A PERFECT WORLD

In case you haven't been conscious or in your right mind the world is a pretty messed up place and it doesn't seem to be getting any better. We have war, poverty, violence, disease, hunger, billions of gallons of BP oil polluting our water and of course the Desperate Housewives of Atlanta.
Could it really get any worse?
I have found myself retreating to my" happy place" more frequently than I watch the news these days. After many nights lying awake wondering what would be considered a "happy world", I have decided that I had to come up with my own solution to make my own happy world. Luckily for me with the help of my good friend, Frank the Tank, we came up with the solution the other night over a drink….or three…on what would make up the happiest place on earth: LEAH LAND.
My philosophy is simple I tell him;" Build it and they will come". If I create the happy world for myself then others will follow and then hopefully all the other ugly senseless stuff we see in the news would dissipate. It may seem long winded but I have no doubt that you will be asking to come over after reading this-- After all, who wouldn'twant to live in LEAH LAND?
Ahem…
In my perfect world.....or rather….in LEAH LAND….

 All people would understand and appreciate "Leah Humor". Therefore, everyone would genuinely think that I am as funny as I think I am.

You could not be held accountable or punished for something that you did as child that your parents found out about 15 years later.
Best friends, the loves of your life, parents, cute delivery guys and your pets would never go away, get sick, mistreat you or abandon you. All fake friends, imposters, AT&T, Postal Workers, DMV workers, the person who almost killed me on the 805 freeway (aka the worst driver in the world) and creepy stalker guy at the gym WOULD go away.
College guidance counselors would not promise you: "Why sure I will sign you off on taking that class so you can graduate, just come back on Monday" and then have a massive heart attack over the weekend…and not make it.
A girl would never unknowingly have to endure catcalls, while hiking up the entire 200+ stairs at college, in a sundress, with the back of her dress caught up in her backpack
When trying to get out of yet another parking ticket, you wouldn't make the parking police SO mad that they give you a $125 J-walking ticket (+ court handling fee) in addition to the parking ticket.
In public areas you would NEVER pass out/faint, have an insane allergic reaction that ambulance workers have to administer the Sweet Jesus Paddles, walk into glass walls thought to be open entries, trip, fall or accidently flash someone in public on the way down to the ground as innocent bystanders gasped in horror.
You would never have to go to Postal Court to have mail delivery reinstated because your 18 year-old, deaf, arthritic, no hair on his tail, Golden Retriever was dubbed "a menace to society".
You would never walk into a quiet room and say: "Hola!...Geez Debbie Downers… who died??" and someone actually did.
If you got in a car accident and unfortunately yelled at the top of your lungs at the person that hit you "don't you play stupid with me" that person wouldn't be (coincidentally) really deaf.
All texts would be understood, never sent to the wrong person and loved by all recipients thanks to the "Texting under the Influence Clause".
Any misfortunate incidents of "acting out" at the company holiday party would not result in termination reprimand or gossip upon return to work on Monday.
Google maps, MapQuest and GPS systems would all have an "avoid ghetto" option
If something really, really bad was going to happen in your life you would be cued by background music
You would never sit through an entire dinner meeting, smiling ear-to-ear, not knowing (or having anyone tell you) that you had food stuck in your teeth and food on your face.
Everybody would adopt "Leah Time" and arrive to their destination whenever they are done being distracted by shiny things, puppies and rainbows.
Every drink would come with a Koozie and an umbrella.
We'd get paid lots of money for the time we spend preparing work, commuting to work, talking about work, and work functions that are conveniently scheduled on our "free time".
Cupid would have better aim and would take timing into consideration.
Cell phones would NEVER be lost, dropped in a beer at a Padres Game, run over by your car, left in the back of a taxi, or stolen by someone apparently with family in Japan.
Impulsive spending habits and retail therapy would be rewarded when it came time to do your taxes.
All sporting equipment would be hot pink-including but not limited to: rackets, softball gloves, bats, footballs and kick balls.
Strawberry Ice Cream and a copious amount of Whip Cream can solve all problems. Therefore it would be required at EVERY political gathering, POW WOW; debate etc… and would be creatively integrated into the entire experience.
Wardrobe malfunctions would be limited to the Superbowl only. They would never re-surface in the form of your tagged Facebook pictures.
I would dance as well as I think I can dance after a few drinks-- all the time.
DVR "skip forward" option would land in the exact spot you want it to reach each and every time.
No pedestrian or gardener would ever step near my moving car again.
When pulled over for breaking the law instead of having to take 30 minutes out of your day to tap dance, cry, or use your female batting of the eyelashes tactic-- the cop would instead give you a fist bump and tell you he was terribly sorry for inconveniencing you.
Macaroni and Cheese would be served at every meal with the biggest portion going to me.
There would be no lack of amazing outfits paired with incredible shoes as money would be no object.
If you ever have your 15 minutes of fame on a game show you will know when you actually won instead of the camera staring down at you for a disgustingly awkward amount of time as your friends and family watched nationwide.

My dog Scout would find her voice and it would sound like a female version of Scooby Doo's voice (..ruh-row!)

You would never leave your house looking amazing and see no one of importance. In turn, you would never run into anyone of importance (most importantly any ex-significant other) when you have never looked worse than you did at the exact moment they say…"Leah??" but what they really mean is "DANG what the heck happened to YOU?"
Unfortunately the world is not a perfect place. Most likely it will never be the place I hope it to be. With the implementation of LEAH LAND I know that at least you can come with me and we could find refuge, even if for a short time, that would be rid of oil spills, war and reality TV. So don't mind me if I don't seem to want to participate in the chaos from time-to-time. This way you know where to find me—I will be dancing in the little corner of the world I have created with a full belly of macaroni & cheese, my umbrella drink snug in my Koozie and endless good times on the horizon.
xoxo,
lms

The reinvention of Leah Marie Sadowski

I have never wanted to be me. Not for a split second. Not that living the glamorous life of a child from Minnesota isn't something that we all wouldn't have bragging rights to, but I have always had this sense that there was something that was missing. This isn't something I just came up with on the spur of a moment. On the contrary; the reinvention of Leah is an underground, progressive movement that has been around since the beginning.
I suppose the first sign of sickness was when I no longer wanted to be called by my name. Not the change from Leeeeeah to Leaaaaah but the change from Leah to Maria (make sure to roll a sufficient amount of 'R's' when pronouncing Marrrrrria). I was convinced that I was someone's lost Mexican child because I liked Taco Night so much. My people would come for me and we would eat Tacos every night and have a piñata for the dessert hour. It was all just a waiting game.
"Leah come over here and grate the cheese for the Tacos" my Mom would instruct.
Nothing; I would budge for nothing other than my Hispanic name.
"Maria come over here and grate the cheese…"my Mom would say with an ever slight tinge of disgust in her voice.
My eyes would light up. She was obviously in tune with my apparent Hispanic Heritage, I would think to myself.
Mom-0, Maria-1.
"Well a little too soft but overall I give it a B+!"
"Leah Marie Sadowski you grate that cheese and you grate it…NOWWWWW…"
Well, well, well. She could at least call me Leah MARIA. I imagine to myself that when my Mama and Papa came on the mule (that coincidently would look like Eeyore) to pick me up they would be so happy that I was so in tune with my heritage. They would then chastise my Minnesota family for not giving me the freedom to express my inner-self and for imposing slave labor cheese-grating on their poor lost chica. I wore my traditional Spanish dress every single day one summer just in case they showed up earlier than expected. It's so weird that they never did.

I gave up on my family in Mexico as I grew older. There were so many other possibilities of who I was and where I came from that could not be overlooked. It was a fortunate turn of events otherwise I would have never come to the conclusion that I was separated from my African Tribe. They knew about me, I decided, they just couldn't get to me yet. Why else would I be the only child out of four children in the family that had an African American Cabbage Patch Kid? Think about it. It only makes sense. My Minnesota family just wanted for me to feel comfortable with my heritage and the transition back to my tribe…whenever that was going to happen. I still blame my Minnesota family for moving to the suburbs during my high school years. They obviously threw my tribe off the trail.


High school years were sprinkled with a variety of reinventions: everything from the actress Leah whose name was none other than Venus Lopez to the days of singing into my hair brush as the amazing Mandy Lauper. You name it I did it.
I even had a vision that my calling was to be the next Pinky Tuscadaro—enter the moped era.

I imagined myself as an outlaw of some sort on my moped that cost a whopping 25 cents to fill. I would race circles around the high school yelling at everyone to save themselves. All dreams were tragically shattered when my Dad imposed the "bright yellow, open-faced helmet with white racing stripe" law. As an exceptionally short teenager I met and knew the bullies pretty well. Chrissy Zanabowski once offered up a knuckle sandwich for my homework and the yellow helmet; in return I had to offer up arms and teeth. Luckily for the open faced helmet I could take a couple of chomps out her arm while she swung me around the parking lot by my chin strap. Not until that exact moment did I understand the importance of an open-faced crash helmet.

I never quit chasing the idle dreams of reinvention of Leah the Great or finding out the reason why I've been told that I am a "dog of my own trot".

I moved across the country with $100 dollars, a lot of ramen noodles and the hopes of a better life. I posed as an athlete, a Game Show Contestant and an ESPN Dog Trainer although I've never owned a dog that knew how to fetch. I even passed myself off as a college graduate that could do algebra. Boy did I fool them. Who knows what the next reinvention could be—I am actually leaving this next one up to the reinvention Gods. Apparently my "gut feelings" have not been as intuitive as I had hoped. The ironic part is that my Minnesota family still seems to claim me as one of their own. Looking back I think they deserve a medal of some sort for not killing me. Leah was a nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to live there. Through all the trials and tribulations I thank my dear parents for the exceptional Taco Nights, the African American Cabbage Patch Kid and of course for imposed crash-helmet laws. I will still love them as my own—even when my tribe comes a knocking.

xoxo

lms

Monkey Business

Life is funny sometimes. Not funny "Ha-Ha" but rather more like the ironic way that things are played out. It's "funny" how life just has a way of turning you upside down and shaking you by your ankles until you scream "Uncle!". You may not realize that you behave a certain way in life but sometimes it takes the likes of a couple of cocktails and girlfriend gab-fest to really put things in perspective. That, fortunately, was the case with my most recent life altering event which we will label as the "Trouble in Paradise" Chapter of Leah Marie Sadowski. My good friend "Babs" just finished listened to me drone on and on about the woes of my troubled relationship until she could take no more.

"You know what your problem is Leah....?"

 Never a good interlude to anything. "You are just like a monkey" Seriously? All right, I am game....

"How so Babs??" I say as I am literally holding my breath. Do I smell offensive? Was she referring to my dance moves? Is she making reference to my tendency to scratch my head and make screeching noises when I work on the computer?

"When it comes to relationships you swing from branch to branch like a monkey never letting go....relationship to relationship...never stopping."

"I beg to differ. I never...." I am quickly interrupted by her further arguing her case.

"When is the last time you were without a boyfriend?" she stares right into my eyes waiting for an answer. This girl is not budging until she gets an answer.

"Ummmm...well I will say 4th grade. Oh wait a minute..." I stare into space like I am going to find the answer there "I forgot about Johnny Jonkowski....make that 3rd grade!" I smile smugly like I just delivered the million dollar answer.

"You have got to be kidding me..."

"Oh you think I should count Patrick Parsinsky in kindergarten? We did actually get married behind the church during recess until Sister Mary Ancient put an end to that...."

"That's ridiculous..."

"No it was beautiful. I was a spring bride. My bridal party threw Cheerios. When it was over he punched me in the arm harder than I have ever been punched; magical" I drone on apparently lost in the moment. I should really look up Patrick, I think to myself, we really did make a good couple back then.

"No that is ridiculous that you have never been without a boyfriend. Just like a monkey..never touch the ground just swing one to the other. When are you going to take time for yourself?"

I look at her with bewilderment. What in the world is she talking about? Myself? Monkey? Swinging? Me? Single?? It's like she just told me the world was round. Just---can't----compute.....A really long silence passed, I played a couple of responses back in my head that just didn't seem to work out and then I changed the subject. Unfortunately the prophetic words of The Great Babs stuck with me until finally I could take no more and called up my friend "Frank the Tank"

"Hey Frankie it's Leaaaaaah....Leaaaaaaah" I find it completely necessary to sing Outkast "Hey Yeah" but with my name every time I call Frankie. It really is a joke that never gets old by my standards.

"Hey you--what's shaking in the land of Leaaaaaaahhhhh?" That's why I love Frankie; always there to continue on the Outkast Tradtion.

"Oh not much you know a little bit of this, little bit of that...DO YOU THINK I AM INDEPENDENT?" My every intention was to start out slow and build up to the topic. You know, interject it casually. Needless to say things did not go as planned.

"Independent? Yeah sure, you work, you have money..well until you spend your last nickle on shopping."

"I am!" I let him sell me on the idea. Stroke that ego Frankie, stroke that ego.

"You pay your own bills, you are very self-sufficient..."

I interrupt him not liking the direction of the bullet point list."But what about relationships? You know boyfriend stuff? Do you think I could be without a boyfriend?" 

"Absolutely not."

"What? I think I lost you there for a minute Frankie. You must be in a bad area for cell coverage."

"No" he states firmly.

"No? Whatta ya mean 'no'?" I am baffled. How could he have executed that answer so quickly and with conviction?

"I mean you are like Jerry Maguire. You know the part in the movie where they say: "Jerrrrry can never be alone" he says in his broadcaster voice. Did he just compare me to Jerry Maguire? I never did like Frank the Tank much, I think to myself. He is so self absorbed. Who does he think he is? "Like The Runaway Bride and Elizabeth Taylor all wrapped into one. Very long committing relationships you just run to the next when you are done."

Wow. Runaway Bride AND Elizabeth Taylor. Frank the Tank has officially been demoted to the Casual Friend List. He soooo doesn't know me.

"Oh wait a minute...not Elizabeth Taylor...." he says. Sweet he realized who he was talking to and has seen the light. "Zsa Zsa Gabor! That lady is feisty! You know..."

Click. I hang up abruptly and ignore the automatic call backs saying that he must have "dropped the call". How did I get here? Does everyone feel this way about me? Is that why I haven't been successful? Where in the world did I go wrong?
I have a lot of time to think about this--actually since yesterday when I experienced my most recent desertion by "the one for me".  So I am here--somewhere I don't want to be--alone and extremely down on love. No swinging branch to branch; alone.There were bumps in the road in this relationship and avoidable mishaps that I am going to have to come to terms with in the future. I am hoping and praying that the saying "unlucky in love, lucky in cards" will ring true and I can make my fortune as a traveling Go-Fisher around the world as poker has never been my forte. I am sure that there is some silver lining in this rain cloud although I haven't quite found it yet. I sit and run the scenarios around and around in my head and have some nagging questions left:
If finding the one you love is "fate" what happens if you mess up? Isn't the whole concept behind fate that you are destined for that reality? Most importantly....if you wait too long can you miss your fate?
Get back to me on that.  I will be around all day.  You can find me making my next million dancing around like a monkey with a deck of cards at the local nursing home. Those retirees ain't got nothing on me.
xoxo
lms

Oh no you didn't.....

It has come to my attention lately that it is the end of the world as we know it. Customer service around the world is nearing extinction. In fact after getting off the phone with the cable company--I won't name any names---(AT&T!*) it is evident to me that the two most common elements in the world are Hydrogen and Stupidity.
After my one hour conversation with who I will refer to as "Betty" my faith in mankind is faltering. You see, Betty is not really a person per say, Betty is an automated service. My time with Betty has grown in the last few weeks. The time that they disconnected my service at my house and then re-hooked it up at my house that I haven't lived at in a few years was pretty memorable. Who could forget the time that they replaced my satellite TV with only infomercial channels? Mine and my dogs wardrobe has never been so "Snuggly" after that "services mishap". The icing on the cake came today on a particularly feisty work day when all life lines depend on the Internet and mine was no where to be found.
Oh we have had some good times Betty and I; we laughed, we cried we down right bonded. And let me tell you we had some great conversations about things that I didn't even know anything about!

"Welcome to "AT&T". Please say 'English' or 'Spanish' to continue."
"ENNNGLISH"

Please let us transfer you to that department....
(wait for it...)

"ni gan moo goo gai ma long duck song" "ummm...YOU SPEAK ENGLISH?" I shout into the phone because they are foreign therefore they are hard of hearing too.
"ni gan moo goo gai ma long duck song"
"I am not sure but I am pretty sure that phrase is on that silk-screen shirt I just bought. Lemmee see....."
Seriously?
The fact that I just wasted 20 minutes out of my life to finally get to a live speaking person is beyond comprehension. Lost precious moments I could have been spending with Betty is quite discerning.
I call back.
"Welcome to 'AT&T' Please say 'English' or 'Spanish' to continue."
This time I try my English accent. Betty loves an English Accent.
"ENNNGLESHHH" "How can I help you? You can say simple phrases like "Pay My Bill" or "Technical Difficulties"..." Betty drones on.
None off these cover my questions. I panic.
"You turned off my #$?!#$! service again for no rhyme or reason!"
"I think you said: 'sign up for the NFL Season? Say Yes or No"
"NOOOOO! Listen to meeee!"
"Did you say GOAL TV?"


I look at my watch--another 20 minutes that I can NEVER get back out the window.
Curses Betty! One last shot.
I am a college graduate therefore I am smarter than Betty.

"Welcome to "AT&T". Please say 'English' or 'Spanish' to continue."
I mix it up this time with a southern drawl, nice and slow just like my girl Betty.
"Annnnglesh"
Before Betty even has a chance to give me options I start pushing numbers. Mostly 'zero' because that is the International Number for "HELP!"
Silence
Betty comes back on the line, "Thank you for your business. We are sorry to see you go but please visit us again in the future for competitive pricing and the new U-Verse Technology!"
What? Did we break up Betty??
"Oh for crap's sake!" I yell into the phone.
"U-Verse Rates? Please hold while I transfer your call..."

Oh sweet Jesus...

Fine Print:
***For legal purposes and the hopes that my internet has now been fixed please note a phrase my lawyer recommended...(OK Law & Order):
"Although inspired in part by a true incident, the following story is fictional and does not depict any actual person or event."

For my next act....

Growing up my parents didn't love me enough.
OK they did love me enough but they clearly did not help cure my disease of: 'Me-need-lots-o-attention-onia". Their lack of being able to provide me around-the- clock care...err... attention... forced me into a life of entertainment. I was determined to become someone that people would stand up and take notice of--right behind two sisters, a brother, and family pets.

"For my next act I will be balancing a Fisher Price barnyard animal on my head while standing on one foot and singing Kenny Rogers...."

I said it: Kenny Rogers. An absolute inspiration.

Like any entertainer, one does have to know "when to fold them" and this unfortunately was something I never fully learned how to execute appropriately according to my father:

"You know what your problem is?"

(wait for it....)

You just don't know how to stop while you are ahead..."

I would stare blankly at him while standing in Wonder Woman Underoos, pink boa and pigtails. Whatever did he mean?

My parents cannot be punished for not trying. They provided me with lots of material that I used over and over again like a washed-up comic.

"Hey Missssssster!" I would yell at innocent bystanders at the mall, grocery store, or wherever tickled my fancy. My Mom close at hand towing four young children around.

All I needed was a head turn from the stranger. Some acknowledgement.

They wouldn't even have to utter a word.

"Do YOUUUU" I would point directly at the stranger doing my best voice over of a game show host while talking into my microphone (a.k.a. thumb) "wanna know where my blond hair comes from?" I would pretend like I was calling them down--they were now the next contestant on the Leah Show.

The innocent bystander would glance at my brunette-laden family and then turn their eyes back to me not sure if they were on Candid Camera or if I was just a short bus passenger.
"Misssster....!" I would say as if he should already know the answer "my blond hair is from the Milk Man!"
Their laughter would only be drowned out by my own knee slapping and hyena-like laugh.
I was and am the funniest person I know. Just ask me.

My mom would usually whisper a polite apology as she shuffled us away.
Looking back maybe I wouldn't have used the joke so much had I known that my mom was stepping out on my dad. Wise guru Jason Jankowski was kind enough to tell me what it actually meant at age 13 over a mean game of Stratego in the backyard playhouse.

I showed him.

I defended my Mom's honor while executing the best half-Nelson ever seen and screaming: "My mom is soooo a virgin! Take it back!"

As I got older my obsession with my so called 15 Minutes of Fame grew out of control. Nothing could suppress my attention appetite. After strategic planning and lots of reality and game show television watching I figured the only way to the top was national television. That's right----game shows.

I owe my first taste of the good life from my good friend Erica Everly. Erica Everly told me about the auditions for a game show. After about a minute of thinking it over Erica and I were LA bound. The audition consisted of a table of producers--who I will call Peter, Paul and Mary--a video camera and a microphone.

A real microphone may I add.

"Ms. Sad-a-wa-wa-owski..."

"Um...my fans call me Cherista"

"Really? They...what? Wait a minute..."

"Well actually no, but I would imagine if I had fans that's what they would call me"

"Well Ms...Cherista...um...Sad-a w-wa-owski... can you please describe to us the most embarrassing or funny moment in your life?"

I take a big swig of lemon water and pull up a stool.

"How much time do you folks have..?"
I don't think I am bragging per say when I say that Peter, Paul and Mary called me before I even got home. Maybe they were scared that I would take a shot at a second audition.

Whatever I did--it worked. My big day came when they aired Cherista's debut. I think the entire nation was notified off my air times. My Minnesotan parents even had a little shindig back home to celebrate my debut. For some unbeknownst reason it occurred to my father only when the guests were arriving to THEN ask me if he should be worried.

"Heyyy ya sport. We're just fixin to watch your show right now got the VHS tape loaded up. Yah-your Godparents drove up from down south too.... Sooo...." his voice gets a bit lower, almost a whisper "tell me right now if you did anything to embarrass the family..."
"Ummm...I was on a game show Dad.......case and point"

"Oh sweet Jesus..."

Luckily through modern technology and an apparent extensive editing of the program I am still in the family tree. It was a little touch-and-go there for a minute when I won and apparently didn't know I won...but nothing a little over-acting couldn't fix. I still don't understand why they cut the cartwheel but I suppose that's how it goes in showbiz.

The best part of having "me-needs-lot-o-attention-onia" is the ability to infect others with the disease as well. If done correctly I have been know to infect a whole room. This was never more evident than the bizarre series of events that landed me at a party in EAST LA (to residents Eeeeast Los).
Funny. I always thought they over exaggerated the roughness of this part of town or even the ethnicity. After a closer look into the situation I can safely say that I was..and probably am still.... the only blond haired, blue eyed, pink velour running jump suit attendee to parties in this neighborhood.

And while I am on the subject never go into a party such as this and utter the phrase: "what's up beotch*z??".

Especially with a valley girl accent.

Lesson learned.

After my grand entrance (and the long terrifying silence) I made it my mission to make these people like me.

I HATE when people don't like me.

Everybody was going to join the Cherista Train if it was the last thing that I was going to do. My significant other who I was with did not find the escapade amusing at all.
"I am seriously not messing around Leah...do NOT step out of line. They DO not and WILL not understand Leah Humor..."

"It's Cherista tonight..."
"Oh God...please nooooo..."

"Relaxxxxx....have an Old English 40." I dig my hand in the garbage can of ice "Oh look they have a brown paper baaaag you can wrap around it...!"
Half way through his 40 oz of malt liquor and feeling no pain a very nice girl ran into the house to announce my debut to the party..and little did she know my significant other.

"Some crazy white girl is outside singing La Bamba with the band and playing the electrical guitar!!"

You know when you can to-the-minute pinpoint a time when someone just absolutely starts to loathe you?

"Blond hair, blue eyes?" he says to the girl as the crowds rush past to see.

"Yeah--you know that crazy white girl??"

"Nope. Never seen here before.."

Well I am not one to brag (clearly) but I will say that I am a recognized figure in this part of town now. I am familia from what I have been told. Whatever the case thank God I know Spanish, have a love for tequila and lots of Menudo songs or I wouldn't be telling the story with such fond memory.

I suppose for the most part my disease has mellowed a little...possibly I am in some sort of remission. No more phone cranking the parents late at night to look cool in front of my friends. I have only auditioned for one other game show. Apparently telling them that you collect unicorns doesn't land you on stage these days. I unfortunately don't have any Wonder Woman Underoos (yet) but the quest for laughter and applause is still in my blood.
I think possibly a reality show could be my ticket but the chances of being banned from the Family Tribe are just to great. In the mean time I will think of my next plan of attack and hope you are there for my next act....whatever that may be.

xoxo
lms

Richard Simmons Walks it Out

Work it out...

My obsession with working out at the gym started at a late age. It happened somewhere between my numerous years at attempting to pass algebra in community college and then finally soaring my wings to the big state college. Being a late-college-bloomer I flew under the radar with my ability to blend with the youngsters while still being the only one old enough to buy beer and rent a car. After numerous attempts of passing algebra with no avail I had plenty of elective classes that I needed to take to occupy my time. Unfortunately they only teach Hip Hop Dance Class I, II, and III and my tenure there did not last long.

"Hey YOU...in the back!" the teacher yells.

(No response)

"Hey YOU white girl!"

I look around like I don't already know I am the only Caucasian in the room.

"Yeah!?" I pant trying to execute the Bobby Brown and Boyz to Men crossover-combo without hitting my peers.

"Go furrrther back..."

Further back? Like outside the class?? What does she mean??

I go for the reverse running man, like I this was part of my master dance-off plan. I knock one unsuspecting dancer off her feet and in turn manage to throw the remaining row of dancers into a four person pile up. Just like dominoes; it really was freakish how they fell on cue.

"Some people are just more challenged" she explains after class as I ice my throbbing ankle "their hearts are in it but their feet just aren't. Maybe a different work out class would be better suited for you...."

Did I really get "asked" to leave Hip Hop class? Who does this happen to?? What do I tell my parents??

Needless to say my aspirations of becoming a "In Living Color Fly Girl" were stomped out before I even could implement my cabbage patch move for the semester's final. So wrong.

What does a washed-up-wannabee-Fly-Girl do for a community college elective if she was politely, but firmly, asked NEVER to come back to class? Well... join Gym 101 with all the other "challenged" students of course.

Single handedly the best political move I could have ever done in my community college career. Apparently there was an overflow from the badminton and bowling team and I now rested at cream of the crop in this class. I became the leader of all people that were cut from teams or asked to leave classes deemed too challenging. The overweight girl that could not hang in the swim class heard from the guy that was too small for the football team that I could whip any one into shape. I became the new age Richard Simmons or the lady from Fame that tapped the cane counting "5-6...5-6-7-8....!". A blond pony tail and pink bandanna with a mission: to bring satisfaction to every exiled second rate, no-rhythm, overweight student in all of community college. Looking back I am not even certain that the teacher was present. If he/she was I am sure they were jumping on the Sadowski-Jazzercise-Bring-It-On-Train; it's the stuff legends are made of after all.

I moved on to State College from my long attendance at community college. I was now a small fish in a big pond. I had to find my niche. Kids here were much more strong minded not to mention good looking. My acquiring followers would be much more difficult. I went to Plan B: join a gym--a "real" gym.

I find out quickly that regular gym goers are a unique breed. They can actually be considered mentally unstable in some circles but it is usually not good to cross someone that is leaner, stronger, and boasts biceps bigger than your head. I tried to hang out in all the different gym crowds.

First there was the early morning water aerobics with the retired ladies. I was easily the youngest by 40 years. Before you start thinking these are nice little grandmas that will bring you cookies and milk I have two words for you: hard core. Not exactly welcoming me with open arms this group means business.

"Alright ladies now lets kick those legs up on the pool deck and give me 75 sit ups!" the Nazi-instructor belts out. Instantly women in their 80s are throwing both legs up on the deck. Before I even have a chance to contemplate how to actually maneuver into this position they have taken over the whole side of the pool and are counting in some crazed militant fashion.

I sideways look at my nemesis Grandma Moses and wonder if she is actually going to let me participate in the "fun" this time. From day one this woman has been nothing but a thorn in my side.

"Ummm..." I say quietly "Do you think I can squeeze in here...?" I point at the one foot of space left.

"29...30...31" Moses' drill Sergeant voice echoes throughout the pool as she belts out her sit ups.

"Ummmm...."I start again but this time try to politely position myself next to her--you know-- hold my ground.

"You are TOO BIG! You won't fit!" She yells just loud enough so I am sure the basketball players outside can hear.

Did she just call me fat?

"TOOOOO BIG! Taken--this area is taaaaaken".

No way. What is she 12 years old? Not this time Mama Moses, I decide. I will show her. I push my way in not caring what casualties I take with me. Two can play this game. I start to flip my legs up on the deck and she throws an elbow. I counter her elbow with a jab to her ribs.

"Owwww---she HIT ME! My RIBS!!!" She screeches across the pool. Oh great. I actually feel bad and go to help her get back to standing position and she throws another elbow; this time with more conviction. In the struggle I decide to let go of her flailing body and let her calm down. This situation is out of hand. She sinks to the bottom of the pool while holding her side.

Oh my dear goodness, I think to myself, my membership dues are so going up.....

The instructor dives dramatically into the pool and proceeds to pull Grandma Moses up from what I think is the brink of death.

"Are you OK??" I ask once I see she is in fact conscious.

"She tried to KILL ME!" she wags her finger my direction "I told her she was too big and she didn't listen so she tried to KILL ME!"

Seriously? Kill is such a strong word.

"You threw the first elbow!" I yell back. The whole entire swim class is now mad-dogging me. I think I even heard some booing and hissing but it was hard to tell over Mama Moses' screams.

I look to the crowd for someone to defend my honor. Everyone knows that Mama Moses is a tyrant. Somebody has got to see that Moses is not some feeble grandma--she is just a wrinkly bully that preys on newcomers.

"That's it Sadowski! You are out of here!" the instructor/wannabee umpire points at the door.

"Wha....? SHE STARTED IT!". More disapproving looks from the crowd. No one will even make eye contact with me.

"Really??? You know my grandma has a bad hip you want to stop by later and push her down too?" the instructor sneers at me.

So uncalled for.

I slowly get out of the pool. Conveniently my towel is missing and I get to do the walk of shame shivering all the way to the locker room. I look back one last time to see if I have any supporters. I even think about shouting 'who's with me???' but I figure my efforts are futile.

One last look at the evil Mama Moses who claims I injured her and for a split second I see her smirk as she does a perfect breast stroke across the pool. I feel like applauding and shouting "...and the Oscar goes to MEAN MAMA MOSES!" but think about the potentially raised membership dues and the whole legal suit and decide to let it go.
Who gets run out of water aerobics by an 80 year old? It is so wrong. On so many levels.

My second attempt at acceptance went down shortly thereafter in the bad neighborhood of the gym; the weight lifting area. The bad neighborhood, otherwise known as the prison yard, requires each member have full-sleeves of tattoos and be able to grunt louder than anyone else so everyone knows you are the strongest kid in the yard.

I walk past the man adoring his pecs in the mirror. He love his pecs and it is apparent in the way that he talks to them "ohhhh yeah.. you are sooo good". The key is to not make eye contact. Eye contact will imply that you too think his pecs are the best thing since the 10 protein shakes he downed this morning.

I pass the man lifting 400 times his body weight and his spotter. The spotter makes me blush with his dirty talk to the man.

"Ohhhh yeah baby. You got it. Just one more. You got it baby--you got it baby. Ooooh yeah!' he chants. The machinist is grunting so loud that I actually think that the large vein popping out of his neck is going to start its own zip code.

How is this acceptable?

I reach for the 10 pound weights all the while wondering who decided that increments of 10 is the way to go? Where is the love for the three pounders? A man named Sly feels that it is his life's mission to tell me everything I am doing wrong.

"You know you are cheating.." he shouts over the Tupac blaring in the background and the clanking of weights.

Cheating? How is it cheating if I am sweating and have lost mobility in my chicken winged arm
"You are cheating your body of what it needs. Your body craves proper lifting...here I will show you how it is done..." he picks up a hundred pound weight like it is a three pounder. This was the start of a complex relationship. I appease Sly and follow his genius level weight lifting advice for weeks. He knows weights-- his body boasts the biggest biceps in the yard. He convinces me that my body is a temple and the only way to absolution is to be the biggest meat head. I envision me going back to the swim class and giving Mama Moses a run for her money. My arms are freakishly manly and I actually put on a dress shirt that I can't get my pythons through without feeling like The Hulk. I frequent words like "shredded", "cut" and ask people if they need tickets to "the gun show" and actually think it is gets more funny every time I say it. Unfortunately the Mr. Miyagi-Daniel San relationship came to a screeching halt the day I was leaving the gym and I see Sly taking a Marlboro break in between sets. After all the bonding we had been through? All the times we grunted and rooted each other on! His eyes averted and he avoided eye contact the same way Zsa Zsa Gabor might if you caught her giving marriage advice. I never have returned to the prison yard feeling I was socked in the rock hard abs by hypocritical Sly. It's still too soon; the pain is too fresh.

Unable to find my niche in the gym world I decide to at least reap the benefits of the amenities. I like to hang out in the sauna and steam room and see what the bizarre under achievers are doing. You know the type. The person that sits in the sauna and calls it a work out? At my gym this is the Sun-Lee dynasty. I am not sure but I am pretty certain this pack of mothers, sisters, grandmothers, and distant cousins bypass the rows of machines and the swimming pool only to set up shop in the sauna and steam room. Their leader, Min Sun Lee, operates the steam. You aren't melting enough? No worries--she turns it up 40 more degrees and then gives you hot tea and 5 reasons why you should thank her. They brag about their steam room stamina--or at least if I spoke their native tongue I think this is what they would talk about. They grunt often and have no regard for being naked. Their idea of personal space totally differs from my idea of personal space. I have perfected staring at the ceiling and wearing two towels to cover myself since Min has been known to rip the towels off of new comers.

"You sit! Drink Tea!" she will say to newcomers all the while she rips the towel off of your body and throws it out of the room "Heat takes away all evil".

It's kind of a two-for-one deal: inspiration AND 15 pounds of lost water weight.

I tease but I have really grown to love the simplicities of my fellow gym goers. I love their costumes too. Like the martial arts guy with the shirt that says "Judo-n't know who you is messing with" or the big galoot in the corner with the shirt that says "I lift heavy things". This is pure enlightenment.

Overall I have lightened up on the judging of this eclectic bunch. I still love to run, lift weights, and be a gym rat. I am just not as concerned as "finding that niche" or following I was so concentrated on before. I am more comfortable in my skin than I have been in years and will still sweat to the oldies with the gym crew any day of the week. I even was lucky enough to have found my niche in the bizarre world of racquetball and have said good riddance to the Mama Moses', Slys and Sun-Lee dynasties of the world. Oh don't get me wrong; I do get to see them all from time-to-time..... usually when Grandma Moses and The Girls are waiting for me at my car to finish up some unfinished business.

xoxo

lms

Well, Hello Officer

I seem to have a magnet attached to my car that attracts the police. This has been a problem for some time. Before it was the parking officials in their three-wheeled-death traps; as of late I have upgraded to full-blown officers and have said goodbye to the glorified parking attendants.

When people ride with me they have one question for me:

"Are you serious right now??"

Right now? As opposed to the last 20 miles we just blew through? I boast some of the best back-seat drivers in my car. There is my father, bless is soul, that needs to tell me exactly to date the cost of each ticket violation I just risked getting.

"You know the lowest ticket in Minnesota as of January 28, 2008?? Doooo you??" my Dad shouts at me as he holds on to the dashboard.

"No, but I am sure you are going to tell me..."

"$175.24!"

"Whew, 24 cents?... at least this state doesn't round up" I say under my breath.

"They give tickets for sass mouths too Missy. You betcha you will be sitting in a cell with Big Betty again if you keep running your mouth that way...".

Somehow my hard of hearing-near deaf Dad is never hard of hearing enough to hear my mumble on my breath. I don't get it. Is it some kind of Dad gene I don't know about?

One tragic misunderstanding under the legal name: "vehicular public nuisance" which resulted in me being put with orange jumpsuits and this man will never let it die. Big Betty was pretty friendly actually at least once I agreed to that date at the VFW. We have a few years before we cross that bridge. Actually 7-10 years but I am sure we will reconnect someday.

There is also the passenger that prays a lot.

"Oh sweet Jesus...can you put your mascara on later??"

"Mommmmm....you see this knee? This knee can steer through anything in the 6 o'clock position. Now hold on...."

I have come to the conclusion that the recent all-time-high traffic jams have forced us into multi-tasking. Years of practice has gotten me to a pretty prestigious title according to my insurance company: 2009 Multi-Tasking Driver of the Year.

Now it is illegal to drive without a blue tooth and I praise the person that made this a California law; now I have one more hand free to, eat, wrap a gift and check my emails on my lap top. These people are genius. They have even taken it a step further with taking away the freedom of texting and driving. Even better; I have a Blackberry specializes in emails not texts.

"Ms. Sadawowowowski...you know that it is illegal to text and drive..." the officer is looking down at me through his Poncharella reflective sunglasses.

"Oh no worries Officer... I was just emailing!"

"You can't do that either Miss...."

"Realllllly?" I am dumbfound. Like he just told me that the world was round "Well offffficer..." (cue the tears) "I can't afford a ticket I was just let go from my job...."

"Wellllll...." He starts in slow like this ticket is going to require a payment plan; this is the mother of all tickets, "the first ticket is $20....then it goes up to $50....."

"Really???" I actually start to smile. Only $20??? I think to myself, "Sweet!" I chirp as I continue to finish my email in front of the officer. I even think about telling him that I thought it was $175.24 but I figure I shouldn't give him any ideas.

"YOU CAN'T TEXT IN FRONT OF ME!" the officer is outraged by my blatant disregard of his fancy-pantsy law talk.

"Officer, it is jussssst an email...."

"Ms. Sadawaowwowowoski please step out of the car...."

Dammit.

_______________________________________________________________

The one thing about the men in blue is that they are so full of information you didn't even know.

"Ms. Sadapowwwshi (really? How hard is the last name?) you have no front license plate. It's illegal in the State of California to be without a front license plate..." he drones on.

"Oh yah--that stinking thing? Well the DMV only sent me one. Thanks!" I say as if our meeting is over and I am going to drive away into La-La-Land.

"The DMV only gave you one??" He says in disbelief.

"Uh-huh." I nod looking up at him with big convincing eyes "They sent me one. I called to ask if they could send me another but they just put me on hold. They should really look into some more operators at the DMV or at least some music for the eternal hold situation...that was three years ago and no way am I gonna keep calling...."

Kill them with babble. Works every time.

Apparently not this time. There are now three officers circling my car like hungry vultures. I think they are all related to Big Betty--at least one of them resembles her to a "T"; must be her brother. The officers hover around my back license plate.

"Miss, please step out of the car..."

Crap.

I join the Betty relatives behind the car.

"Miss, you have TWO license stuck together" he yells at me.

I step back, bring two hands straight back and push his shoulders back in disbelief. "Shut the front door!!! I been driving this for years...! Holy Crap!" I yell at him.

I pat him on the back in a kind of way that says: 'thanks man you are the best..' I start to walk back to my car. Wow those boys in blue sure are smart, I think, as I start to get back into my car.

The officer calls out from behind me"Uhhh...Miss we have some paperwork for you here to sign...".

Seriously? Whatever happened to a warning?

_________________________________________________________________

The most amazing part of being pulled over is that they always ask you what you were doing wrong.

'Well officer I totally rolled that stop sign while doing 50 in a 30 zone. Oh and did you catch that I ran that pedestrian crossing about a quarter of a mile back? Poor kids they sure were scared...'. I mean really--who does such a thing?

I instead have perfected the batting eyelashes, leaning-over, dumb-blonde-meets big strong cop-man bit. I would say that it is a 50-50 chance if it works but you bet I won't go down without trying.

"Welllll hellllo officer..." I say with a slight drawl leaning over while thinking how lucky I am with the outfit I chose for this pull over date. There is nothing this officer can do to resist my charm I think to myself.

"You passed me by there on 7th and Robinson and I couldn't tell if you were a man or a woman..." he starts out.

Did he just pull me over to tell me I looked like a man?

"Wow officer," I coo, "I have never heard that one before!" I figure this is his opening line, his foreplay, his dumb-blonde-meets-big-strong-cop fantasy.

The officer had pulled me over in a such a location that there was nowhere else but the sidewalk for him to ride his motorcycle up on the side of my car. It was very nice of him to leave the lights on, in front of the bank, the grocery store, the post office, and in the most highly trafficked pedestrian area in the neighborhood for the entire ordeal.

I nervously look around. I want to shout 'nothing to see here folks! Keep it moving!' but I too have fallen for the rubber necking, slow down, and stare at the poor soul scenario.

He thinks I didn't hear him so he shouts, "I SAID I DIDN'T KNOW IF YOU WERE A MAN OR A WOMAN!"

Apparently I am manly AND hard of hearing. Really Officer? I don't think that the people in the bank heard you. Maybe we should wait until that carry-out boy is done sacking his next order of groceries to take out. Better yet I think I see some school children at the next light sir; they look they are ready to get off that bus to see what is going on.

I stare blankly at him. What does one say to something like this?? I take inventory. Sundress, make-up, boobs...yep all there.

"I am sorry officer. I realllly don't understand"

He looks at me like he is amazed I don't know what he is talking about.

"Your windows! Damn things are so tinted I couldn't tell if you were a MAN OR A WOMAN"

"Seriously, is that necessary?" I say cynically while looking around. I swear I just saw someone take a phone-picture and talk into a recorder. What if this makes the news? Oh Jesus...paranoia sets in.

"Apparently you don't know the danger you are putting yourself into---not to mention the rest of the world..." he drones on.

I figure I am officially done with Officer Billy Bob Joe when he starts telling me a "little elbow grease and a razor blade will do the trick" when I tell him I can't afford a fix-it-ticket. Fortunately I am a buff man in his book. A buff man with a new shiny ticket.

Dammit.

I can say that in my years of running from the law things have definitely gotten stricter in recent days. They have taken away our texting, our talking, and every thing in between. Seems that it is not even easy being a girl (or in this case man), to cleavage-cry-your-way out of a ticket, or to play the poor-me-strong-you role. It doesn't mean that I won't try. For some reason when given the opportunity of getting out of the ticket all feminism is out the window--unfortunately in this case the windows were just too dark.

xoxo

lms

Do You Have The Time?

My issues with time or rather being on time started at birth. I boast being over two months overdue at birth.

Two months.

I wouldn't make this up. My mother reminds me of my birth weight and the congratulations and hand shakes she got from strangers for having me naturally. I was comfy. Don't rush me.

It continued on through grade school and high school with the infamous times of missing the bus.

"Leah Marie Sadowski so help me if you miss that bus..." my Mom would threaten and then insert some random phrase like: "...you will be late to your own wedding!"

Is that a bad thing?

The Time Denial Disease (TDD) worsened in the teen years since I was plagued with the earliest curfew ever known to man--10pm. The only thing on my side during this era was that cell phones were non-existent or for surely I would still be grounded. As if 18 years of groundings wasn't enough.

It's not that I try to be late or even that fact that I am not an early riser. I get up earlier than anyone I know. I just get distracted. Shiny things usually the culprit.

The fact is, according to my Mom, I developed at a slower rate. In college when they finally discovered my Dyslexia (yes college) they made my parents disclose my developmental years to the pseudo-college-doctors.

Doctor: Did your child begin talking at an early age?
Mom: Ohhh heck no. She didn't make a peep until 3. Kinda worried us there for awhile.

Doctor: Did your child begin walking at an early age?
Mom: Nope. Nothing. She just sat there. She was so darn heavy too. Carrying around that butterball is no easy task Mister. Did I tell you how much she weighed when she was born? Total strangers congratulated me..."

Doctor: Did your child progress in school slower than the other kids?
Mom: Oh Holy Hannah....well she is just our special little girl.


Seriously?

Perhaps I was scarred by the time-sensitivity of my father. Tapping his wrist standing by the door with keys dangling from his work-jeans like Schneider. When that didn't work he would just get in the car and start leaving; whether or not I was in the vehicle or not. I missed many of after school practices because of this behavior. Where did he go--did he go to my practice without me? This makes no sense.

"Daddddd, why do we have to be at the airport 6 hours early?"

"We have to get a good seat"

"But don't we already have our seat assignment?"

"You just stick with what you know"

What does that mean? 'Stick with what I know?' Well I know that we have seat assignments but since I was just running along the side of the car that has taken off without me I decide not to challenge him.

Better yet who gets to the movies, for a matinee, 2 hours early, for a Disney movie? Is there some mad mob of Disney-fanatics I have missed out on? I am pretty sure if the employees aren't clocked in yet we are pretty safe.

"We have to get the popcorn when it is fresh" my Dad would say.

I have no response except: "seriousssssly?"

I recommend to all those who are plagued with the Time Denial Disease to carry around a spare traffic ticket. Just wave it in the air when you waltz in an hour late for work. Don't mind that someone may want to look at it and may notice the 2004 year on it. You did get a ticket--why don't they get off your back?

"Oh you know those things are so hard to read. Damn parasites must be low on their quotas this month. I might be late next week. I am going to fight this thing all the way to the Superior Court!"

"When next week?"

"Oh you know..the whole week. These things can get awful sticky."

People with TDD don't mean any harm. The only thing worse than being late is being early. The only thing early people get is a scalding hot box of popcorn. You can never get that time back.

Friends and family may fume at the Sadowski Time but someday when the tick-tock finally kills me off they will realize that I am just a simple person marching to my own drum. Starting earlier, planning accordingly, not cramming too much into one day, will not make a difference. Sadowski Time is a fine tuned time that can not be reckoned with.

xoxo
lms

The Next Chapter

You may have noticed I have been writing more. You might have even been plagued by my tenacious spamming with my request to "Follow me" or "Digg Me" or come to "MySpace". Well lets just say misery loves company. Even more so misery loves a good chase-- even if I am the one requesting the chase....

I have set out on a quest; a quest to rule the world.

When that doesn't pan out the quest to own my own slice of the American Dream, otherwise know as my own advertising agency, will have to suffice.

Yes, taking the plunge has never been so nerve racking.

Advertising Agency? Recession? Oh sweet Jesus.

Fortunately, I have been "lucky" enough so far to have worked a very diverse portfolio of marketing and advertising jobs. After these jobs opening a business should be a piece of cake. My biggest claim to fame was working for the Persian Mafia, who at the time combined forces with The Italian Mafia, and had me hustling large amounts of cash throughout the downtown area to "promote events". Quitting that job instilled the fear in me being dubbed "Cement-Shoes-Sadowski" but I was fortunate enough to learn how to walk the streets with thousands of dollars in five and one dollar bills and not get jumped by the Lithuanian Mafia.

Who could say that working for that luxury real estate company wasn't a close second? I learned how to help my employer pawn a couple of sports cars when the market started going south and to always rush immediately to their bank to cash your check. No waiting, no dilly-dallying.

Cash the check. Unfortunately if you don't cash the check you end up calling the bank for 3 years, 7 months, and 27 days just in hopes that there is money in the account to cover the $5,000 check. Forget about calling the employer--he was last sighted in Columbia. If it is the last thing I do I will collect this money. It is sheer principle at this point.

"California Bank this is Joe.. how may I help you?"

"Heyyy Joe what's going on?"

"Oh hey Leah--yeah. Same ole-Same ole"

"How's the bank account looking today?"

"Hmmm---" keyboard sounds come from the other side of the phone"...yeah doesn't look like any activity still"

"Alriggght....any plans with you the wifey and kids this weekend?"

"Oh yeah heading to Disney Land with the kids. Can't wait to spend $5,000"

"Yeah...me too...."

Truly I have been fortunate enough to always land on my feet (no cement) and keep on trucking. I think that is why it is so hard for me right now to admit that if I don't start seeing the money start rolling in with the new venture I could be in some serious dire straights. I could create a world of trouble according to my accountant, The Grim Reaper, who told me I will start the next chapter of my life: Chapter 13.

I have gone through all the denial stages: crying, doubting, yelling, whimpering, shots of tequila.... but I am left feeling nothing. Although not defeated there is a certain sense of numbness that takes you over and you just can't ride the "Emo-Roller Coaster" any more. You have to stand up, brush yourself off and make the best out of what you have---which in this case is an Advertising Agency....

Fortunately there are always people that are looking to help a girl out, both monetarily and with "advice" in these turbulent recession times.

The man at 7-11 convenience store was nice of to tell me they were hiring today after I held up his long line of impatient customers to recount my pennies and nickles for that cherry slushy.

The gentleman at the gym that had me cornered while I was on the StairMaster told me all about how he knew everything and he wanted to tell me about his theory on advertising:

".....well its dead and ain't ever comin' back. People will never pay for that crap again..."

Sweet.

Talks of the recession are old, tiresome, and I just can't take that song-and-dance anymore. It's time that we step up to the plate and start spending money and making money. Who really cares if we don't know where our next dollar is coming from? God invented Ramen Noodles for a reason.

So instead of admitting defeat my quest for greatness continues.

I always knew I was headed in that direction; the writing is just a bit of therapy.

You know, now that I think of it, maybe I will take up that job at 7-11; the possibilities are endless with the clientele. Open 365 days a year 24 hours a day will allow me to work all the needed shifts. Free cherry slushies worked into the contract and I am already wondering why I didn't think of this sooner? I just hope they don't expect me to handle money. Way too soon.

Even better idea: no potential client will be missed...I will start my way through 7-11 and work up to the AM/PMs, and the thousand liquor stores sprinkled around the county. People will write case studies on the girl that opened an advertising agency, in August, with no air conditioning, two dogs, one fan, and a stained slushy mustache.

Genius.

Once the L-Train gets in motion there really is no holding back....

xoxo

lms