mrissa: (Default)

Dear Great-Grandma,

I was in the store just after 6 this morning, beating the crowds to get my Thanksgiving supplies. The clerk said to me, “I can see you’re in charge of the vegetables this year. You have all the fancy things.” She was holding a cabbage and a bunch of radishes.

And I thought of you, Great-Grandma. I thought of you and your cousins, up early to get to the market to get the good cheap cabbages and radishes and the other winter vegetables of the north, get them before they were picked over. Get the family fed. All the fancy things.

Great-Grandma, you’ve arrived.

You’re looking over my shoulder as I marinate the thin-sliced beef for tonight’s noodle soup, nodding, oh yah, you can stretch a lot of soup out of that much meat, don’t need much to make it soup, to make it taste fine. Especially with a dab of pepper there, yep, hardly anyone will taste you didn’t put much meat in there, mostly carrots and radishes cut real thin. And noodles, lots of noodles, that’ll make it last. You can feed those big men for days on that soup, they’ll never guess how little you spent on the meat. Good girl.

I wouldn’t even tell you that’s not what I’m doing. I’d just say, you wouldn’t believe how cheap I got this big thing of dates–up on University there’s a Persian grocery that sells them, a quarter the price of a regular grocery store. They have a streetcar you could take there again, just like in the old days. Sit down and have some dates. Have some pecans with them. Take a load off your feet, Great-Grandma. Didn’t you hear the lady at the store? You’re one of the fancy things now. All those days of making it last, making do: you’ve made it.



Originally published at Novel Gazing Redux

mrissa: (getting by)

Here’s one from the archives today:

The Troll (A Tale Told Collectively)

“Because Aunt Margit knows that the stories must be told.”

Originally published at Novel Gazing Redux

mrissa: (amused)

I was on the phone with my favorite great-aunt today, and I told her that I had been going through my stories in a particular setting, writing down a master file of who was who and who was where and who was related to which other person so that I wouldn’t contradict myself in future.

Auntie: “Oh, that’s good! Because some people get really engrossed in their reading and then get irate when there are contradictions and mistakes. And by ‘people,’ I mean your uncle.”

Me, laughing: “He’s not the only one.”

Auntie: “No, dear, but I live with your uncle.”

Originally published at Novel Gazing Redux

mrissa: (Wait -- what?)
We are staying in a lake house with [ profile] markgritter's side of the family, as we are wont to do the last few years--it works well to rent a big house where we can all be together and read our books and watch movies and play games and cook meals and stuff. But there is a thing that puzzles me, fairly consistently, and it is this:

Where are the towel bars? Why are there not more towel bars? We do this once a year, and quite frequently there are just not places to hang bath towels when you're done using them. For people who are using a bathroom solo, I suppose I understand: they can hang their towel over the shower bar. This does not work if lots of people are showering. It would wet the towel. So is the assumption that you will wash each towel after one use? I have to confess that there are times and, uh, biological cycles that prompt me to do that. But for the most part I feel that using a towel does not make it irrevocably filthy. I hang it and use it again. Am I just dirtier than most people? Or am I cleaner, that I don't want to fling it in the corner on the floor and pick it up again to use the next day? This just...I don't know how it works, this lack of towel bars.

(I would count the horizontal handle of a shower door as a perfectly fine thing to use as a towel bar. This shower has a cloth curtain. Also I understand that there are not always places to put a towel bar in a small bathroom or one with oddly configured walls, but a) that's not the case here, and b) that still requires a solution to the essential problem--a freestanding towel rack in the bathrooms, for example.)

The people who lived in our own house before us also did not have towel bars. We had to install them. It was a 20+ year old house at the time. So confused.
mrissa: (getting by)
About six years ago, I wrote a post about Nana and the last of her home-canned peaches. And I talked about how lucky we were to have her still, and to have her be so much herself, after what she called her "little spell" and the doctors called a hemorrhaging brain aneurism. (For those of you who don't follow the link: this is my "aunt" Kathy's mother.)

Nana died last night. And all I can think of was the time when she was caring for Nanu when he was so sick before he died, and how he said, "Dorothy, you've been so good to me, you're going to heaven for sure." And quick as a flash, she said, "Oh, no, Frank! I want to be with you!" There are so many Nana quotes that have made their way into my family's daily vocabulary--the top two are "Didn't you do that last time we went out?" and "Eat your fruit and go," but I'm sure there will come moments in the next few months when something comes out of my mouth and I stop and think, "Oh, that was from Nana." She was just one of those people you can't help smiling about even when you're crying.
mrissa: (amused)
Other writers: please to be writing me stories with this epigraph:

"Every family snapshot album is an argument for the doctrine of Original Sin."--W.H. Auden, "The Double Focus: Sandberg's Lincoln"

Because I don't think I have one, and yet it amuses me.
mrissa: (themselves)
Me: I was telling a story and mentioned her friend Harold and then turned to my mom and said, "Not actually a giraffe," and she broke up laughing. Grandma sort of patiently sat there and waited for us to start making sense again.
[ profile] timprov: I hope someone's bringing her food.
mrissa: (ohhh.)
When I was small, my cousins and I went to the Emmy Gifford Children's Theater all the time. There was James and the Giant Peach, for which my aunt Kathy got us peach Jolly Ranchers to suck while we watched the beautiful giant bug costumes--I expect there was a James, but I have no memory of him--and there was Cinderella, for which one of the stepsisters wore tennis shoes under her ball gown and chewed gum and was hilarious. Who knows if I would find her funny now.

But there was, oh, there was Where the Wild Things Are. And they put up a miniature stage in the middle of the seating, and the Wild Things. The Wild Things came out and danced. Right there where we were sitting. In the aisles and on the little platform down the middle of the seats.

My world changed.

I could not have been as old as my godson was now, but I was old enough to have the two levels of it, the immediate ooooh and the hey can you do that? I wonder what else you can do that I didn't think about.

Thank you, Maurice Sendak, for the wild rumpus that sparked so many other wild rumpuses in our hearts and minds.
mrissa: (thinking)
Under friendslock, one of my friends asked about "bucket lists" or "life lists," and I decided that I should edit my comment to be suitable to repost here: I have deliberately not done that thing, and I intend to keep deliberately not doing it.

I know my own personality and attachment to lists. There are people who could make a list like that and not have it get in the way of them scrapping bits of it to do other fascinating things instead. I am not one of them. What I want to do before I die is continue to cultivate an attitude that allows me to take advantage of the interesting opportunities that come my way, and to continue to create those opportunities from sheer stubbornness if need be.

Most of the best things in my life are not things I could predict in advance. Many of them are predicated on relationships with specific people, and you can't always control all the variables--if I'd been fixated on taking Lillian to a play last spring, I'd have been disappointed, because she wasn't really ready to go when we had tickets to take her and Rob to the Ernie and Bert musical. I think now she is, and we're going to try "Annie" this spring, and in the meantime we had a lovely time with just Rob. Other things are opportunities that come up in unpredictable ways--my parents, for example, would not have put Germany on their "bucket list," but when they had an opportunity to go because of Dad's work, they had a fabulous time and still talk fondly about it among the many trips they've enjoyed. Even in the things we theoretically knew we wanted to do, some of the best moments have been completely unexpected opportunities. When we went to London with the grands, we had no idea they'd be using Buckingham Palace as a screen for projecting pictures in memory and honor of those who served in WWII--but it was really neat that they did, and my grandmother got into a good conversation with an Englishwoman sitting next to us on the kerb watching. The woman talked about her father's WWII service, Grandma talked about her brother who died on the beachhead at Anzio, and they hugged before we parted ways. Grandma would never have written down, "talk about WWII while watching photos on Buckingham Palace" on her bucket list, but it affected her quite strongly.

I occasionally struggle a little with the fact that Grandpa and I didn't get to Alaska together before he died. Going to 49 of the US states together seems worse somehow than only 43, although I would not by any means skip the last six we did, and I remind myself that's what that means--or skipping the London trip, which was wonderful, the one Grandpa listed as his favorite. But if I had not had this damnable vertigo, going to Alaska would have been a good time together, and then if he hadn't gotten that damnable bronchitis and all that followed. And the thing is, I don't want to do that. I want to cultivate an attitude of being glad for the things we did--49 states, for the love of Pete! not to mention the Canadian provinces and more distant foreign countries!--and not sorry for the things we didn't get to do. For some people, the bucket list/life list is a way of remembering their priorities, and I think it's great for people who have the mindset to use it that way--or who need to make that kind of list to get there. For me it would be a source of regret, when I'd rather consider things in terms of opportunity.

I've only said the v-word once here, but it's pretty important. We hope that I can get the vertigo under control and keep it that way from here on out, but I'm also realistic that we don't actually know whether that'll happen. And I would far rather find things that will be wonderful with the abilities I do have than fixate on what I thought would be wonderful at 20, 25, 30, whatever, and spend my time seeing the ways I've been limited instead of the ways I've found ways to enjoy the life I have. Some people find a bucket list a good way to enjoy the lives they have, and that's great. But this is why I don't think it would be that for me.
mrissa: (and another thing!)
I am extra, extra careful about giving my characters my point of view on comparatively obscure things. For one, it's not always appropriate, and for another, I don't really like having people assume that I mean to use some character or another for a mouthpiece in general just because we agree on a particular point.

So I have thought long and hard, and I am absolutely sure that Carter feels as I do about godparents. It is appropriate and right that he should do so. His world--both the one in which he grew up and the one in which he finds himself now--requires it. Your godparents help give you your name, they help fix your identity to you, they give you a place to stand, somewhere you can move from wherever you will go. Your parents should do all that, too, but it's a big job. Standing with the kid, teaching them what they need to know, taking on all comers: it's more than parents should have to do alone. And it's not just my relationship with my godfather that makes me say this*, and it's not just my relationship with the godkids. It fits with the magic structure of the world Carter lives in.

But it's also in mine, and apparently I need to give fair warning yet again: I don't approve of ignorant prejudices in general. None of us do, or we would call them "sensible notions" instead of "ignorant prejudices." But if you say something ignorantly prejudiced in an area that pertains to one of my godchildren, either them personally or categories they belong to? You should consider yourself lucky if I don't pull the heavens themselves down on your head. That is not what we do, folks, and there's one less person welcome in these parts today than there was yesterday because she apparently forgot it. Do not. Mess. With my godkids. Really serious, people.

So in related but actually Carter-ish news, if he says he doesn't want to say it until he's at the font (because Tommy Heikkanen trained him good) but he knows what he's going to name his son, do those of you who have read some of the stories know what it has to be?

*Like Jessica Lin-Laird, like my own godkids, I have three godparents, two male and one female. I love my other godfather, and I love my godmother. But when I say "my godfather," I always mean Dave. And Jess will always mean Carter when she says "my godfather"; if she means the Puck, she will say his name or "my fairy godfather." Jess is not me, and Carter is not very much like Dave at all. But sometimes you have my godfather, and that is that. I mean. My godfather. You know.
mrissa: (auntie: Amber)
So [ profile] seagrit put up this picture, and it reminded me of the events immediately preceding it.

Amber (the elder of the two niecelets, age 4) had just opened her fairy wings from Uncle Mark and Auntie Mrissa. She was squealing and jumping up and down, and I said, "Do you want to put them on?"

And she stopped dead and stared at me with round eyes and said, "Put them on?" As though simply owning fairy wings was more delight than any 4-year-old could expect to have in her life, and wearing them was far above and beyond what she had ever expected.

Yah, so. That's what we call a happy little girl. And a successful Christmas present.

(I think she's a little disappointed that her little sister Lily isn't big enough to wear hers yet, though.)

(Lily is still a bit skeptical of Auntie Mris.)
mrissa: (and another thing!)
As many of you know, I'm an only child; when I refer to my brother, I'm talking about the one I went out and got for myself in my late teens, not one who was parentally provided. And he is a very fine brother and all one could ask for in a brother...and does not affect my only child brain processes in the slightest. He is very much loved, but as for how my brain works by default, it's all in only child mode.

This got to be a problem this Christmas, because I have several sets of small child siblings to buy for. Very small child siblings. I am, I flatter myself, good at buying presents for little kids. I know about various picture books with dinosaurs and pirates and knufflebunnies; I keep track of where to buy toys that come with spaceships and toys that roll into little magnetic balls and toys that build a million different things that aren't pictured on the box. I even found some soap in the shape of Hello Kitty this year for a little extra, making me officially awesome in the eyes of my Hello Kitty-obsessed goddaughter.

But when the gifts are going to siblings, it's not the same as buying for a kid and then buying for another kid. I have learned--oh how I have learned. There are times when it's okay to buy one kid books and the other toys, for example, and times when it is not. (Buying the older, more mature kid who freely and joyfully admits to reading on his own a toy, and then his younger, supposedly pre-literate sister books? Not so much.) And then there are all the things it's awesome to buy for an 18-month-old...that you already bought for an 18-month-old last time they had an 18-month-old, and you have no reason to think they've thrown the thing in the garbage since. So then you have to come up with something else. That won't be too redundant. And it can't be something somewhat too old for the littler kid that they can grow into, because if you do that, you've de facto given the older sibling two presents and the littler one zero. If it's too directly age-appropriate, they'll grow out of it in five seconds flat; if it's not limitedly age-appropriate enough, you risk the older, bigger kid sidling up and taking it over.

("I don't think that's a big problem," said [ profile] markgritter, himself an oldest. Hah. I watched it happen.)

And if you have opposite-sex siblings to give gifts to, and you look and say, "Well, what don't they have around the house already?", the answer is often highly gendered. And you really don't want the message to be, "Big sib is the oldest, so they get the cool stuff: the telescopes, the building toys, the best books. And you get the really gendery Girl/Boy stuff, which frankly kind of sucks." Even if they will not, before they are out of preschool, see the suckage--that's kind of the point. They won't. But I will.

This will all be so much easier in just a few years, when the younger siblings in question can say, "Auntie Mris, I want a--", or their parents can say, "You know, he/she is really into--" and then I can go off and get that sort of thing, or something tangentially related to it. Four-year-olds--contrary to our culture's common beliefs--have opinions and interests. Eighteen-month-olds do, too, they're just not as good at expressing them in advance. Moral of the story is not to get too attached to them adoring any given present, I guess; I have that one down for all the kids. I just...I think it comes down to not being comfortable with intrafamily conflict over presents. It alarms me. Probably if I'd given some other kid a good whack to make them let me have my Ewok Village back, I'd feel more comfortable about this, but I didn't, so I don't.
mrissa: (intense)
1. My godfather is well and truly married, and I alone have returned to tell the tale. Where by "I alone" I mean "everybody who went." Also there's not much tale to tell, since it went smoothly. And it turns out that there are e.e. cummings poems that are clean and yet related to people coming together romantically! Who knew? Apparently my new cousin Hsin-Yi knew! So she is your go-to person for clean and yet romantically involved e.e. cummings. We never had one in the family before. Now we do. When the officiant said that her sister was going to read e.e. cummings, I thought, "Oh, uff da, here we go!" because I knew it wasn't going to be maggy and milly and molly and may, and all the adult e.e. cummings I know is really adult. But apparently Hsin-Yi is refineder in her literary sensibilities than I. (Also, "refineder" is now a word.)

2. The tomatillos are harvested, and there was frost, so we are done harvesting for the year. My fingers are almost recovered from doing so in the wind. Are we done processing them? Oh, cue the hollow laughter. Like fun we are.

3. [ profile] timprov and I went out for breakfast, and on the drive home, I saw the first snowflakes of the season. They didn't last long enough to hit the ground. But I saw them. I saw.

4. I have word of my latest Analog story, from someone living in Montreal who liked it and liked the Montreal bits in particular. So that's good. I would like my arthur copies now, but arthur copies are sometimes slow. (My first set of work-for-hire textbooks came with a packing slip that actually said, "arthur copies." And I could not resist quoting the Arthur-shaped snot-monster from The Tick and saying, "I Arthur! I Arthur!" Most of you already know this.)

5. We have decided that if I ever do an elaborate Halloween costume again, I will go as the Stanley Cup and make other people go as hockey players and lift me over their heads. Possibly I should get an 8-year-old to let me do this, as they are more broadly feasible to lift and yet about the size of a Stanley Cup, but Rob has already decided on his costume for this year. Still, I am not in much danger of doing an elaborate Halloween costume any time soon, so that's all right; getting all the names down would take awhile. This is Minnesota, so you can't just write, "Gordie Howe blah blah Gretzky blah blah something about Crosby."
mrissa: (Default)
[ profile] markgritter and I are about to decamp for five days in sunny Southern California, which, if you know how much I adore Minnesota in October and how little I think of sunny Southern California, will strike you as something which must come with a pretty powerful motivating force. And it does: my godfather Dave (the younger of my two godfathers and the one I talk about more) is getting married. Were it not early in the morning and were I not Scandosotan, this would come with a quantity of exclamation marks: he and Hsin-Yi have been together some time, she seems really good for him, and I am so glad to have her in the family. So consider the exclamation marks implied.

([ profile] markgritter is still not entirely well--that's since Labor Day, for those of you keeping score, and he developed a secondary respiratory infection that finally seems to have cleared up leaving only the first problem--and then there are my own health concerns--so this travel is not entirely un-fraught. Wish us luck.)

In other news, I seem to have sold "Entanglement" to Nature, so yay for quantum mechanical short-shorts. Again: exclamation marks promised for later in the day.
mrissa: (auntie: Robin)
When I put things on the calendar, I will often just shorthand with one of the people involved, sometimes the one with whom I did the scheduling but sometimes the one who is most keenly interested in the activity. So even if the whole family is going, it will say, "Gma El Loro," for example, if we are to have lunch with Grandma at the Mexican restaurant closest to our house, or "[ profile] laurel ballgame."

In what will seem like unrelated news, my beloved godson has decided that his full name is all right for family use, but really he wants a more curt version for everyday, a fairly standard nickname for the name he was given. And he is also passionately, passionately fond of mass-produced seafood and was permitted to decide where he was taking me for dinner.

This is why my calendar for the week includes the line item, "Rob Red Lobster."

This has produced much hilarity about adding, "Knock over liquor store," etc. in the time slots following it, and is the kind of highbrow thing I thought I would share with you fine people when I have been thinking about books and exceptionalism and actually very many other things.
mrissa: (Default)
To those who might have been hoping to see me in New York in early October, I must tell you I will not be there. The family wedding I would have been attending has been postponed. Though I am not in close contact with either of the principals, I am given to understand that this is a question of logistics and practicality rather than of affection, so there ought to be no concerns raised on that front.

There may yet be an opportunity for me to attend their wedding in the greater New York area, or then again they may, for all I know, decide to get married with only their parents and a minister present (I am not the parent of either party, nor am I a minister of any kind, which is how you can tell me from [ profile] skzbrust if you're in a hurry and can't think how else do so; also potentially useful information for telling me apart from people: I am shorter than [ profile] jonsinger) or run off to Gretna Green or something else completely. Should I receive any information that seems directly relevant to getting together for dinner somewhere outside my usual run of dinner locations (Gretna Green, for example), I will be sure to let you know.

More later, but probably not about this, because I can't think what more I'd have to say about this. Except that I haven't previously wanted an icon of myself in Regency dress, but suddenly one seems appropriate due to my unexpected and bizarre fixation on Gretna Green. I expect if I lie down the feeling will pass, only it hasn't for several parties of my acquaintance, so I'm a bit worried on that score.
mrissa: (Default)
I have long suspected that I am The Worrier in a Noel Streatfeild children's novel, and yesterday confirms it. Fourth Street was like having a long run with a good part in something in those books, surrounded by sparkly people doing sparkly things. Then yesterday the con was over, and I came down with a bump: had to put [ profile] alecaustin on a plane, got called for jury duty, various ordinary lows not worth going into in detail but filled with ignominy for me and those around me. (Also I was completely out of energy, uff da. And still am. There's a lot I could do this 4th St. that I couldn't do last 4th St. When people observed that I seemed to be doing significantly better, I didn't want to kick them, because they were not engaging in wishful thinking, they were right. However, this is one of those cases where "better" and "all better" are not exactly the same. Still, "better" is very much worth having.)

Today, in keeping with the whole Noel Streatfeild plot, I sold a story: Andromeda Spaceways is buying "The Witch's Second Daughter." This is the one where I bought the [ profile] elisem earrings for [ profile] seagrit and then wrote her the story as well, although it started being for Amber (the elder niecelet) also when I wasn't looking, and now it's for Amber even when I am looking, and I don't think the rest of you will have to look very hard to see that, either. So there's a thing.

And now I'll have to write another for Lily and sell it before she's big enough to know the difference.
mrissa: (tiredy)
I feel like saying, "My in-laws have gone home, and I am beyond tired," risks sounding like, "Oh, gloom and despair, the wretched in-laws have gone home and left me a wreck." When in fact they were not wretched at all, they were very fine in-laws, and I'm glad they could come so that [ profile] markgritter and his mom could share their birthdays (and Matt, Dave, and Grandpa Lyzenga could share them with us). But I am still a frazzle and a nubbin through no fault of the in-laws'. Yesterday I had a nap. A nap! Those of you who know what a bad napper I am will know what a thing this is. And nevertheless a nap is what I had. I was that level of stare-at-my-fingers tired where you ask yourself, "Which is more important? A) Send a video to Matt of a barbershop quartet singing the Ewok victory song. B) Balance the checkbook." And then A wins. (Given how tired I was, it's probably just as well I did not attempt financial management even on the small-scale. Still. He hadn't even asked for the Ewoks.)

Last night I had my first dream that I forgot my cane and had to try to wobble around without it. New category of worry-dream, gee thanks, brain. I also dreamed--well, all the ways I can think of to cut-tag this for those who are phobic would probably trigger the phobia, and I know of at least three of you who have this specific one pretty strongly. Suffice it to say that I dreamed very, very vividly of a thing I am not phobic of but some of you are. It was Very Symbolickal of the vertigo and the vertigo treatment. Subtle my dreaming brain is not.

Last week [ profile] timprov reminded me that every time I finish the initial draft of a book he has to remind me that finishing the initial draft of a book exhausts me (never mind the other things going on in the last few weeks). I said, "Oh, do you?" Which is I suppose why he has to every time: if I remembered him doing it, he wouldn't have to do it again every single time.

I'll have a book post later today. For some reason I've had a run of library books that are beautifully written and completely devoid of kindness between the characters. I've been getting a hundred pages in and saying, "I have no desire to spend time with these awful, self-centered, unkind people any more." Of course not every book has to be full of kind people doing and saying kind things. Naturally not. But when nobody seems to like each other, even a little--and what's more there's no sign that they ever did--it's hard for me to want to stick around and watch them have sex and fight anyway, no matter how lyrical the prose is. I don't even have anything clever and pithy to say about it. Just--done now.
mrissa: (intense)
1. [ profile] markgritter's work is going to be in crunch time for the rest of the spring and summer. This affects him more than it affects me, of course, but it does affect me (and [ profile] timprov). What with one thing and another, we are about half a beat behind here. Sometimes a beat and a half. In addition to [ profile] markgritter's work, we are looking forward to bits of out of town company this summer. (Memorial Day is the start of summer, right?) So if I fall behind corresponding with you, likely it's not you, and if I don't contact you to get together when I otherwise might have, it's probably why. (This is not to say I will be busy if you contact me to get together. Sometimes mental energy doesn't work that way.)

2. I am very close to the zeroth draft of The True Tale of Carter Hall. I am not getting the "run ahead of the rock as it rolls downhill" sensation I've gotten with drafting other books. This is much calmer. Things are falling into place when I look at them. Recurrent motif here, character reflected there. I am noticing how to write this so that even the very few scenes that are much like the original ballad feel mine. This is crucial. I have also gained sort of a tunnel-vision on this: there will not be more short stories until this book is done. There will not be other book bits until this book has its bits. I can feel some of them clamoring in my head, but they will have to wait.

3. I am coming up on a whole bunch more tests and possible stuff related to the stupid vertigo. When I have more I want to tell you about that, I will, but in the meantime it is a more active/unsettled part of my mental processes than it has been in awhile.

4. As a result of all this, I am reading things out of the corner of my eye and mistaking my own very tidy handwriting. The household to-do list includes "restain deck?". I glanced out of the corner of my eye and read, "retrain duck," and instead of thinking, "Oh, that's silly," thought, "Oh, crud, all this and I have to retrain the duck, too?" I do not need to make more work for myself. The duck can go without retraining.

5. It is May, and we are preparing to do a painting project, and I am reminded of May three years ago. Mom was painting [ profile] markgritter's office and the library and the music room, and I found out that [ profile] wilfulcait had died. Now it's May again, and Mom will (kindly and generously!) be painting [ profile] markgritter's and my room, the guest room, and the hallways, and in the way this universe works, [ profile] wilfulcait is still gone. And I still miss my friend three years on. Not just when I do a five-things post, but in flashes and bits, things she would have wanted to read, things she would have commented on. So it was time for five things, because it's May, and we're painting, and I miss Rise.

September 2017

34 56789
1011 12 13141516
1718 1920212223


RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Sep. 25th, 2017 03:16 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios