The Stitch

My mother sent me this gem via email. Those who know me casually may be aware of the fact that I will be turning 29 this year. Those who know me well probably know that I lie about my age. And if you know me VERY well, that is, well enough to know my real age, then you better buy me a few margaritas this year. I think I deserve one or two or 40.

Why Older Chicks Rule, by Andy Rooney from CBS "60 Minutes".

As I grow in age, I value women who are over 40 most of all. Here are just a few reasons why:

A woman over 40 will never wake you in the middle of the night to ask, "What are you thinking?" She doesn't care what you think.

If a woman over 40 doesn't want to watch the game, she doesn't sit around whining about it. She does something she wants to do. And, it's usually something more interesting.

A woman over 40 knows herself well enough to be assured in who she is, what she is, what she wants and from whom. Few women past the age of 40 give a hoot what you might think about her or what she's doing.

Women over 40 are dignified. They seldom have a screaming match with you at the opera or in the middle of an expensive restaurant. Of course, if you deserve it, they won't hesitate to shoot you, if they think they can get away with it.

Older women are generous with praise, often undeserved. They know what it's like to be unappreciated.

A woman over 40 has the self-assurance to introduce you to her women friends. A younger woman with a man will often ignore even her best friend because she doesn't trust the guy with other women. Women over 40 couldn't care less if you're attracted to her friends because she knows her friends won't betray her.

Women get psychic as they age. You never have to confess your sins to a woman over 40. They always know.

A woman over 40 looks good wearing bright red lipstick. This is not true of younger women. Once you get past a wrinkle or two, a woman over 40 is far sexier than her younger counterpart.

Older women are forthright and honest. They'll tell you right off if you are a jerk, if you are acting like one! You don't ever have to wonder where you stand with her.

Yes, we praise women over 40 for a multitude of reasons. Unfortunately, it's not reciprocal. For every stunning, smart, well-coiffed hot woman of 40+, there is a bald, paunchy relic in yellow pants making a fool of himself with some 22-year-old waitress.

Ladies, I apologize.

For all those men who say, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free", here's an update for you. Now 80% of women are against marriage. Why? Because women realize it's not worth buying an entire pig, just to get a little sausage.

As many of you know I religiously read the blog Dooce. I wear a tee-shirt with the DOOCE logo plastered across my curve-challenged chest. I've sent links to family and friends, urging them to read her posts. Sometimes her posts are so funny I pee a little from laughing too hard, and I can relate to all of her parenting stories, including the ones that involve the furry 'kids.'

Recently she posted some lovely photos of little plastic animals from her daughter's toy box. (she's a talented photographer, in addition to all of the other mad skillz she possesses). The photos are works of art, without a doubt, and she's planning to sell them as prints. Here are a few examples:
Mr. and Mrs. Giraffe
Mr. and Mrs. Panda Bear
Mr. and Mrs. Zebra

People, color me fuschia with envy. I have a hard enough time keeping the toys in this house clean. Most of them are covered with some sort of sticky, pink substance - or worse. It's impossible to keep sets of toys together, much less a whole ark of animals. Last week I pulled 9 Polly Pocket shoes from a variety of absurd locations. I'm absolutely certain that Polly Pocket shoes do NOT belong in the toaster OR at the bottom of Adam's sippy cup OR wound up, hidden in a roll of toilet paper.

But the thing that amazes me most about these pictures is the fact that our dear Dooce has not one, but two canine chew factories. And one of them is the same flavor as our special guy, Mr. Skye McTurdypants. Yet, here she has clean, matching, never-been-chewed toys in her house.

Here at The House of Piper, we don't roll that way, but oh, how I wish we did. This. THIS is what all of the cute little animals in our house look like:
Tragic Victim

And when I say ALL the cute little animals in our house, I am referring to all the cute little animals that aren't stuck to the wall from that unidentifiable, sticky pink residue, or shoved in the toes of my winter boots. . .

Where I won't find them again until next year. . .

When I hastily shove my foot in them while trying to usher Skye out the door because he is exploding poop from eating too many plastic toys. . .

That, my friends, is the real, no bullshit, anti-Disney Circle of Life.

It's been a while since Brian went through the camera. Last night, as he moaned about having to transfer over 600 images from the camera to the computer, I noted, "Remember the good old days when we used to pay people to process our pictures for us?"

Here you have it, folks. Three months worth of glorious munchkin cuteness.

There's nobody in this orange fabric bucket. Nobody at all. YOU CAN NOT SEE ME. STEP AWAY FROM THE ORANGE BUCKET.

Can you believe this was just less than a month ago?

If you think I'm sexy, just reach out and touch me. Come on, sugar, let me know.

The Polly Pocket Princess Lunch Jury is still in session.

I totally taught her how to do this. A few seconds later, as she pulled it from her nostrils and observed the giant green booger stuck to it, I thought, "Huh. Maybe this was a Bad Idea." Then she wiped the booger on my shirt and any previous doubt as to the overall goodness of the idea was erased.

Can you find the Angry Monkey in this picture?

I DON'T KNOW ANY WORDS OTHER THAN 'MEOW,' BUT THAT! THAT! THAT OVER THERE! IS REALLY FREAKING IMPORTANT!

I have come to the conlusion that the standard American dictionary has been replaced by Google.

"Ma, what does 'Floccinaucinihilipilification' mean?"

"Look it up!"

And instead of looking it up in the Dictionary, the kid Googles 'Floccinaucinihilipilification'

*Please note that in order to write this blog entry, I Googled "weirdest word" and came up with 'Floccinaucinihilipilification.'

"Elizabeth, please don't poke your finger in that hole."

"Why can't I poke my finger in it, Dad?"

(She's calling us MOM and DAD now)

"Because it'll get bigger and then things will fly through it."

"What things, Dad?"

"Oh, you know. Baby mosquitoes, moths, no-see-ums, pterodactyls. . . "

I recently started volunteering for a wonderful organization called 'Wild Wings.'

From their website: Wild Wings is a not-for-profit educational organization that houses and cares for permanently injured, birds of prey (raptors) which are unable to survive on their own in the wild any more.

What most people don't know about Wild Wings is that they aren't funded by any organization. Every penny they receive is earned through fund-raising efforts done by the hard-working volunteers within the organization and from donations from people like you.

On April 24, they are hosting a wine tasting fund-raiser and silent auction at the Crystal Barn in Pittsford. I know many of those who read my blog don't live in the area, but those who DO live in the area would be eagerly invited to purchase tickets for this event! In fact, you can purchase tickets right now, online!

If you can't make it to the wine tasting party, you're welcome to donate in other ways. If you can ship a donation for the silent auction to Wild Wings before the 24th, they will be accepting donations right up until the last day. If you don't have anything to donate, Wild Wings will gladly accept financial donations, or you can purchase gifts from their cottage store online, buy a brick, adopt a bird, or become a member!

Here at VMS, we're donating a Princess Tea Party Pack, with 4 princess skirts, 4 tiaras and a tea party set for four. Let me tell you, it was pretty difficult to wrestle those princess outfits away from Elizabeth, but I promised I would make her one if she would give these ones to the birdies.

"Are there any blue birdies, Mommy?"
"Most of them are brown, sweetie."
"Are there any BLUE ONES?"
"There is one that's a little bit blue."
"He can have this blue outfit, Mommy. It will match his fur."

So, there you have it. I don't plea often, but when I do plea, I plea big! If you have a soft heart for birds, you'll make my day (and theirs) if you can find a way to contribute to Wild Wings

For more information about Wild Wings, visit their "About Us" page.

Elizabeth just described lunch as either

"supremely perfecto"

or

"obscenely perfecto"

A few weeks ago Brian and I rented 'Into the Wild,' a film directed by Sean Penn, based on the book by Jon Krakauer. The story is about Chris McCandless (AKA Alexander Supertramp) and his experiences following graduation from Emory University, in 1990. You're going to think I live under a rock (and maybe I do), but until I watched this film, I had never heard of Chris McCandless. In fact, when we started watching the film, we were mistakenly under the impression that it was a movie about Timothy Treadwell, the guy who lived with and was eaten by bears.

Weren't we surprised when halfway through the movie we still had not seen any bears?

"Where the hell are the bears?" I asked Brian, speaking through a mouthful of dry popcorn, so it came out like "mova hewahhvahbaaahs?"

He shrugged and reached for the remote, threatening to fast forward in search of the bears. I shook my head nervously. I don't know which makes me twitch more: channel-up/down, fast-forward, or the remote control in the hands of my trigger-happy husband.

Anyway, I was initially enchanted (as many are) by McCandless' story . . . until the credits rolled and I realized that the story was over. REALLY over. I looked at Brian and said, "No. That doesn't make any sense. Something doesn't ring true, here."

And Brian responded, "Didn't you buy chips and French onion dip today?"

Love him or hate him, the story of Chris McCandless tends to give rise to powerful emotions from most people. Alaskans think he was an uneducated, uninformed, ill-prepared youngster who wandered off into the wilds of Alaska on a suicide mission. Others look at him as an American hero, a young man filled with wanderlust, on a solitary quest to find personal fulfillment. He ate a heaping bowl of "I don't give a shit" for breakfast, took adventure by the balls, and that's what we love about him. He didn't talk about it, he did it. It's enviable. It's the stuff blockbusters are made of.

Or is it?

Who was Chris McCandless, really?

The next day I picked up a copy of Krakauer's book. It was riddled with unnecessarily large words and more information about Krakauer than I cared to read, but I eagerly read the story in under 24 hours and was still left with more questions than I had answers. It was frustrating me to the point of obsession, so I did what all normal Americans do: I obsessively Googled the story.

According to this site, one of the theories regarding McCandless' death has already been proven to be untrue, the other seems highly unlikely. I don't like it when a "true story" movie turns out to be untrue. Seriously. Made of suck.

Which leads me to my own personal thoughts and theories about what happened to Chris McCandless. I'm questioning the absolute truth of several "facts" presented by Krakauer and Penn. Of course, the Internet is overwhelmed with a multitude of theories and opinions about what really happened on Magic Bus 142. Bear with me a moment while I add my .02:

I do not believe McCandless set out to commit suicide. McCandless was starving, and from what I understand, starvation is rather unpleasant. He left a note and a self portrait indicating he was aware of the fact that he was dying. If he was suicidal, he had the means to end his life immediately. He did not. He held out until the very end, recording notes in his journal. I believe he hoped that he might be rescued right up to the moment of his death. His final actions are not the actions of a man who wants to die.

From the information I've read in the book, and from the way McCandless was portrayed in the film, he was an incredibly kind, sensitive, caring individual. He was a humanitarian. After reading the book, you either really admire this guy or you think he's a brat. I put the book down and felt he was overwhelmingly compassionate, and thoughout the movie, we see McCandless portrayed to be the kind of guy who really - I mean REALLY gives a shit about the the people with whom he came in contact. Yet, this man, capable of such extreme kindness, had completely abandoned his entire family.

It didn't make sense to me.

I understand that his family was relatively dysfunctional, but in today's society, dysfunction is the norm. I've seen kids endure far worse trauma at home and still be capable of deep love for family members who have treated them terribly. McCandless' abandonment of his family, without any previous warning, did not align with his personality as portrayed in the book and on film. Any individual capable of McCandless' level of kindness for his fellow travelers would not logically detach himself from a family who unconditionally loved him, without a reason greater than typical American dysfunction.

Would he?

I kept coming back to the identity of 'Alexander Supertramp' which McCandless created once he was on the road. From what I understand, anytime he used this identity, he referred to himself in the third person. I am certainly not an expert in human psychology, but these facts, as presented, made me wonder if perhaps McCandless was suffering from undiagnosed mental illness.

I re-Googled, (and invented a new word: re-Googled) hoping for some answers, and was suprised that others had already established a theory of mental illness. In fact, many have theorized that McCandless was likely experiencing the onset of schizophrenia at the time of graduation.

With this scenario, I have to admit I'm a little annoyed with Penn and Krakauer for not at least offering it as a possible explanation for his behavior, especially when they so intensely focused on the importance of TRUTH.

Excluding the very real possibility that my theory is entirely wrong (although, other folks - folks smarter than me - have wondered the same thing), is the reason they ignored this possible scenario because of the stigma attached to mental illness?

I guess we'll never know, because the author never presented his readers the option to even consider mental illness.

What I do know is that people with mental illness deal with a lot of insensitivity on a regular basis. Our culture needs to accept the fact that mental illness is a disorder from which 1 in 5 people suffer. The only way our society will become more accepting and understanding of mental health issues is if they are educated about them, and we can't do that if people continue to sweep the discussion under the carpet.

Mental illness not a sign of weakness. It's not a character flaw. It's not a reason to avoid someone.

It is, however, very misunderstood and the stigma attached to mental health issues in our society is often tragic.

Assuming that those who theorize McCandless was experiencing the early stages of schizophrenia are accurate, I can't help but wonder if our society had been more accepting of mental health problems and if people had been regularly educated about the signs of mental illness, would McCandless still be alive today? He encountered so many kind people during the two years he was on the road, and all of them cared for him greatly. If mental illness wasn't such a taboo topic, perhaps someone would have put two and two together and sought help for him.

One thing for sure, Krakauer and Penn aren't doing much to further understanding and tolerance for people with mental health issues.

In the end, though, despite my disappointment with Penn and Krakauer, I think Chris McCandless was an amazing, brilliant, foolish, young, strong-willed, stubborn, brave, compassionate, deeply moving individual. I can't help but envy him for those two years he spent living on his own, seeing our beautiful country. What an adventure it must have been. My heart goes out to his family and friends. He, no doubt, made an enormous impact on the lives of those he touched. At the age of 22, had I been just slightly more self-confident and an ounce more foolish, I believe I probably would have set out to find my own Magic Bus 142 in the wilds of Alaska. . .

Although, anyone who knows me also knows that I would not have ventured off without making 14 lists, checking, re-checking, over-checking and checking one last time before checking to make sure that I had over-packed, overdressed, overdrawn my bank account, over-analyzed the potential for disaster, need for food, need for medical supplies, need for toilet paper, need for beer, need for waterproof mascara (I am a girl, after all), underestimated the amount of food necessary, called forty-three more people than I needed to call, called for back-up, called mom once, twice, three times, oh, wait - what was I doing? Was I going on a trip somewhere? Good grief, this is more work than it's worth. I'm going back to bed. . .

NOTE: While my blog entries are always riddled with humor from my daily life, it's certainly not my intention to make light of this topic. It's a serious story with a terribly tragic ending, and it took me almost three weeks to write this entry - the longest it has ever taken me to write a post. The story of Chris McCandless deeply moved me. Had he survived, he would have been exactly the same age as me, likely dealing with annoying foot problems, raising a family and suffering heart failure when his child told him to "stand the eff up." I'm certain that the world would have been a better place had he survived his adventure "Into The Wild."

if you would like to read other articles about him, I am including some links for you to look through. I encourage you to read them and form your own opinions. I welcome comments and discussion.

Wiki-McCandless

The Cult of Chris McCandless

Chris McCandless from an Alaska Park Ranger’s Perspective

"Death of an Innocent"

A controversial article about Chris McCandless

Another article by Craig Medred

Photos of Chris McCandless

Portions of articles written by Chris McCandless while he was in college

Last weekend I took several bags of old toys to Goodwill and donated them, and afterward I drove across the street to Old Navy to pick up some pants for the kids. Several people have told me about these miraculous adjustable-waistband pants offered by Old Navy, and since my kidlets are long, lean beanpoles with pants that are constantly hanging down below buttcrack level, I decided to check it out.

SCORE!

Old Navy does indeed offer adjustable waistband pants, and while I was there they were hosting a magnificent sale, so I picked up an armload of summer attire (mostly for Adam who has no hand-me-downs until 3T), thinking that with this spree, I would be done shopping for the whole season.

I reached the checkout counter and began to de-hanger all of the clothes. When it was my turn in the queue, I asked the clerk if it was okay to leave the hangers for Old Navy to recycle. He shrugged and told me that he'd be happy to take them, but they would be thrown in the trash, because Old Navy doesn't recycle their plastic hangers.

I asked him why and he told me that it's cheaper for Old Navy to pay someont to put new hangers on all the clothes than it is to recycle the old hangers and went on to tell me that all of my hangers (there were over 40 of them) would be thrown into the garbage.

Needless to say, I was appalled. However, I continued to de-hanger the clothes, silently fuming.

When he totalled up my bill, I reached into my bag for my wallet and noticed it was missing. Of course, I skipped right over 'logic and rational thinking,' dove headfirst into PANIC MODE and said, "My wallet is not in my bag!"

The clerk replied calmly, "Go see if you can find it, and when you come back I'll finish checking our your purchases."

I dodged out the door, fearing I had dropped it in the Goodwill parking lot while unloading donation bags. When I reached the car, I remembered that I had actually left my wallet in my coat. Which, (grumble), was HOME.

Embarrassed, I hopped in the car thinking I could drive home, get the wallet, and return to finish the transaction. But the cashier's words kept echoing in my head: "Old Navy doesn't recycle their plastic hangers. Old Navy doesn't recycle their plastic hangers. Old Navy doesn't recycle their plastic hangers."

And I realized that this was an act of divine intervention. Mother Nature stole my wallet so that I would not be responsible for 40 more hangers being foolishly deposited in our landfills.

I drove home, hopped online to see if I could find out why Old Navy doesn't recycle their hangers and found several stories similar to my own.

These folks blogged about it and offered some great links on how to contact Old Navy (which is owned by The Gap, and also owns Banana Republic and Piperlime) to complain about their hanger policy.

Another blogger wrote about it too. Seems I'm not alone.

Here's an article about why they've decided to do this. According to Old Navy (and other stores listed in the article) that packaging clothing on plastic hangers at the manufacturing plant, then dumping them in our landfills is more acceptable than wrinkles on clothing. Makes sense, right? I mean, wouldn't you rather see all those Old Navy hangers in our landfills than wrinkles on a shirt in the store?

I did NOT return to Old Navy and complete my transaction. And as awesome as I think their adjustable-waistband pants are, I have decided that the cost to our planet is not worth keeping the kids' butts covered. Besides, their butts are awfully darn cute. Definitely more pleaseant to look at than millions of plastic hangers in our landfills.

And what will Adam be wearing this summer? If he has anything to say about it, he'll be naked. But on days when he loses that battle, he'll be sporting the latest fashions from Goodwill, who proudly recycles their hangers and all the clothing they sell.

"Did you hear what your daughter just said?"

"Ahhhh, no. What did she say?"

"Can you tell Mommy what you said?"

"STAND THE EFF UP!"

Brian stifled a snort and I froze in my tracks trying to remember if I was guilty of ever saying EFF in front of my darling, innocent child. And then I looked past Brian's body and saw Elizabeth fussing with a chunky, green foam alphabet letter, trying to make it stand up on its own.

The letter 'F.'

To prove that I am indeed getting older, I had an appointment with a podiatrist today. My first ever appointment with a podiatrist, in fact. I have what is known as "Morton's Neuroma," an annoying little bump settled right on the nerves in my foot that causes a great deal of pain, and lots of tingly toes. I've had it for about 6 years and it's been consistently painful throughout those years, but not enough to do anything about it (except seek pity and ice cream from Brian).

Over the past few weeks the pain has become unbearable, so I went to my doctor, who referred me to a podiatrist, after noting suspicion of neuroma.

You should be aware of the fact that I hate ANYTHING touching my feet. I don't like socks. I don't like shoes. I can't bear to touch my own feet, and I would rather vomit rusty nails through my eyeballs than allow anyone else to touch my feet. A visit to the podiatrist was not going to be easy.

Well, today was my appointment, and I am officially OKAY with having my feet touched. ONLY by my podiatrist, and ONLY because my podiatrist is a God. Pull up a chair and I'll tell you a story.

As I walked into the examining room, the nurse had me sit in a chair just like the one at the dentist. This, I decided, was not a good sign. I don't like going to the dentist, and worse yet, I Googled 'Morton's Neuroma' the night before and knew one of two things was going to happen. Either:

1) I would get a shot in the bonies of my foot. Pick out the boniest of bony spots on your bod, THAT is where the needle would go. DEEPLY. And then I would be injected with cortisone. Foolishly, I read NEWSGROUPS where real people wrote about their personal experiences. "More painful than a rock in the face." "Hurt more than a sunburned bikini wax." "I would rather eat my testicles than ever endure that kind of pain again." were a few of the quotes that really made an impression.

2) I would be required to have surgery to remove the neuroma. Every newsgroup I visited recommended surgery as the LESS PAINFUL option.

Needless to say, I was praying for surgery as I settled my butt into the podiatrist's chair that too-much resembled a dentist's chair and I asked the nurse if I should remove my shoes. She shook her head no and launched my chair to chest height. That's when I reassured myself that this wasn't going to be like a dentist visit. At least now I would be at eye level with the doctor. At the dentist I am usually at butt level, and it's hard to feel secure when you're looking someone square in the ass.

My feet, at this point, were straight in front of me, level with my head, and that's when I realized that I had apparently grabbed the shittiest-looking, mud-covered shoes I owned. I apologized. The nurse laughed and said that everyone's shoes have been covered in mud today.

She removed my shoes. I cringed, knowing that she was going to do the nasty deed and touch my feet.

(She was going to TOUCH MY FEET)

She did not touch my feet. She removed my socks, looked over my chart and left. I exhaled and mentally prepared for round two.

My podiatrist entered and I was a little surprised to see that he's probably a few years younger than I am. I have a feeling this is going to happen more and more often as the years roll by. I chewed on the inside of my cheek as he touched my foot. He rolled the neuroma back and forth with his thumbs, and I swear to all that is white and cotton in my underwear drawer that I almost threw up on the spot.

BUT I DIDN'T. I kept my garbage together and hid my discomfort as best I could.

"Yes, it IS a neuroma!" He said excitedly. He opened a metal cabinet and reached inside to pull out a REALLY BIG FREAKIN' NEEDLE and said, "We're going to inject it with some cortisone to break it up! We'll try this a few times and if it doesn't work, we'll have to talk about surgery, but it's RARE that I have to perform surgery for this problem. We'll probably be able to get rid of it with three to four injections."

"Yeah, that's great," I answered, inching my foot back toward my body in protective fashion. "But last night I googled 'neuromas' and I really don't think I want your little shot there!" I squinted at him and hissed, "The people on the discussion forums say it hurts."

"Oh, well, YEAH! There's no doubt about it! It hurts! It REALLY hurts, and it'll probably leave a big, purple bruise on the top of your foot, but hey, it's better than surgery!"

"REALLY? DO YOU REALLY THINK SO?" I asked.

"Pshhhhhhyeah it is!" He paused a moment, then sliced the needle through the air as he gestured, "So, about Google, that's some cool stuff, isn't it? Do you know how it works? I mean, do you REALLY know how it works?"

"A little - I don't think anyone really knows how Google works, though." I relaxed a bit and settled my foot back down on the chair.

Then we spent a half hour talking about the Internet and Google and how magical and special they are. Then I told him a little secret about a project we have coming up through VMS, and he sucked in his breath and whispered dramatically, "Holy COW YOU ARE FAMOUS!" And then we both giggled like teenage Beatles fans and he jabbed me in the foot with a mother-effing needle the size of the Empire State Building.

I squeezed my eyes shut, clenched the arms of the chair and squawked, "THERE IS NO WAY THIS COULD HURT WORSE THAN HAVING A BABY!"

"I couldn't say for sure, but we could ask my wife," answered the podiatrist. I'm guessing the needle was at the halfway mark by this time, but *I* couldn't say for sure because my eyes were closed and I was having a brain spasm.

"ohmygourdsweetGINGERonaHOTPLATEthisisEXTREMELYunpleasant!" I cried.

"WOW! Heather, this is the BIGGEST one of these I have seen in YEARS! I'm NOT kidding you! This is HUGE!" he shouted, with a little too much glee in his voice. After he said that I was really grateful he was not a proctologist. Or an OBGYN. And then he wrenched the needle around one of those obnoxious, GETTING-IN-THE-FREAKING-WAY little foot bones.

"REALLY?" I asked with clenched fists. "IS IT SO BIG THAT YOU'RE READY TO CALL OFF THIS NEEDLE-PROBING NONSENSE AND GO FOR THE SURGICAL OPTION?"

He laughed and gave the needle another shove, probing deeper into the bonies of my foot. And as quickly as he began, he pulled back the needle and said, "All done!" He sighed and added, "And I'm not kidding you, it really was the biggest one I've seen in a long, long time."

I wiped the sweat from my forehead, unclenched my jaw and asked with a nincompoopish wussy whine, "That means that I am super tough, right?"

"You," he said, "Are. THE. Super. Tough-EST."

And then he whispered, "One time I performed that very same procedure on a guy. . . and he peed himself."

"Wow." I said, in awe. "I am Super Tough."

And that, dear friends, is why my podiatrist is a God.

We're going to be in MO next month. I believe Theron has all the specifics about when we'll be in your neck of the woods. We would really love to see you and Christie, if she is feeling up to it!

I'm writing a lett to the Department of Aging and requesting that they change the name of the AGE OF THREE.

So when you ask Elizabeth, "How old are you?"

She will respond, "I am WHINE."