We bought a house in September, one my husband’s coworker affectionately called a “moron house”, as in the owner just kept adding more on. This is our first home mortgage, our first attempt at finding the cadence of adulthood that includes ownership of something larger and more impressive than a 10-year-old vehicle. I never knew if we could make it to this place, but now that we are here I feel like the word property, the phrase homeowners insurance and the act of gardening take on a whole new level of sexiness. Seriously, gardening my own plot of ground has such a different feel than toiling on someone else’s soil.

When we decided to buy a house the phrase “buy in the best area you can because you can fix your house, not the neighbors” was central. Our house is quite interesting as a result of this adage.  Davey and I are slowly updating the home, making the repairs and changes necessary to turn it into our dream house. Here are some before pictures, though, just so you know what we are dealing with when we talk about renovations.

Our House

Our House

Here it is, in all its yellow and brown glory. We are concentrating on making the interior gorgeous first, though, so the toilet colors shall remain.

The front of the house is a porch that was plastered closed and turned into a room of the house. Right now it is the place where all of the boxes we can’t figure out what to do with live, but eventually it will be a mud room and a reading room combo.


Next up is our living room and dining room, two rooms separated by a small half wall

living room

Dining Room... the poop brown carpet was the first thing we removed, I promise

Dining Room… the poop brown carpet was the first thing we removed, I promise

Next up we have three teeny tiny bedrooms, but each one has gorgeous built-ins and cool closets. Here is the one from our bedroom.

Underneath those 18 layers of white paint we have really, really nice woodwork. Someday, friends, we will reveal it all to the world once again

Underneath those 18 layers of white paint we have really, really nice woodwork. Someday, friends, we will reveal it all to the world once again

Our bathroom is standard, nothing of interest, really, until we do something with it.

Bathrooms - what you cant see is a recently re-enameled tub and a small closet

Bathrooms – what you can’t see is a recently re-enameled tub and a small closet

Our kitchen is gorgeous, interesting, authentically 1920’s (as in, original to the house’s construction) and completely lacking in the functional capabilities for a cook like me to use it. See what I mean?

My back is against the opposite wall to take this photo... But at least it is pretty to look at as I curse and try to cook

My back is against the opposite wall to take this photo… But at least it is pretty to look at as I curse and try to cook

The house is a shot-gun, from the back door and original front door you can see across the entire thing. This photo shows you the interesting subway tiles that cover our kitchen, including the ceiling. Yes, every square inch of wall and ceiling that is not covered by a cabinet is tiled.

Davey is so cute when he is concentrating

Davey is so cute when he is concentrating

We have an unfinished basement with four rooms and a scary bathroom, too

Creepy bathrooms add character, right?

Creepy bathrooms add character, right?

This picture helps explain the scream in the above photo, am I right?

This picture helps explain the scream in the above photo, am I right?

And there you have it, our home. We have already done a ton of work, and I have process photos of each step. Once we finally complete a room (hahahahaha… that may take a while) I will share it.

What lessons have I learned from all this?

1. Some people waited until they were in their 30’s to start a family, to feel ready to settle down and make it work. We did that, but with real estate. I think this helped us to attention to our non-negotiable items more, to know what features we needed to avoid (no corner lots ever again, laundry rooms without space for excessive laundry avoidance issues), know what features we needed to have (architectural interest, two bathrooms, new big-ticket items so we can wait to replace for a few years), and items we new we could adjust in the future as needs and money arose (room for a second kitchen in the basement, renovating the existing attic into more living space). If we had purchased a home the first time we tried (5 years ago in Chicago) we would not have been as smart about our investment, as back then we just concentrated on finding something we could afford.

2. Neighborhood culture is key to happiness. We live on a block where you can still literally look out your front window and see a pile of bikes/scooters to let you know which yard all the kids are playing at that day. We have three 7-year-old girls, two 5-year-old boys, and two ten-year-old kids who all play together. we have only actually lived inside this home for a week and already our children are completely ingrained in the culture of the neighborhood.

3. Smaller isn’t necessarily bad. Our new home is about 2/3 the size of our last home. We had to be strategic about what possessions we kept, what was tossed and how we could create function in every square foot we possessed. It is still a work in progress in the kitchen, as our huge renovation project for that room (doubling in space by eliminating a bedroom, adding a staircase to the upstairs to recreate the bedroom that was lost, refinishing the attic) is still 18 months off. But the rest of the house is utilized to maximize happiness through organization.

Davey, the kids and I are happy. In another week or two I will feel put away, then we will start the long task of small-scale renovations, room by room. Don’t worry, I will share the process with all of you!

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What I Wish I Said Wednesday (Only Now on a Thursday)

I read a fantastic blog post today called “F*ck Yes Or No”, which asserts that in fledgling relationships we are wasting our time if the other person’s presence in our life doesn’t cause a spontaneous resounding “heck yeah!” to cross our lips. I love this idea, to skip the triteness of relational ambivalence and instead surround ourselves with people who elicit spontaneous fist bumps of joy.

I decided Tina and I had to be friends because her mother in law publicly proclaimed that she was an amazing woman – she felt blessed that her son married her. That statement made me feel like Tina could teach me something. The decision was made for me, really, within 5 minutes of a catalogue party at her house. The items for sale were jewelry. Even though I wear only a plain wedding band from Dave and a necklace from my father I bought a bracelet, as friends do at their new BFF’s party, especially when their BFF doesn’t know she has earned such a prestigious new official title.


Last Saturday night Dave and I were out on a double date with our best friends to watch another friend’s fantastic sci-fi synth band perform. The first time I spent any time with this couple (guitarist and his lovely wife)during their children’s birthday party their house was full to bursting with palpable love, delicious baking and filial bonding across generations. Talk about spontaneous fist bumps (in my mind, though, I am working on not scaring people away with my inability to follow social norms).

Our double date had a cameo appearance of the nicest Buffy the Vampire Slayer watcher I met at that party many months ago. Side bar, did Angel’s love for Buffy ruin anyone else’s expectations for love and honor in their adult life? I mean, why couldn’t they ever figure it out and reclaim their love? I was so ecstatic to run into this lovely lady again that I ran my inebriated butt to my husband and told him that the nicest girl was there.

His response, “You met her at a birthday party for children, you’ve spoken once.”


So? I met you once for mango margaritas and decided to marry you before our dinners were brought to the table. Do you really want to talk about this?

BOOM. That was the sound of me dropping the mic.

Buffy Gets it

Buffy Gets it

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Lovers Love and the Others Run Away

I avoided social media this week because I keep catching myself saying “that’s what it looks like when your parent dies of mental illness when you are 20”. Tragedy takes on new tinges when it hits this close to home. My face burns when I hear people wonder what it feels like to watch your husband stay in bed for 20 hours a day. What would happen if I answered, “it feels like your life’s happiness is being sucked through your belly button until eventually you learn how to pretend it isn’t happening”.  Love can no more stop a depressive episode than it can stop cancer from metastasizing.

This week, during a declared state of emergency in our city and with racial violence erupting miles away from where my beloved was raised, I separated myself from this world for a few days. I did this not because of powerlessness, nor because of feigned ignorance. No, I did this because I can’t bear to look in the face of children who lost their father to mental illness and search for similarities to my own children.

Love isn’t enough to end an illness and that terrifies me. Love IS enough to make sure medications are taken, appointments are kept and regimens are followed, but love will never be a cure. This week I have kissed my husband more than usual, looking in his eyes as I tell him I love him. Every time I look at him I see how hard he works to manage an illness that the world pretends can be cured with platitudes of perseverance. If only self-love and determination could cure HIV and impetigo as quickly as it cures depression and bipolar, then the world would be so beautiful!

This week has been traumatic – listening to the side conversations around the water cooler about selfish choices and leaving children behind leaves me cold. Every time I hear someone congratulate Robin William’s first wife for being smart enough to leave him before “it got too bad” my cheeks grow crimson and I walk away. I advocate and I give speeches; I find safe spaces and talk about the beauty of our life in the presence of a bipolar as a silent third partner – but never at work, of course never in the office.  How can these people possibly know that their triumphant rationalizations of trauma and loss are choking out my spirit?

It is after these moments with others that my anger bubbles. The reality that I am in love with someone with mental illness, not living with mental illness myself, knocks me back again. If it can hurt this bad to know that people think it wise for me to get going before the going gets rough, how must it feel for Dave and others living with an illness to know that the world advocates that the people who love them should leave them cold and alone before they have a chance to hurt them?

Please be kind. If you love someone who has a mental illness, sometimes being silent is a far superior alternative to trying to fix things. If you love someone who loves someone with mental illness, I am a strong advocate of the word always. Say I love you always, then stop talking. No caveats, no explanations. Just stop and let the world, their life and everything else progress as it may. The world can be a dark place and we could all use a little light, levity and love in our days.

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Finish Lines

I ran 4 miles yesterday in 46 minutes. that was slightly faster than a turtle trudging through peanut butter, sure, but I also didn’t stop and walk. I did it on a treadmill in an air-conditioned gym while reading “Everything I Needed to Know about Parenting I learned in Prison”. I’ve started and stopped almost as many parenting books as I have training plans for marathons. Somewhere in the middle I decide the authors of both can’t possibly understand what it means to be me, so I toss their plan aside for my own half-baked ideas, letting them wither on the vine. I still haven’t run a marathon, nor has my parenting research or skills left me feeling qualified to etch words of wisdom on a scenic photo to share on Facebook.

Twinkle is 7 and Ninja is 5. I have 11 more years until my oldest is out of the house, probably only four or so before my place as the holder of knowledge is challenged by hormones and peer pressure. I haven’t even started college funds yet and suddenly the inevitability of them running away from me to start their own lives, probably at a pace much faster than the 11 minute mile I pulled out last night, is creating a picture on our horizon I am not quite ready to see.

I need to remember my follow-through. I had it once, I can have it again. I am running again, slowly but with conviction. I am going to replace the books on parenting with hours of parenting with conviction. Perhaps I will finally jump my long run hurdle and run for more than 8 miles at a time, perhaps not. It’s not like racing towards finish lines of my choosing will keep the scary finish lines, the ones where growing up is involved, any farther away.


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Firmly Grounded

Our corn grew tassels this week, our gourds have become plentiful and our onions are so large their white tops are cresting above the soil. Our blueberry bushes are holding their own against the strangeness of this Michigan summer, while our flower gardens look like patches of wildness thrown between pavers instead of the cultivated landscape we envisioned. Our home is restful, peaceful in the midst of our life’s confusion.

Twinkle is back in medical treatment that is tiresome, but thankfully working. It takes a lot out of us, the shuffling and the smiling, the checking in with numerous doctors while recounting the years of trying to get this gorgeous child healthy. Two times a week now we spend in communion with science and medicine, watching as Twinkle grows stronger and healthier in front of our eyes. Tiresome and trying though it may be, watching it work, and work well, gives a power to this leg of our journey I hadn’t seen coming. This year, 2014, will not be the year childhood illness defeats our spirit – it is the year we watch miracles in the form of a patient seven-year-old who is so much better at taking everything in stride than I ever could be.

Other things have cropped into our lives, illness, injury, death and mourning have all sneaked into our path this summer. Job changes, career questions, quarter life crisis moments that are coming a bit later than expected, all things trying to crowd out the good, to test our resolve.

Davey and I, we watch the seasons change through the heights of our garden and through the brilliance of our children. I test the strength and the permanence of our love for each other by jumping, kicking and screaming at the unfairness of the world, projected by a megaphone aimed squarely and unfairly at his face. Thankfully this magically worked as a thickening agent, using projection as a coping mechanism, and added layers of cement to our already rock solid foundation instead of cracking the ground beneath our feet.

I am at a loss for words lately, at how our life can still feel so completely perfect, while we watch so many sharks circling. How can one look at my children still swell my throat, fill my eyes and make a fountain of gratitude erupt from my mouth? I am grateful, grateful that inside me rests the ability to see good, to appreciate love and feel it in my veins, and that this ability is much stronger than fear.

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Happy 7th Birthday Twinkle Toes

Dearest Twinkle Toes,

Our lilies started blooming this week. It seems fitting that the Black Eyed Susans are starting to peek their gorgeous faces out of their sacred leaf enclosures, too. Our fiery flowers, the ones so bright and powerful as they sweep around the parameter of our yard, are beckoning to passerby to recognize the sizzle and fire that lives in our dwelling. Those flowers, they are the embodiment of you, a firecracker of a girl so full of energy it amazes me that you only weigh 41 pounds. How that much amazingness fits snugly into your personhood is astounding. It is your birthday week and the earth took notice, turned on its powers of persuasion and had the most Twinkle-like flowers cascade their brilliance to announce the arrival of your seventh birthday.

This year was full of transitions, you saw the end of attending public school, the end of being bullied (forever, I promise, I will carry a sword into battle if anyone ever tries to hurt you again), and the end of wondering who you needed to become in order to be seen as enough. In the midst of so much ending it was also the most fabulous state of beginnings, too. It was the beginning of the time when your worth oozed out of every pore, seeped through every word and leapt from every newly discovered dance step. Finding a school and social circle where you were loved as you are gave you the freedom to blossom, and in that blossoming you have become more acutely aware of how amazing you are.

I never knew it was possible to genuinely enjoy hanging out with your kids. Sounds silly, but when I thought about being a mom I always pictured the way I would comfort you, or tuck you in, or feel when you won a spelling bee or were sworn in to a political office. Now that you are here, fully rounding into a person and becoming yourself, I genuinely crave your time and attention as much as you crave mine and daddy’s. I love when you read me stories, especially when you ask me if you “emote enough” to denote the characters in the story line. I look forward to when you wake up in the morning, still wiping the sleep from your eyes, dragging your teddy bear behind you, to crawl into bed with me and discuss our plans for the day. Your jokes have crossed the line into being actually funny 10% of the time, a marked improvement that makes me want to hear you always just so I don’t miss the one or two that really hit the mark.

We took you on vacation last week, somewhere new for all four of us, Niagara Falls. As we watched this wonder of the natural world together you were completely transfixed by the moment. Your eyes floated with possibilities, with questions of significance that just two months ago would have never occurred to you. I saw your world triple in size in that moment, saw the intensity of the water, the division of country, the language barriers, the art of the selfie taken by hundreds of people at once, all converge into your mind as you meandered with your hand in mine. My luck in that moment, being the one to hold your hand and guide you through this experience, was so overwhelming.

You drank in the scene of the falls, processing everything, reported back the exactly correct science behind the mist, the water cycle and the miracle of humidity, then you conjectured about natural barriers and boundaries between countries. Sometimes I pretend I don’t know the answer to your questions because your reasoning is so brilliantly perfect, so beyond the realm of my comprehension, that just listening to you work things out fills my soul with fire and reminds me three thousand times over that you give life to everything you touch, every moment you partake in and every person with whom you interact.

You are strong, you are smart, you are precious and you are perfect. I am so lucky to be your mom. Seven years ago today I had every intention of becoming the best Mom ever. I fail all the time. Thankfully you pretend not to notice, and you have spent the last seven years always being the best little Twinkle Toes I could have ever asked to raise.

I cherish you – every hair on your head, every silly question you ask and every moment of your life – I cherish you. Being your mom is always, always the best.

Love you to the moon and back,



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Pokemon birthday parties, end of year celebrations and so many Popsicle have littered the landscape of our lives lately. Overtime in the office has been plentiful for the first time in forever, which would usually cause me to groan, but on this day causes me to cheer. The extra money is financing an impromptu trip to Niagara falls this weekend. The planner in me, the one with the lists and the excel spreadsheets to curb social anxiety and stress, is being lured off a bridge by the parts of me ready to have campfires and show my children the biggest waterfall they can imagine. Plus, I have never been there myself, and living a short three-hour drive away makes that statement seem sort of sinful, if I believed in sin at least.

Summertime posting has been tough for me. We have a garden full of tomatoes, baby pumpkins, cucumbers, peppers, corn stalks and squash. I send the kids outside for kale to add to their smoothies in the morning, so the garden feels a little less Little House and a little more Suburban Hipster, but still good for the soul. Our blueberry bushes are each a single-stick and a hopeful flag of leafs after two months of careful twice daily watering. We have vegetables, though, and it feels like our family goal of ground to table eating is real now. Explaining that fertilizer is poop, then immediately picking food and eating it that night was a real breakthrough for Ninja, though, and he now really understands the importance of not eating food at the fruit stand before we take it home and clean it.

Twinkle wants a Dancing Bunnikins themed birthday party, which is a real stretch considering Dancing Bunnikins are a character crew that she made up herself. We will be building bunnies out of fruit, toothpicks, marshmallows and candy. We will play pin the cotton tail on the bunny and I will teach the children how to dance the bunny hop. Bunnikins are bunnies made of sugary treats that have human tendencies that also save the world, you see, so I so have a little something with which to work.

Here are the Pokémon cakes from Ninja’s party… a month later but still valid, right? He wanted his theme to be Pokemon playing LEGO under the sea – I tried to comply.

You can tell by the staging of this picture, the cleanliness of my table and the perfect lighting, that I am totally a perfectionist lifestyle blogger

You can tell by the staging of this picture, the cleanliness of my table and the perfect lighting, that I am totally a perfectionist lifestyle blogger




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My house smells of strawberries and suntan lotion. Our garden has the most beautiful, tiny tomatoes and peppers, promising deliciously silent lessons on the benefits of work and delayed reward. Our lettuce, kale and spinach plants are fantastic. Pumpkin and gourd vines are stretching towards the sun, reaching further into our tiny suburban plot of land each morning. Every day, adorned in my business clothes, I throw my briefcase in the car and take a walk around the house with the kids to survey our potential harvest before I drive off to work.

We spent the chilly morning hours of Saturday picking sugar peas and strawberries at an organic farm, then filled our kitchen with friends and fruit and made 17 jars of strawberry syrup for ice cream sundaes and 44 jars of jam. The second grader that lives inside my heart and wishes I was on the Oregon Trail (except for the dysentery, no one wants the dysentery) feels so at peace right now.

Like every little girl in the 80’s with a TV, I thought being a pioneer girl was the best, I knew Laura was the cooler sister and I knew that when I was a mom I could use Ma Ingles as inspiration. I wanted to be the mom who knew how to make cheese and jam, who cultured yeast in a jar for bread baking and had a spider pan. She could stop a wagon, look around and BAM, there was real food and merriment and music. When they settled down all it took was her little China Doll to be placed on a shelf for her to feel settled, perhaps a willow bough broom, and she would get to work making everything for her family.

Having my kids jump in to pick produce this weekend, having the eldest cut the strawberries around the table with the rest of us, watching the younger ones not really know what was going on but still want to taste test everything at every step of the way, it felt like I was honoring the eight-year-old me that always thought that doing things the hard way was far more fun than going to the grocery store.

I am always going to be the mom that has to go to the office 45 hours a week. I am always going to be the mom that has better intentions than I do actions – more plans than I do hours in the day. But some days, when my kitchen is filled with laughter, strawberries and covert lessons on taking the hard way to get better results, I feel like the other parts of me wash away and the mom that I want to be remembered as gets to take center stage for a few moments. I really like Saturdays in June.

Melissa K. Norris' recipe and instructions were used for our day of jam making. This is her collage and clicking on it will take you to the recipe we used!

Melissa K. Norris’ recipe and instructions were used for our day of jam making. This is her image and clicking on it will take you to the recipe we used!

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Happy 5th Birthday Ninja Boy

Dear Ninja Boy,

On the day you were born the universe whispered that the journey your Daddy and I started with a leap of faith and a first date five years, four months and ten days before had gained its final player. On the day you were born my heart rested, knowing that my body, bruised and beaten from the journey to bring us all together, earned a victory lap. On the day you were born we convened our first team huddle on my hospital bed, your Daddy and I vowing that the four of us were going to be the greatest team in the history of the world, first in loving unconditionally and without end.

You had an amazing year little one.Your gymnastics coach sees promise in your abilities. You can do basic tumbling and complete flips on the rings and bars already. Sometimes you scream out, “watch what I can do!” then leap off a piece of furniture, do a flip then jump back up to your feet. Besides the nausea induced trauma it causes me and the fear of furniture ripping it sends through your Dad it is amazing to watch your progress!

Your greatest love right now is Gabbi. You two plan to marry as soon as you graduate kindergarten. You sneak kisses to each other whenever you think you aren’t being watched. Sorry to tell you this but we see everything; the innocence of your love is infectious, filling everyone with nostalgia for a time when spending the rest of your life with someone was as simple as being empathetic, remembering your manners and sneaking smooches under the swings. The bond that forms in the years of early friendship is one you will remember for a lifetime. You are lucky that this bond is with someone so plucky, kind and special.

This month also marks your last year in public school. Next year you will join your sister at the Waldorf School, a transition you look forward to with such glee. I am more excited than nostalgic for this change, which surprises me. Even though you are my last baby, the last child I will usher through the passage from nursery school to full-time school, I see that this transition is one I can watch with a wink and a wave instead of a push and a hope. You are ready and we both know it.

Your favorite thing to do this year is to have morning snuggle time, where we set the alarm for 15 minutes before we have to wake up, then all pile into the bed together to hug and talk about our plans for the day before we get moving. I love that you still love this because it means the world to me, too. You also love family game night, which we are lucky enough to do at least one or two times a week. You are a master gardener, an excellent weed puller and a fantastically good sport during family activities. How in the world I was lucky enough to have you, a child with a heart full of love, hands ready for work and a spirit full of sunshine? I could not ask for better inspiration to be a better person each day than to be the sort of Mom you deserve.

You have a personality I understand and relate to on so many levels. You are so kind to other people you sometimes hurt yourself in the process of protecting other people’s feelings. You are always willing to put the needs of the universe ahead of yourself, and you rarely ask for things unless you really need them. You feel that the greatest gift of all is spending time with people you love, and giving love freely without expectation of return.

On the day you were born I realized that I was not only the luckiest Mom in the universe because both you and your sister made it here, alive and well, to be a part of our family, but because I was honored with the opportunity to watch you grow. Your heart is big enough to conquer the universe, and all I want to do is protect it from injury.

You will always be my little boy, and I will always love you. Never forget that on the day you were born your Daddy and I had our love grow so much it filled the whole universe, poking holes into the sky. You can still see them at night, twinkling and letting the sky shine through in the form of stars. Our love broke the universe for you, and now little aliens are feeling love waves, too, because one planet just isn’t enough atmosphere to contain this much feeling.

The world is a better place because you are in it – thank you for being my son.




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Bee-Bop Grocery Shop

I was walking slowly through the fruit market on Saturday, taking time to smell the produce, dreaming up recipes and luxuriating in my 85 minutes of me time disguised as errand-running. I was wearing a simple sun dress, one that has been in the summer rotation for eight years and shows it, pairing the dress with equally worn-out sandals and a face free from make-up. I arrived at 9:30am, early enough to beat the crowds on normal weekends, but just in time for the rush of a holiday weekend crowd. Having lost my sense of vanity around 2010, the birth of my second child having signaled the universe’s orchestra to play Taps as I laid down all attempts at looking appropriate when leaving the home, I was OK with my lackluster appearance in the crowd.

As I was sniffing around the fresh herbs I started determining our menu on the spot, pocketing my carefully planned grocery list in favor of living dangerously. A modern song came on over the speakers and I started humming along. Without really realizing it  the humming intensified and I started singing quietly. I started to feel less old and weird than usual — I knew a song the youths of today know! The words make sense and I know them!

Then I realized something critically important, I was singing along to music in a grocery store. I had become the unkempt middle-aged woman who bobs her head while singing songs considered appropriate enough for public consumption through a loud-speaker at a local market. I am the person I would look upon and feel sorry for when I was younger. Not only that, but the modern song I was jamming to? It was at least 7 years old because I remember jamming to it while pregnant with Twinkle.

Sometimes the passage of time is sneaky and biting, other times you look up and realize that the greatest fears of your youth, the person that personified failure and old age in your thirteen-year-old eyes, might have actually been having a rocking good Saturday morning while feeling happier and more self-assured than your angst-ridden teenage soul could imagine. Or perhaps she was just enjoying the relative silence and anonymity sweeping through the apple aisle while wearing a shapeless frock at the crowded fruit market afforded her on a perfectly beautiful Saturday morning.

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