
“WheretheheckamIandwhattimeisitandwhydoesmyboobhurt?”
For the next few hours I dozed on and off, finally dragging my tired arse out of bed for my final bubble bath.
For breakfast, I chose the hotel’s buffet. Holy comuli! Passing right by the fruit table, I loaded up my plate with Eggs Benedict, bacon, and hashbrowns. When my plate was empty and my stomach was full, I looked longingly at the waffle station.
Darn, maybe I should have had a waffle instead?
It’s a buffet, you can still have a waffle.
But I’m full.
You know you want it.
I do.
Well then…?
I love waffles, what can I say?
My flight was scheduled to leave at 7pm, which meant I needed to be at the airport by 4pm, which meant I had about five hours to shop. And shop I did, stuffing my one piece of luggage as full as I’d stuffed my belly at breakfast. Heinz ketchup, Lindt chocolate, hot chocolate, herbal tea, licorice, tortillas, salsa, refried beans, bagels, English muffins, salad dressing…you name it, I bought it. Oh, I also found a cupcake, which was one of my goals.
Thankfully, the drive back to the airport, in the daylight, with handy signs, was much easier and quicker. I checked in, (redistributing some items into my carry-on to make the weigh limit), grabbed a bottle of duty free tequila, headed for the nearest bar, ordered a real martini, popped my little orange, happy pill, and chillaxed.
This time I was prepared – two pairs of socks, three layers on top – so I snoozed comfortably for most of the flight.
I left Auckland at 7pm on Monday, flew for about five hours, and arrived in Raro at 1am on Monday. Yeah, it’s too crazy.
Another restless night at the Aquarius and then I was back on my way to Aitutaki. Goodies were unpacked, story related to Prez, (who was very glad to have me back), and then I fell into a dead sleep for most of the day, waking only for dinner and then right back to sleep.
Whew. The results from the biopsy arrived by email the next day…
Benign.
I have been sleeping soundly ever since.
QUESTION: Did I really do all that in 36 hours?
Until next time, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life! The Princess P.S. Thanks so much to all the medical staff who took such good care of me and big, big hugs to Jo for making time for me in her busy day! May 20 Auckland ExpressHello again from the Big Blue! I’m considering writing a new guidebook: “Auckland in 36 hours!” Part I The adventure began here, on the rock. I packed my bag and hopped the plane to Raro at 4:40pm on Saturday, May 10th. The date is important. New Zealand lies on the other side of the international dateline and had it not been for my friend Moana catching a discrepancy in my stated itinerary, I would have flown to Raro on Sunday the 11th and missed my flight to Auckland completely. As I did in October, I passed the eight-hour layover at the Aquarius Hotel, which has clean bunk accommodation for cheap. Knowing I’d soon be stuffed into a tin can for four hours, I went for a stroll. You know, an X-ray would certainly show my hind end stuffed full of horseshoes because my decision to go for a walk brought to light the fact that I’d neglected to pack my one pair of shoes. I called Prez and he sent them over with the guests who left on the last flight of the day. I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize to my fellow Pacific Blue Passengers, as my one pair of shoes also happens to be the shoes I’ve been running in for a year and a half and I don’t imagine they smelled all that pleasant. Not all my luck was aligned, however. I also forgot to pack any sort of timepiece or alarm. This meant I’d need a wake up call. Said wake up call would be delivered by the night security guard, who apparently would somehow physically wake me up at midnight, providing he remembered to do so. After dinner, I crawled onto my bunk and attempted to snooze, while images of me waking at dawn to find the security guard sound asleep at the front desk kept passing through my brain. Needless to say, the wake up call was unnecessary. I remained wide awake. It is likely the people in the other bunks did, too, since I was getting up every ten minutes to run into the lobby and check the time. At 11:30pm, tired of lying on my bunk, I changed into some warmer clothes and headed across the street to the airport. The flight left at 2:30am but I had a good book. I’ve never flown Pacific Blue airline before. I now know where the name comes from. Shortly after take off, I donned my eye mask and blow up pillow, (which I’ve yet to find a perfect sleeping position with), and went after some z’s. My guess is that the Captain was trying to acclimatize us for the chilly, winter temperatures in Auckland, why else would the air conditioning be set at “Comfortable for Penguins”? All around me, passengers shivered and rubbed their hands together. I’m sure I saw a group in the back using the shell of one of those hard suitcases as an ersatz fire pit, in which they burned airsickness bags and in-flight magazines to stay warm. So, the “Blue” in Pacific Blue obviously refers to colour your lips and skin will be upon landing. Bear with me here because things get weird. We left Raro at 2:30am on a Sunday, flew for four and a half hours, arriving in Auckland at 5:00am on Monday. I’d lost a day but gained two hours. International travel can mess with a gal’s mind. Happy to be nestled in the warmth of the Auckland airport, my next challenge was to find transportation to my hotel, which was twenty minutes away. I priced out taxis and shuttles and was shocked at the cost. A rental car seemed the wisest and cheapest option but I was now on twenty-four hours, (or was it twenty-two?), without sleep, it was dark, I had never driven in this city before, and everyone insists on driving on the wrong side of the road. Hm. A decision this serious could require only one thing… “One hot chocolate and a chocolate chip cookie, please!” I sipped my cocoa and nibbled my cookie as I wandered between the shuttle phones and the rental car desks. My drink had an odd flavour and a distinctly gummy texture. I sipped again and again, trying to place the taste. I was at the Thrifty counter when it hit me. You know the Big Turk chocolate bar? Well, people in this part of the world have some weird fascination with whatever comprises the center of that treat and now it was in my hot chocolate. I suppose I should have been grateful they didn’t put a fried egg in there or some beet root. Annoyed with my contaminated chocolate and hopped up on sugar, I decided to be adventurous and rent a car. It wasn’t until I was behind the wheel that I noticed I’d spent an hour wandering around the airport. Funny, it only felt like a few minutes, Kiwi’s do some strange things with time. The twenty-minute ride to the hotel took roughly an hour. On the plus side, I learned how roundabouts work and took a few unplanned side trips into neighbourhoods I might not have seen if I’d followed the directions correctly. My hotel was chosen for its proximity to the radiology clinic I would be visiting later that day. Being staffed with Chinese workers with only a rudimentary understanding of English, this place made me feel as if I was back home in Vancouver and I couldn’t help feeling a little melancholy. Priorities are important and mine, having only a day and half in this enchanting part of the world, was clear: have a bubble bath. After the first of what would be four bubble baths over the course of my stay, I checked out the local TV. Rugby, rugby, news, rugby, news, yoga, news, rugby. Nevermind. I’d made an appointment to have my haircut. My last real hair cut had been in October and I was dying for some real coiffing. I drove out to Mission Bay, a charming seaside area. I should say I imagine it’s charming, when it isn’t freezing cold and raining. Frankly, I was enjoying the cool temps but I seemed to be the only one who was. Zoey was the woman in charge of taming my wild locks. She was a lovely woman, as friendly as she was pregnant. I gave her a brief explanation of my small island situation but I don’t think she really got it. Zoey:
So, who cuts your hair there? Before leaving, I passed her a tip, which seemed to shock her. Later, my friend Jo would inform me that it is not normal to tip one’s hair stylist in the land of Hobbits but that I’d probably made the woman’s day. Back to the hotel and bubble bath #2. I still had some time before my scheduled mammogram so I zipped over to the nearby mall at Sylvia Park. There really should be some sort of warning label on places like this. “Warning! If you have been confined on a small island for longer than a month and can count the number of shops there on one hand, please enter this mall with caution. We suggest you keep one eye closed and please alert mall staff if you feel dizzy.” So. Much. Stuff. I came out with a pair of warm socks for the flight home and a list of stores I would ravage the next day. Back to the hotel. I grabbed my medical records and ambled over to Ascot Radiology to have the girls squished and examined. And I will write all about that in the next installment! QUESTION: What product are you using in your hair? Until soon, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life! The Princess May 09 Whose Nose?Hello again from the Big Blue!
My bags are packed and I’m on my way. Correction, my bag, singular, is packed. This will be a short jaunt to Auckland – a day and a half, to be precise. Just enough time to eat a few treats, get the “girls” checked out, have a bubble bath, go out for dinner with fellow feline fancier Jo, and pick up a few groceries.
I’ll have a full report upon my return but this Coconut Chronicle I wanted to talk about something a little different…
Out of the blue, not too long ago, Prez received an email from an old friend I’ll call CD. They were ski bums together is Vail, Colorado, many moons ago. I know it was fun for Prez to catch up and CD sounds like a really nice fellow.
About two weeks after CD’s email, we received a huge care package from him. Talk about your welcome surprises! There was chocolate for me, licorice for Prez, beef jerky, smoked almonds, sunflower seeds, and much, much more. For two people who have come to look upon grocery shopping as the single most depressing chore we have, this box was exactly the kind of cheer we needed. If you’re reading this CD, a million, billion thank you’s!!
Also in the box were a couple of local, Vail papers. This is always a treat for me. I love reading newspapers and it was especially cool to read news from beyond the rock. However, as I was scanning the pages, (and happily chewing on sunflower seeds), something stopped my eyes in their tracks. Down in the left hand side of one page was an ad for a plastic surgery center and in bold print was this…
“Rhinoplasty for Your High School Graduate”
Beside that little teaser were two photos, a before and after, of a pretty, young woman who’d apparently had some nose work done. Here’s what got me, if I had seen those two photos without the advertisement alerting me to their purpose, I never would have noticed the nose job. The difference between the before and after is so minimal, I had to look at it several times to make sure this wasn’t a prank.
Nope, no prank.
What the heck? Am I the only one who sees through this? Teenage girls, who hate what they look like no matter what they look like, are now being encouraged to surgically alter their face before they’ve even had a chance to live with it long enough to make that kind of decision.
I’m not going to stand up on the soapbox and rant about plastic surgery. If you are unhappy with your body and feel that the only way to change how you feel is to physically alter yourself then fine, more power to you. When it comes to kids though, plastic surgery makes me very nervous.
If my parents had been wealthy enough and had I been shown how “easy” it is to change yourself, there are all kinds of things I would have changed about my body when I was a teen. My nose would have been shrunk, likewise my upper jaw (the one that gives me my gummy smile), I’d have asked for more prominent cheekbones, a smaller butt and bigger breasts. If it could have been arranged, I’d also have loved longer, thicker hair, darker skin, less moles, Feet that never smell, longer fingers, nails that don’t break, hairless legs and armpits, and eyes about two shades bluer. Oh and I would have demanded to be made two inches shorter, (all the popular, pretty girls were tiny).
Now, at nearly forty, I can honestly say there are few things I would change about my body and none I’m motivated to spend any money on or go under the knife for. I love my height. My breasts may not qualify me for the Playboy mansion but they allow me to jog without feeling as if I’m carrying two sacks of flour. There never was anything wrong with the size of my nose. My gummy smile has become so much a part of me that I would hate to lose it. My hair may not be long and thick but it’s soft and silky. About the only thing I really dislike are a few moles, (it’s a texture issue), and those can easily be “zapped” away at the doctor’s office.
I’m no supermodel but I don’t want to be. It took me a lot of years to figure that out.
I am a realist though. Yes, there were kids in my highschool for whom a nose job or some other surgical fix would have helped immensely in the gladiatorial arena that makes up the teen social scene. But, then, where do you draw the line? Do we want schools full of homogenous but beautiful Stepford children?
Beauty is dangerous. Too much of it, too early, can rob young girls of the opportunity to develop other aspects of themselves. As much as it sucks to admit, strength is gained through adversity, so is wisdom.
These surgeons pimping their services out to teen girls are scum, in my eyes. Give them a chance to grow up before you start slicing them open.
Beauty may only be skin deep but it’s their skin and I say keep your scalpels off of it!
QUESTION: Would you let your teenage daughter get plastic surgery?
Until next time, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life! April 26 Island Fever BreaksHello again from the Big Blue!
Sorry for my long absence but I’m in the middle of a creative frenzy. As of now, we are full for most of the next five months, which means I’ll have to cram writing time in wherever I can. I’ll try to post as often as possible just to let you know we’re still alive and well.
Good news! We’ve survived our second soul-melting Aitutaki summer. Honestly, I think anyone who achieves this should be given a medal or a plaque or something. When talking to other folks about it, it feels like we’ve all just come out of a thick fog. All of a sudden we can see each other again and we’re all a little giddy.
“I put a sheet on last night!”
“I can drink hot tea in the morning again!”
“Look, it’s noon and I’m not covered in sweat!”
Ah, happy days are here again. No wonder working with a steaming hot laptop doesn’t throw me into a fit of despair anymore. Hoo-bloody-ray!
News? One of my short-short stories will be coming out in May in small literary journal called Barbaric Yawp.
We’ve been out of pretty much everything on the island for most of April but we’re getting by. Some wonderful guests gave us a bottle of real Canadian maple syrup as a gift and another lovely guest baked scones almost every day and shared them with me. YUM!
I’ve found another lump in my breast. Monday I will be calling New Zealand to make arrangements for a mammogram/ultra sound. It’s probably just another cyst but better safe than sorry. (Those of you in civilization don’t ever take good, close health care for granted!)
Two days ago, all of the guests on the property were from BC – Invemere, Burnaby and Bamfield. How weird is that?
We are now #1 in Trip Advisor. When we arrived here, we were #7 our of 12 and I made it my mission to get us to the top spot. The recent reviews are amazing. They make me feel very proud and very humble at the same time. You can read them here: Trip Advisor Reviews.
So, life is cool. Literally and figuratively.
QUESTION: How the heck are you?
Until my next free moment, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life! The Princess April 08 We're Experiencing a Slight GlitchHello again from the Big Blue!
Today I’d like to talk about the Glitches. What is a Glitch? Well, this is Prez and Princess slang and refers to a person who isn’t quite so mental that they need to be put on medication but who’s not quite normal enough to function well in regular society, either. We’ve seen our share of Glitches here at Perfect Beach Resort, most of the time we just chuckle and count the seconds until they fly away but recently we had a Glitch of a more sinister variety.
I call him Serial Killer Sal.
Prez met our man, SKS, at the airport and right away his Glitch radar went off. First clue? The hiking boots and knee socks – pulled right up to the knees. Because we see several world travelers and/or folks who’ve come from cold climates, it isn’t unusual to see people get off the plane with hiking boots on. They are heavy, bulky items that take up a lot of valuable luggage space. However, these boot wearers will roll their socks down, as it is so hot that they want the maximum amount of skin uncovered as possible.
Not SKS. Not only did he arrive looking for all the world like he was preparing for Oktoberfest, he left the boots and socks on long after he needed to.
This was not the creepy part, though.
Painfully polite, with a soft, British accent, SKS checked in and I thought he’d be just another quirky traveler. Nope.
There were questions, lots and lots of questions, including my favorite, “What should I do?” This, after I had specifically pointed out a booklet I put together with all kinds of information, including lists of activities.
Explain to me how a grown man, who is capable of planning and embarking on a trip half way around the world, cannot figure out what to do on a tropical island full of beaches and snorkelling?
Eventually, the questions became overwhelming. I was trying to sneak in some writing while SKS seemed determined to have me draw up an itinerary for him. I, politely, told him he’d have to figure it out for himself and locked myself in the bedroom.
Then came Saturday night and Prez and I decided to scooter off to Puffy’s for a quick burger. As always, we closed and bolted the front door but did not lock it. We also put up the “Closed” sign before leaving the property. We returned in the dark and the first thing I noticed was my large spray can of mozzie repellant sitting in the middle of the property, near where we park our scooters.
I knew it had been in the house, so how did it get out here?
My question would shortly be answered as the next thing we noticed was SKS, walking out of our house. We assumed there must be some kind of an emergency, why else would a stranger be in our house when we weren’t there?
Mumbling a string of apologies, the intruder was clearly caught off guard. “I thought you’d gone away for the weekend and I needed a few things since everything is closed on Sunday.”
What the…?
Prez was very restrained but still questioned the guy. Couldn’t he see the door was bolted, that the closed sign was up, that the lights were out? Why would he ever think we’d leave the property without first telling our guests? Why the hell was he in our private residence without our permission?
After more apologies, SKS returned to his hut. A few minutes later he came back with our commercial insecticide in his hands and the supply of toilet paper we keep for the public toilets.
Again, I ask, what the…?!
Despite his beyond-lame excuses and fervent apologies, Prez and I found ourselves rattled by this occurrence. Why had he taken all the toilet paper and the bug spray? Very odd. We also found books open that we both knew we had left closed, obviously SKS had been having a good look around before he was so rudely interrupted by our return.
I’ve never been robbed but I think I can now understand how it must feel afterward, that sensation of someone violating your personal space. For the first time in almost a year and a half, Prez and I locked all our doors before going to sleep that night. We also made sure we had a couple of blunt objects within reaching distance should our Glitchy friend come calling in the middle of the night.
I suppose you could argue we overreacted, that the man probably just has a minor malfunction and made a serious error in judgment, but it’s more than that. Trust me.
Have you ever been around a person who, for no logical reason, gives you the creeps? No matter how normal they may seem, that little voice in your head is screaming at you, “Danger! Danger!” Well, that’s how it was, for both Prez and I, with SKS. Even before the break in episode, something about this guy just didn’t feel “right”.
“He’s like a British version of Norman Bates,” I told Prez, “the kind of guy who’s all smiles and manners and meanwhile keeps his dead mother in the attic.”
Creepy.
Sometimes I wonder about the glitches. How does it happen? Is it genetic? Is it their upbringing? We all have varying degrees of social intelligence but Glitches are missing some serious components in their social machinery.
Take the fellow who asked me, as he prepared to check out in the morning, “Is it OK, if I leave a dirty dish?” Ordinarily, I expect all guests to do their dishes before they check out but if someone leaves dirty plate or a glass I’m not going to make a fuss about it. I told him that would be fine. When I went into his hut to clean, I didn’t find a dirty dish, I found every single, possible pot, pan, plate, bowl and piece of cutlery, filthy and stacked in the sink, where the ants were enjoying a bounty of food scraps.
Come on. How do you not know this is unacceptable? If he had just left the property without saying anything, I would have simply thought he was an ass but he asked. Not only did he ask but he made sound as if he’d left only a single plate to clean.
There was the family who let their three year old son poop on the beach, as if he were using a giant litter pan. Yes, they cleaned up after him but that’s really not the point, is it? The kid, by the way, had been named after some South American town the father had fallen in love with. It was utterly unpronounceable. I asked him to repeat the name no less than six times and finally gave up and called the kid “Junior” for the two weeks they stayed with us. During those two weeks, we learned that the government controls the weather, aliens travel to earth frequently using secret vortexes, and there is going to be a neutron bomb deployed in 2012 that will wipe out the northern hemisphere. Oo, maybe we’d better stay on here a little longer?
There was the Glitch with the towel with all the signs of the zodiac on it…in various sexual positions.
Mr. Wu and Mr. Eddy, were the original Glitches from way back when. Prez and I still crack up when we imitate Wu, with his Vietnamese/Texan accent or when we recall how he would walk around the property, in the middle of summer, in his jeans, socks, running shoes, white t-shirt and fleece, mac jacket, compulsively knocking coconuts out of the palms. And who can forget Mr. Eddy, who came on a mission from god and lost his laptop and his pants.
Ah, the Glitches, giving me story material for decades.
What else do I have to tell you? Oh, just the usual, the island is out of petrol…again. The supply ship should arrive on the 24th. We’re also running out of staples such as flour and toilet paper.
You saw it here first, the Princess bakes!
The gardening came mostly out of necessity, since some tree branches were taking over my laundry drying area and the hibiscus plants were starting to resemble horror movie octopus.
Prez boated a monster tuna – as many of you have already heard. Sixty-six pounds was the official weight. He’s become quite the fishing icon here, though I’m sure none of you are shocked.
Oh, our buddy Ripster is on his way to Everest, yet again. You can read the expedition blog here: Peak Freaks News. Also, Peak Freaks has been featured in Hemisphere’s Magazine, (the in flight magazine for United Airlines), for their “Green” mountaineering practices. It’s a fantastic article and you can read it here: Is Everest getting even harder to climb?
That’s about all for now. The weather is starting to give us a break and let us sleep at night. Whew. Days are still scorching but they’re getting shorter so soon we’ll have some relief.
Have a hoppy Easter everyone!
QUESTION: Where do the Glitches come from?
Until next time, I hope this finds you healthy, happy & lovin’ life! The Princess
Tiger guards the water tank...
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